by Vivien Vale
It happens to be in New York City, which is a treat because I get to be with Xavier instead of on an airplane.
He's here watching me, as he always likes to do when he gets the chance. He's a control freak, really. He likes to make sure every outfit is perfect and that I look like the supermodel I now am.
I love to have his over-the-top, domineering presence around. It makes me feel safe and comfortable. He's become more than just my lover—we're best friends now.
I walk over to him for approval on my latest outfit, even though the stylist is technically in charge of that.
"How do I look?" I say to him as I grab his arm and use my other hand to trace his rock-hard abs.
I will never get tired of this. He's smoking hot, the guy every girl wants to have. And now, he's all mine.
He sees a hungry look in my eyes.
"You can't be thinking of that now. You have to work. You're gonna nail this shoot and they'll give you the cover."
He can always tell when I want to have sex. Which is pretty much always.
"Okay, Xavier, but you know what I expect tonight," I say to him with fire in my eyes.
"Oh, baby, with you looking so beautiful right now dolled up in this outfit, tonight you can expect the very best," he says.
This statement comes almost as a warning of what I'm going to experience tonight. Every day he takes me to new heights of pleasure and our connection is so deep that I never dreamed it was possible to love someone this much.
He's very commanding, and something about that allows me to relax because I know he's got it all under control.
"Okay, Allie, we're ready for you now," the photographer says.
I reluctantly leave Xavier's side and return to the set. The theme is graffiti, street-style fashion photography. So the backdrop is a brick wall they've made in the studio that several graffiti artists have worked their magic on. It's super gritty, and super me.
I'm excited to have this opportunity and I've been grateful every day since the crisis happened. I never dreamed I'd be on top of my career like this, at this level. But this shows that I earned it and I deserve it. You can't fake it at the top. You have to have real talent to be here.
And I'm proud to say Xavier hasn't had to get me any of my jobs. I've earned them all by myself. And that makes me proud. In fact, I've haven't worked for his company at all since the scandal. It's not because I haven't wanted to, it's because I haven't had time.
Usually, he's with me, jet-setting around the world. I feel strong in my power as a model, and I feel independent as a woman. All of that makes it easier for me to give myself to him. I know I rely on him for nothing. So I can give him everything.
"Okay, Allie, let's take it from the top," the photographer says.
The makeup artists that have been primping me scatter away, someone hits the music, and the camera starts to flash.
I'm on.
I give him my best moves and I carefully follow the photographer's direction. He's a joy to work with. This entire team is.
He has me arching my back against the wall and doing a variety of photos that complement the outfit.
I see Xavier watching me at a distance. His eyes are dark and I can only imagine what he's thinking.
He always does this when I'm on a shoot. And the idea of him watching me turns the heat up on things so much. I think I'm a better model under his gaze.
"Nice, Allie, good job, just like that."
I'm trying to put emotion into my posing so that my eyes are not left empty. How could they be when Xavier is undressing me with his own eyes?
His possessive nature turns me on so much and it comes out full force when I'm modeling and have so many eyes on me. He stares at me intently like he wants me to understand that I'm his, his alone.
I move my body in a variety of ways. I smile, I frown, and I give the photographer any type of expression he requests. I crawl and writhe on the ground, and I jump through the air like a gazelle. Anything he demands of me, I do.
And there's my man watching me the whole time. I know this gives him pleasure, and it certainly puts me on my A-game.
At last, the shoot is over, and I rush over to him. I cover his beautiful, chiseled face with kisses and he pulls me in hard for a long kiss.
"You did so well out there," he says, moving my hand down so I can feel the length of his cock pressing against his pants. “It’s so fucking hot watching you model.”
I lick my lips in anticipation. If no one was here I'd be going down on him right now.
Instead, he pulls me away and I say my goodbyes to everybody. Soon he's got me in the back of the waiting limo and I don't have to wait long for my fantasy to come true.
I slide down to my knees and start to pull his pants off so that I can suck his giant cock.
Before I can get him totally undressed, though, he says, "Allie, I should be the one down on my knees."
"What?"
He pulls me up so that I'm sitting next to him. He's suddenly so serious, and I wonder what's about to transpire. The next thing I know, I see him pull out a small jewelry box.
What’s he doing? This can't be happening. He gets to one knee as comfortably as he can in the back of the limousine.
"Allie, will you please do me the honor of being my wife? I want to be with you every second of every day for the rest of our lives," he says.
I stare at the giant ring he's presenting me and say the only thing I can.
"Yes, a thousand times yes."
I jump into his arms and his hands are all over me. We're kissing passionately and I feel like this is just the beginning of my life.
"You make me so happy, Allie. Now I can tell you where we're really going."
"Wait a minute? Where are we going?"
He pushes the button that lowers the partition between us and the driver.
He says, "Okay, Henry, take us to the airport."
"Where are we going, Xavier? Aren't you gonna tell me?"
"No, I'm not gonna tell you. But I promise you're gonna love it. We need to celebrate our engagement."
God, at the word engagement, it all sinks in as to how real this is. I am going to be a wife. Xavier’s wife.
More than that, I'm going to be with the man I love forever.
We've survived the complicated journey of being together, and that in itself means something. It means that we can get through anything.
With a little transparency, all things are possible. I trust Xavier now more than anyone else on earth because I know he above all has my best interests at heart.
He kisses me, and it's as if our engagement is sealed by that kiss. I already knew that I'd be his forever, but now he's just cemented our future together.
It feels so good, and my future feels so right. Not one aspect of me is wondering if I made the right choice by saying yes. I know I have. He's my man and my biggest supporter. What could be better?
