Richest Man: It All Started With My Rebate System-Chapter 40: Reality Of Fine Dining

Steven pulled up to the entrance and a valet stepped forward before he had fully cut the engine.

He stepped out and handed over the key without a word. The valet took it, glanced once at the car, gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement and drove it away smoothly.

Steven straightened his jacket and walked to the entrance.

The door was held open before he reached it.

Inside, the lighting was warm and low, amber and intimate, coming from recessed fixtures above and small candles on every table.

The ceiling was high, with dark exposed beams running across it. The walls were panelled in rich dark wood, broken up by tall mirrors that made the room feel larger without feeling empty. White linen on every table. Fresh flowers, small arrangements, nothing excessive.

The room was full but quiet. Not the quiet of emptiness but the quiet of a space where people were genuinely absorbed in their company and their food.

The front of house manager was already moving toward him.

"Good evening. Mr. Craig?"

"That’s me," Steven said.

"Welcome. We have your table ready. Please, follow me."

He was led through the main floor, past the bar running the length of the left wall, its shelves lit from behind and lined with bottles arranged with the same precision as everything else in the room. Guests at the bar sat with drinks and conversations, relaxed and unhurried.

His table was near the window. A single setting, white linen, a slim candle, a small vase with a single white stem. Through the glass, the River Oaks street moved at its own pace, with lit headlights, a couple walking slowly, the lit windows of the buildings opposite.

Steven took his seat.

The manager presented the menu, a slim leather-bound card with clean typography, and gave a brief introduction.

The chef’s two specials for the evening were a pan-roasted halibut and a wagyu tenderloin, neither on the printed menu. The sommelier was available. The kitchen was open until eleven.

Steven thanked him and the manager withdrew.

Finally alone, Steven opened the menu and read through it carefully. He was really curious to see what kind of menu high-end restaurant have.

When he opened the menu, he felt like he was staring at something else entirely.

Starters: seared scallops with cauliflower purée, a French onion velouté, steak tartare with cornichon and brioche. Mains: duck breast with cherry reduction and roasted root vegetables, a pan-seared sea bass with beurre blanc, a rack of lamb with rosemary jus and dauphinoise potatoes.

He read it once and set it down with a wry smile. He had barely understood 5% of what he read.

Duck breast he understood well enough. It was a duck. The breast of one. Which immediately raised the question of why. He had cooked chicken his entire life, beef when he could afford it, pork occasionally, even though he’s not that much of a fan. Duck had never once appeared in that rotation, and standing on the outside of it now, he found himself genuinely curious about what made a duck the appropriate choice for a room like this.

Why not chicken? Chicken was good. Chicken had never let anyone down. But apparently somewhere along the line, someone had decided that duck was the serious option and chicken was for everywhere else.

He decided to not think about it too much and wait to see what the fancy words on the menu actually represent. He hope they won’t draw a line on a plate, put a leaf on it and say it costs $10,000. It would be the end of him ever eating out.

He observed scene around him. The couple to his left were deep in conversation, their food barely touched. The table across had four older diners, relaxed and comfortable. A man was dining alone near the bar sat with a glass of red wine, reading something on his phone.

The background music was low, giving the room a quiet elegance that matched everything else in it.

A sommelier appeared at his elbow.

"Good evening, Mr. Craig. Would you like to see the wine list, or can I make a suggestion based on what you’re considering?"

"Suggest," Steven said.

The sommelier glanced at the menu and recommended a glass of Burgundy — a Pinot Noir from the Côte de Nuits, he said, with enough acidity to work with both the scallops and the duck. He described the producer in one sentence and the vintage in another.

Steven nodded, not understanding the Sommelier had said.

He withdrew and returned two minutes later with a wide-bowled glass, pouring a careful measure and setting it down without a word.

Steven lifted the glass and held it for a moment. The colour was deep ruby, almost garnet at the centre. He tasted it. Dark fruit, a little earthiness underneath, a clean finish that didn’t linger too long.

"Strange. I can actually taste what’s in this. Is this an effect of increasing my Intelligence?" He muttered to himself.

One thing he knew was that he was never knowledgeable with wine. So, for him to make such a comment was really strange for him.

Steven decided to file the thought away and enjoy the wine. It was the fourth time he was tasting it in his life.

His server arrived a few minutes later.

"Good evening, Mr. Craig. Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?"

"I’m ready," Steven said.

He ordered the seared scallops to start, the duck breast for the main. For the finish, he asked about the cheese selection rather than the dessert menu.

The server described it briefly — five cheeses, a mix of French and domestic, served with honeycomb, candied walnuts, and a fig compote.

"That," Steven said.

The server confirmed the order back to him from memory, no notepad, and left.

