If you make one mistake, he won’t talk to you. He’ll talk to the manager and you could lose your job.” Sophie put on her professional smile and approached the table. Al- Zaharani began speaking without looking at the menu. He said something in Arabic and the assistant beside him translated. Shake wants the 2015 chat lau then the Wagyu rii.
Very rare truffle risotto on the side and tea. Earl gray very hot. Bring it first. Sophie took the note and bowed her head slightly. Of course, sir. Right away. Alzerani never looked at Sophie. He continued scrolling on his phone as if Sophie wasn’t even there, as if she were just a robot serving him. Sophie returned to the kitchen and relayed the order.
When the chef heard the special requests, he frowned. This guy again, always the most complicated orders, never a thank you. 10 minutes later, Sophie brought Alzerani’s Earl Grey tea on a silver tray. Just as she was about to set the tray on the table, Alzerani suddenly moved. He lifted his head from his phone and slammed his hand on the table, gesturing to the man beside him to make a point.
Sophie flinched and reflexively the tray in her hands swayed slightly. The cup slid forward an inch and a few drops of hot tea splashed from the edge of the table onto the sleeve of Alzarani’s white thorb. Time froze. Every sound in the restaurant cut off in an instant. Conversation stopped. Forks hung in midair.
The sumelier forgot about the glass he was pouring wine into. Everyone turned toward that table. Alzerani looked at his sleeve. The teastain had left a small brown spot on the white fabric. Then he slowly raised his head. There was fury in his eyes. Cold, merciless fury. His voice echoed to every corner of the restaurant. You stupid, careless girl.
Alzerani’s voice filled the entire restaurant without needing to shout. The authority and contempt in his tone was a sharper weapon than the words themselves. Do you have any idea how much this Thorb costs? Do you? Sophie stood frozen. The empty tray in her hands trembled. Sir, I am so deeply sorry. It was an accident.
I can Alzarani slammed his fist on the table and the glasses jumped. Accident? You call this incompetence an accident? This Thorb is custommade from Milan. It costs more than you make in a year, maybe 2 years. The restaurant manager came running over, his face drenched in sweat. Mr. Alzerani, sir, please, we sincerely apologize.
We will cover all dry cleaning costs, of course. And Alzarani silenced the manager with a sharp look. Dry cleaning? You think this is about dry cleaning? This is about hiring incompetent staff who cannot do a simple job. Sophie’s face had flushed red, but her eyes hadn’t filled with tears. She bit her lip, trying to stay on her feet. Alzarani turned to her.
You will pay for this personally. Your salary will be deducted until this is paid. Do you understand? The manager tried to intervene. Sir, that’s really not necessary. We can Alzarani raised his hand to silence him. I am not finished. This girl clearly does not belong in a place like this. She should be working in a fast food restaurant, not here.
People at the surrounding tables had turned their heads in embarrassment. No one was intervening. A woman whispered to her friend, “That’s so embarrassing.” But none of them did anything. The wealthy customer was always right. Wasn’t he? Sophie stood with her head bowed, hands clasped in front of her, continuing to apologize. “Sir, please, I truly am sorry.
I will personally.” Alzarani waved his hand dismissively as if swatting away a fly. Get out of my sight. Send someone else to serve this table. You are done here.” But in that moment, a voice rose from the back corner of the restaurant. An older voice, slightly raspy, but crystal clear, carrying a Birmingham accent, with every word carefully chosen.
“Mate, I think you’re being a bit harsh there, don’t you?” Everyone turned. The old man sitting at the corner table had slowly removed his sunglasses. His blue eyes looked directly at Alzarani. His features suddenly began to seem familiar to people at several tables. Despite his fortune, Oussie Osborne had never been arrogant, always treating people with respect.
He stood up and began walking toward Alzarani’s table. Ozy’s every step echoed on the restaurant’s marble floor. He was 70 years old, but his walk still carried that old stage energy. His hands were in his pockets, his head tilted slightly to one side, and on his face was that famous Aussie smile, both friendly and slightly dangerous.
As he approached Alzarani’s table, a few more tables began to take notice. A woman whispered to her friend, “Wait, is that Aussie Osborne?” Her friend pulled out her phone, but didn’t dare take a picture. Ozie stopped right next to Alzarani’s table. His eyes were still locked on the shake, but there was no aggression in his voice, only genuine curiosity and slight bewilderment.
“Sorry to interrupt your meal, mate, but I couldn’t help overhearing, and I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding here.” Alzarani looked at him, trying to figure out who this old man was. His face seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “This is a private conversation,” he said in a cold voice.
This does not concern you. Aussie shook his head slightly and continued speaking in that Birmingham accent. Well, see, that’s where you’re wrong, mate. When you start shouting at someone in the middle of a restaurant, it becomes everyone’s concern, especially when that someone is just trying to do their job.
A slight murmur rose around them. People were now pulling out their phones. A bodyguard stepped forward, but Alzarani stopped him with his hand. And who are you to lecture me about how I treat my staff?” he said, a slight hesitation in his voice because he almost remembered who this man was. Ozie smiled.
That famous crooked smile of his. Name’s Aussie. Ozie Osborne. Maybe you’ve heard of me. Maybe you haven’t. Doesn’t really matter. What matters is this young lady here, he said, turning his head towards Sophie. She made a mistake. A tiny, bloody accident. and you’re treating her like she committed a crime.
Alzarani’s face changed. Ozie Osborne from Black Sabbath, the man whose fortune was worth millions, maybe hundreds of millions of dollars. But here he stood in old clothes, without arrogance, like an ordinary person. “Mr. Osborne,” Alzarani said, his voice softening slightly, but still defensive.
“With all due respect, you do not understand. This is a very expensive garment. The stain. Aussie stopped him with his hand. Mate, I don’t give a damn about your expensive clothes. I’ve worn stage costumes worth more than a car and destroyed them in one show. You know why? Because they’re just clothes. Fabric, thread. They can be cleaned, replaced, forgotten.
