Chapter 115: The Top Chef Order

The dining room was packed to the brim with high-profile guests, influencers, and critics, all craning their necks toward the glass. Olden Mante moved with terrifying efficiency, barked a few rapid-fire directives to his sous chefs, and before we could even think about walking up to the kitchen line, he vanished behind the heavy stainless steel doors leading to the back prep bay.

Patricia’s shoulders slumped slightly, her eyes still locked on the doorway where he’d just disappeared.

"Damn it," she muttered, tapping her fingers on the white marble table. "Security and the head hosts won’t let anyone get near the kitchen pass, especially during prime dinner rush. We can’t just walk up and pitch him."

"There’s always a way," I said, leaning back and picking up the heavy, silver-embossed menu the host had left us. "We just need to make him come to us."

Patricia’s eyes suddenly sparked, a knowing smirk spreading across her face as she snatched up her own menu and flipped straight to the final page.

"Actually... there is a way," she said, pointing her manicured finger at a single, unpriced item listed under the chef’s special section. "Look at this. It’s called ’The Oracle’s Challenge.’ It’s an off-menu, multi-course blind tasting experience."

I leaned in, reading the small, elegant print beneath the title.

"Legend has it that Olden Mante personally finishes and tableside-presents every single order of ’The Oracle’ himself," Patricia explained, her voice buzzing with excitement. "He uses it to judge the palate of the guest. If someone orders it, he comes out to explain the concept in person!"

I didn’t even hesitate. I raised my hand, signaling the senior captain who was standing near our table.

"Sir?" the waiter asked, bowing politely as he approached.

"We’ll take ’The Oracle’s Challenge,’" I said smoothly, handing back the menus. "And tell Chef Mante we’re looking forward to his presentation."

The senior captain’s eyes widened slightly when I placed the order, but he immediately bowed, took the menus, and slipped away through the heavy double doors.

About twenty minutes later, the ambient chatter in the white-and-alabaster dining room seemed to drop by half a octave.

The heavy kitchen doors swung open, and out walked Olden Mante himself.

He looked even more imposing in person than on television. Dressed in a crisp, spotless white chef’s jacket with dark custom embroidery, he carried a heavy, polished silver cloche with total authority. Two head waiters followed half a step behind him, carrying covered side dishes.

Patricia stiffened in her seat, her breath catching as her culinary idol marched straight toward our table.

"Good evening," Olden said, his voice a deep, commanding baritone that effortlessly cut through the gentle ambient music. He didn’t waste time with sweet pleasantries; his sharp blue eyes locked onto the two of us, assessing us with a cool, intense gaze.

He set the silver cloche down in the center of our table with immaculate precision.

"Few guests order ’The Oracle,’" Olden continued, resting his hands lightly on the marble edge. "It requires a palate capable of understanding contrast, texture, and restraint—not just an appetite for expensive food. Tonight, I personally prepared a smoked duck breast glazed with wild dark plum reduction, paired with micro-herbs and a fermented garlic emulsion."

With a swift, practiced motion, he lifted the cloche. A delicate, fragrant plume of cherrywood smoke billowed upward, revealing a dish that looked less like food and more like a high-end work of modern art.

"Enjoy," Olden said, watching our reactions closely. "I’ll be interested to see if you can truly appreciate what’s on this plate."

Patricia picked up her fork and knife with meticulous care, cutting a razor-thin slice of the smoked duck. She gently coated it in the plum reduction and the fermented garlic emulsion before placing it in her mouth.

The moment her eyes closed, a faint, helpless shiver ran down her shoulders. For a chef of her caliber, tasting a dish executed at this level was an absolute spiritual experience.

I took a bite myself. The texture was absurdly tender, the smokiness cutting through the rich duck fat, balanced perfectly by the sharp, acidic sweetness of the wild plum. It wasn’t just good—it was flawless execution.

Olden Mante stood at the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his spotless white jacket, observing us with a cool, expectant stare. He was clearly used to seeing people melt over his creations.

I set my cutlery down, took a sip of sparkling water to clear my palate, and dabbed my mouth with the cloth napkin.

"The balance is incredible," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "It’s perfect."

Olden gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction, preparing to turn on his heel and head back toward the kitchen pass. "I’m glad you can appreciate the craft. Enjoy the rest of your—"

"Chef Mante," I interrupted smoothly, my tone shifting from satisfied diner to serious business. "Do you have a minute? I’d like to speak with you."

Olden paused, his eyebrows pulling together as his sharp gaze locked back onto me. In a high-pressure line like Heaven’s Kitchen during dinner service, a chef’s time was worth more than gold.

"A minute?" he repeated, his baritone voice dripping with quiet authority. "I have a dining room packed with eighty guests and a kitchen running on a tight clock. If you want to compliment the food, you just did. If it’s anything else, my manager handles it."

"It’s not about the food on this table," I replied calmly, leaning back in my seat while Patricia held her breath beside me. "It’s about an offer you’re going to want to hear."

Olden scoffed, letting out a sharp, amused breath as he looked between me and Patricia. "Coaching?" he echoed, his voice laced with the cold cynicism of a man who’d heard every pitch in the book. "Young man, I’m a three-star Michelin executive chef, not a private tutor. My time is booked sixteen months in advance. If she wants to learn from me, she can apply for a commis position, start at the prep station peeling two hundred pounds of onions a day, and pray she makes the cut in three years."

Patricia bit her lip, but her chin stayed up, her posture completely straight.

"She’s not an entry-level line cook," I said smoothly, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the white marble table. "She’s a prodigy who needs a master to polish her edge before she launches her own flagship oceanfront restaurant. I don’t want a three-year apprenticeship. I want a private, high-intensity masterclass."

Olden chuckled coldly, crossing his arms over his white jacket. "You’re wasting my time. There is no number on earth that gets me to put my kitchen on hold to do private lessons for a stranger."

I didn’t argue. I didn’t lose my cool. I simply reached into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out my custom fountain pen, and placed a blank, high-net-worth draft directly on the table beside the empty duck dish.

"Name your price," I said, looking him dead in the eyes. "Set whatever figure you think your time is worth—no matter how absurd, no matter how arrogant. Name it, and the funds clear before you step off this floor tonight."

Olden’s sharp blue eyes flicked down to the draft, then snapped back up to my face. For the first time since he walked out to our table, his unshakeable composure cracked, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his features as he realized he wasn’t dealing with just another wealthy fan—he was talking to someone with bottomless capital.