I look at the beautiful ring he's slipped on my finger, and it's dazzling. I'd like to look longer and to appreciate the feeling of it being on my finger, but Xavier is slowly undressing me.
"It's a long ride to the airport," he breathes as he trails his tongue along my inner thigh.
And with that, I let him fuck me all the way to the airport, and that’s definitely me getting my happy ending.
Taste
Put it in your mouth, baby
You know it tastes so good
I'm the bad boy of the restaurant world.
A master chef. A billionaire businessman.
Women come. At least a few times.
And then they go.
That's just the way I play it, darlin'.
One course meal.
Until Nicole comes into my life.
Opening night. She's not impressed.
Says that I've gotten too successful.
Thinks I've forgotten my roots.
I wouldn't normally care.
I'd swat her away without a second thought.<
br />
Except...I can't get her out of my head.
That amazingly curvy body.
With an @$$ you just wanna knead like dough.
I'm going crazy.
She thinks she's gonna bring me down.
But she has no idea who she's dealing with.
Tonight...she's on my tasting menu.
Palmer
I finger the steak, tracing the marbled flecks of fat.
I observe it with steady concentration and follow each streak as if it were a roadmap, pointing me home.
A well-marbled steak is a beautiful thing.
It's perfection.
It's redemption.
Is it also salvation?
My mouth moistens as I think about the silky texture of melted fat.
The depth of flavor. The tenderness. The way it transcends a moment in time.
I grind salt and pepper over one side of the steak, and then flip it over to season the other side. Then I heat a cast iron skillet, and when it's at the desired temperature, I drop a pad of butter into its center. I watch as the butter circles, spins, and sizzles around the pan until it's a melted puddle.
Then I place the steak on top, listening to the hot skillet kiss the raw slab of red meat, slowly caramelizing it.
I've made my fortune in the restaurant business.
Flipping food. Perfecting my craft.
Making a name for myself.
But I want more.
I want to elevate the culinary landscape of New York City…and the clock's ticking faster than Julia Childs chopping an onion.
This restaurant here—The Pearl on Park—is a longtime dream come true. I've made my fortune through high-end cuisine—you know, the kind of food that requires three spoons and three forks just to eat? The kind of food accompanied by waiters in suits and white linens. I've become one of the most famous chefs in the world, running a chain of high-quality, extremely fancy restaurants.
You've probably seen me profiled in publications like Bon Appetite, Saveur, Food and Wine, Cooks Illustrated, and The Art of Eating.
I've made food that'll give you an orgasm as soon as it hits your tongue: beautifully crusted baguettes, fresh meat that'll make you moan, and warm cakes gooier than a woman begging for more.
But this restaurant is different.
I'm still creating dishes that are good, orgasmic good, but now I'm pushing boundaries. Salty, fatty, sweet—the kind of food that makes you want to sink your face in and say Fuck it, I'm eating this.
Maybe I'm stubborn, or stupid, or both, but truth is, you have to be all of those things and more to make it in the restaurant business.
You see all of these tools in this kitchen—the vacuum machines, the pH meters, the liquid nitrogen? I'm debunking cooking myths. I don't care what any other chef in this city is doing. If it's working for me, just get out of my way.
Watch me run my restaurant the way I want to run them.
I have no interest in what the chef is doing next door, or across the street, or even across the fucking globe. Why? Because the only thing that matters is my kitchen.
And this place here—these stainless steel appliances, the swanky Park Ave vibe, the top of the line table linens and décor—it's a longtime dream come true.
I look down at the steak, and spoon brown butter over it, basting it. It's now crusted and cooked to perfection, and I remove it from the skillet. The steak is caramelized around the edges with a beautiful brown crunch that I can't wait to place between my teeth.
If you visit The Pearl on Park, this'll be one of the best steaks you've ever had, I promise. It's one of the new dishes that I’m going to present.
I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.
"Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.
"You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.
Any other day, and this late at night, it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of those fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef—but not today.
I can’t waste my time. Not now.
"Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.
She walks over, and leans against the counter. I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.
"My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."
I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.
"Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.
"I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."
The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.
But suddenly, I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.
Instead, I close my eyes and remember the doctor’s appointment I had last week. The one where my dreams of cooking the best food in New York were born.
It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.
The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.
Something showed up on the MRI, the doctor said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.
"This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says, bringing me back to what’s in front of me.
That's exactly what I want to hear.
It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.
It's what I do. And I'm good at it.
I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.
I'm living large, and I know it. But I'm just getting started.
If you can handle the heat, go ahead…turn the page, and jump into the fire.
My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to give the world something they'll never forget.
Nicole
"Where are the vegetables?"
WHACK! THWAP!
Two line cooks look up at me. One shouts back, "We can't hear you, what?"
"I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.
WHACK!
WHACK!
THWAP!
The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge.
I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.
The line cooks shrug their shoulders.
"THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.
Danny, one of the two, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."
I look around the kitchen and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing.
How am I supposed to cook today?
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.
Stay calm , I repeat to myself.
"Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."
"Sorry, I figured you knew."
"It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it sorted."
I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.
Blue.
The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almo
st hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell."
I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes as she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories, it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest.
I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.
She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.
And believe me; none of this was easy.
In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.
But there was that dream .
A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.
Then one day, I simply made it happen.
All those pennies, the long hours, theexhaustion...I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.
It’s been a year now.
That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.
The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises. You can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside.
Thousands of people rush by the door every day, barely noticing this small bistro that seems to exist in a universe of its own; but for the few people that step inside, they have no choice but to leave the rush and frenzy of New York City outside.
There’s nothing fancy about The Old Tale. No glamorous logos, no overpriced menus or waiters wearing a suit and tie.