Steven leaned back in his chair and looked out through the window. His orde has been him just making random selections, while going with his instincts and hoping that it would turn out good.

The scallops arrived eighteen minutes later, carried by the server and set down without ceremony. Three of them, golden-brown and precisely seared, arranged on a shallow pool of cauliflower purée the colour of cream.

A few drops of something dark — a light truffle oil — dotted around the plate. A small amount of microgreens on top, more for texture than decoration.

Steven looked at the plate for a long moment.

Three of them. Small, round, golden on top. Sitting on something pale and smooth with a few drops of dark oil around the edges and a small pile of greens on top that looked more decorative than edible.

He had no idea what he was looking at. They weren’t chicken. They weren’t beef. They were approximately the size of a large coin each and there were three of them on a plate that could comfortably fit twelve.

He leaned forward slightly and looked closer.

Whatever they were, they were clearly the entire starter. He picked up his fork, cut into the first one, and put it in his mouth.

Oh.

He set his fork down for a moment.

It was very good. The sweetness of the scallop against the earthiness of the truffle, the purée smooth and mild enough not to compete. Each element had a reason to be on the plate.

"Again, that’s strange. How can I make out what this is exactly? Am I becoming a culinary master or what?" Steven muttered to himself.

He didn’t dwell on the thought for too long as he finished all three at his own pace.

The server cleared the plate without comment and disappeared.

The duck arrived eight minutes later. A generous portion of sliced breast, the skin rendered golden and properly crisped, fanned across the plate with a dark cherry reduction — a dark sauce alongside it — pooled alongside it. Roasted root vegetables — parsnip, carrot, a little celeriac — arranged without fuss. A small amount of fresh thyme across the top.

Steven noted that he had once again analysed what was in front of him, but he didn’t dwell on it.

He cut into the duck and tasted it with the reduction.

The meat was cooked properly, pink at the centre, tender without being soft. The cherry reduction was deep and slightly tart, cutting through the richness of the duck without overwhelming it. The vegetables were well-seasoned and had enough caramelisation on the edges to give them something beyond just texture.

He worked through it slowly, pausing occasionally to look out through the window or let his eyes move across the room.

A new table had been seated nearby. A woman in a dark dress ordering something Steven couldn’t hear. The bar had grown livelier as the hour moved later, more people arriving and settling in with drinks before their tables were ready.

The room had a particular energy now, fuller and warmer than when he had arrived, but still entirely controlled. Nothing spilled over into noise. Everything stayed exactly where it was.

The cheese board arrived when the main plate was cleared. Five pieces arranged on a slate, each one labelled with a small card. A ripe Brie, soft and yielding at the edge. A firm aged Comté with a slight crystalline texture. A tangy goat’s cheese rolled in ash. A blue — Roquefort, according to the card — sharp and crumbly. An American farmhouse cheddar that was more complex than the name suggested.

Alongside them, a small pot of honeycomb, a few candied walnuts, and a ramekin of fig compote, dark and jammy.

He worked through them in order, mild to strong, tasting each one on its own and then with the honeycomb or the compote. The Roquefort he had last, with a walnut, and finished the remaining Burgundy alongside it.

He set the glass down.

Around him, the room continued its evening. A table finishing up, the energy of people settled and satisfied. New arrivals being shown to their seats. The bar was even livelier now, a low undercurrent of conversation mixing with the music.

He caught his reflection faintly in the window glass. The sharp haircut. The Burberry jacket sitting well across his shoulders. The Cartier at his cuff catching the candlelight.

The server returned.

"Can I bring you anything else this evening? Coffee, perhaps?"

"Just the bill," Steven said.

It arrived in a slim leather folder. He opened it and saw that his bill was $850 before tip.

He hated to say it but it was way cheaper than he had expected. He was expecting something along the range of $15,000 with how delicious the meal tasted and how good they look.

"I was genuinely worried for nothing," he muttered. He smiled and shook his head.

Apparently the version of fine dining that existed on social media and the version that existed in actual restaurants were two completely different conversations.

He looked back at the bill and added a twenty percent tip without deliberating and placed his card inside.

The tip brought the total bill up to $1,020.

The server returned, processed it, and handed the card back.

"Thank you, Mr. Craig. It was a pleasure having you this evening."

"It was a good meal. Thank the chef for me," Steven said.

"Definitely."

Steven stood up from his table, picked up his jacket, and walked back through the room. The front of house manager caught his eye near the entrance and gave a small nod. Steven returned it.

Outside, the valet already had the Aston Martin at the kerb.

He was about to get in when he noticed someone familiar from the corner of his eyes. And it looked like the person noticed him too, as their eyes locked immediately.