Chapter 372: Chapter 371: March Of Countries
The first course arrived like an art exhibit: a French masterpiece. A glistening plate of foie gras torchon ... delicate, buttery, paired with some drizzle of balsamic older than Rex’s entire neighborhood, plus slices of brioche so golden they looked like someone had airbrushed them. The scent was rich, and decadent it felt like calories were sneaking up his nose.
Even though he wasn’t really hungry or exactly full, as he had been busy talking more than earlier in earlier dinner with Elara and Beauty-trio, and girls are famously light eaters, even when they had finished, he was not even halfway. But still, seeing the food, his stomach, nudged him up like, Yeah, buddy, we’re doing this and happily made space for the rich. So, he began eating without any problem.
He took a bite. Rich. Creamy. Decadent. Like spreading luxury on his tongue. It was the kind of flavor that made you pause mid-chew, just to appreciate how ridiculous and amazing it was. He really felt the joys of—bourgeoisie? bougie-ness?—anyways, whatever it was, he was living it. For a second, he got why people spent absurd amounts of money on food that looked like art and tasted like silk. This wasn’t just food. It was a lifestyle.
Next rolled in the Japanese course, a Japanese chef presented otoro sashimi, which he mistakenly thought was the chef’s name. Ahem! slices of fatty tuna laid out like pink marble. Each piece gleamed under the light, promising that melt-in-your-mouth richness Rex had only read about.
The wasabi was freshly grated, the soy sauce aged in wooden barrels. One bite and Rex swore the fish melted before his teeth even touched it.
Noah made loud "mmm" noises, exaggerating. "You know, Rex, if you don’t like sushi, I can take yours. Sacrifice of brotherhood and all."
"Nice try," Rex said, pulling his plate closer.
Alongside it, a bowl of uni don—"Uni... u-don... unidon? Whatever it’s called." He shoveled a spoonful in. The briny sea urchin mixed with the warm rice. "...Okay, yeah. Doesn’t matter what the name is. This stuff taste like swallowing the sea itself, but in a good way."
Then came China’s turn: a whole Peking duck wheeled in like a celebrity. The chef sliced the skin tableside, so crisp that every cut echoed like someone snapping twigs. Steam curled upward, carrying roasted, spiced perfume that made Rex’s mouth water. Pancakes, hoisin sauce, veggies — lined up like soldiers waiting for orders.
He rolled one up, bit in, and nearly groaned. "Yup. This one? I could live on this. Breakfast, lunch, dinner — duck all day."
Then Italy made its entrance. With hand-rolled pasta glistening in a sauce of white truffle and cream. The smell hit him before the taste. Earthy. Nutty. The kind of thing that made you feel guilty for eating fast, like you were supposed to savor it with poetry. Rex twirled it anyway, slurped, It was so fragrant he could almost taste the earthiness before the fork touched his tongue.
Spain followed behind. Paella Valenciana. Saffron rice glowing golden under the lights, dotted with shrimp, mussels, clams, the works still in their shells. He stabbed a shrimp, chewed, and almost gave a low whistle. "Man. Back home they toss rice in soy sauce and call it gourmet. This... this is cheating."
And just when he thought it was over, America swaggered in with a steak. Not just any steak. A wagyu tomahawk, the bone so big it looked like it had been stolen straight out of a cartoon caveman’s hand. the kind where the guy drags it around like a club, before roasting it over a fire.
The crust was charred to that perfect, smoky black-brown, juices still sizzling and running down the sides like it had its own special effects team. The smell alone could’ve knocked someone out... rich, buttery, almost sweet, the kind of aroma that makes you forget every bad steak you’ve ever had in your life.
It wasn’t just food. It was a statement. A flex. The culinary equivalent of rolling up in a sports car with the top down, music blasting. You didn’t just eat a steak like this... you experienced it. Of course he wasn’t on that level of appreciation yet, as he just ate it to fill his stomach, because as big as the variety of dishes was, the portion was just as abysmal.
The first bite practically melted before his teeth even touched it. Rich, buttery, smoky... it was like the cow had been massaged daily, fed poetry, and sung lullabies since birth. Every fiber just gave up the second it hit his tongue, surrendering in the most delicious way possible.
It wasn’t just steak... it was an experience. The kind of bite that made you close your eyes for a second, like you needed to process what just happened. He could taste the money in it, the kind of care and obsession only people with way too much time and cash could afford to put into raising an animal. And yet, here he was, reaping the benefits.
For a moment, he forgot about the Sterling family, the head seat, the weight of old money traditions. It was just him and the steak, and the ridiculous, over-the-top joy of eating something that felt like it belonged in a food commercial shot in slow motion.
The table, of course, treated it all like a regular Tuesday. No one gasped at the tomahawk, no one blinked at the decadence... it was just another night in Sterling-land.
Noah piled his plate high like a teenager at an all-you-can-eat buffet, stacking cuts of steak and sides with zero shame, as if the concept of moderation had never been invented. Eleanor, on the other hand, nibbled with surgical precision, her fork gliding through each bite like she was performing delicate work under a microscope. Henry sampled sparingly, his pace slow, deliberate, dignified... like he was judging a competition only he knew was happening. Vivienne portioned carefully and ate gracefully.
And Rex? Rex just dug in. He picked up his knife and fork for another bite and thought, Yeah, I could get used to this. Then, mid-chew, the thought twisted into something else entirely. But damn, I will also hire them when I’m rich, oh wait---I’m already rich, well then... when I’m even more richer.
(End of Chapter)