by Sidney Ivens
Okay, okay. Get a grip. The positives: Elena. The team. They’ve come to help, and I’ll honor that. Besides. The storage room is spacious and clean. Long stainless counters and bins. Big burners, a grill. A portable hood. Large and small colanders with handles. Kitchen utensils, ladles, tongs, spoons, spatulas, graters, scrapers.
Where’s the sink? I walk in a little farther to inspect our workspace. There’s a telephone relic sitting on a plastic card table next to some dried-out mop heads. Okay, over in the corner. Our “sink” is a janitor’s sink, where he fills buckets and adds solvents. On the other side of the sink is a white toilet taped up with “DO NOT USE.”
Class all the way.
C’mon. Look for the silver lining. Make that a stainless lining. I find more hope in the shape of supplies: boxes of fresh vegetables, herbs, fruit, and a block of pepper jack cheese from my private reserve. Had it shipped here direct from a Wisconsin farm, their “Adventure Cheese,” stamped with their logo of a dairy cow wearing a pirate patch. Aye, me dairy. For the killer poppers that would put us over the top. That made my stomach settle down a little.
Team Seven gathers round the stainless counters: Elena, Chris, Auntie Rob, Marc and Tiffany, who can’t stay.
“Sorry, Nick.” Tif’s dressed in yellow, flapping her arms like a disturbed canary. “I’m the subcontractor to the PR firm handling the contest, remember? I’m swamped doing their social media and I’m on a short leash. I told the producers Marc and I have a baby in common, but I’m not sure it matters.”
Lexi strikes again.
Cos gives her a kiss and Tiffany leaves in a flash of yellow, bent over her phone.
I draw in a long breath. I should be ready for this. In all the years growing up, I spent many hours working alongside my father’s famed chefs, observing. The patient ones showed me their techniques, the rhythm of cooking. I’d learned all facets of the hotel business from concierges, valets, maids and A/V teams.
“Okay, Seven,” I say. “First up, we’ll assign roles. Chris, Auntie Rob. You’ll be our chefs. I’ll be your assistant, a floater, getting you what you need, tools, cutting, chopping, whatever. Chris, I’ll need you on the grill. I’ll show you how to make the beef mixture for the pub burgers. I’ll get you the best beef and a timer, okay?”
Chris withdrew a timer in the shape of a white chicken. The thing practically clucked.
I smile. “Perfect. Let’s get you two into the right clothes.”
He and his aunt take turns changing in a closet, and then emerge in white chef coats and hairnets. The seams are tight around Chris’s shoulders, and Elena safety-pins the loose fabric swallowing Aunt Robbie. Her brother’s the calm in the storm, pushing up his sleeves. Grinning. His Marine tattoo is visible on his forearm, the eagle, globe and anchor. “Hey, man. I used to be my best under fire.”
I clap him on the back. “Liam Neeson spirit animals.”
Aunt Robbie smiles at us, eyes watering a little, and then gets busy, clanging around the stainless utensils.
While they’re familiarizing themselves with the dials to the oven, burners and grill, I review the rulebook.
Part of the challenge, or “A” for Ambiance, is to furnish and decorate a mini-dining room on wheels. Divider walls can be snapped together to form a square, with the front panel left off. That way, the audience can see and judge the simulated room.
I examine the dividers. They’re some kind of fake wood, and while they’re not flimsy, we won’t be able to hang anything bulky. I’ll have to check how heavy the plastic truck tailgate is before mounting it. Setting the table won’t take much time. Toss on some nice linens, arrange a few plates, flatware. Bada bing and boom, good to go.
I’m aware that Elena’s looking at me, now attired in a blue top and dark slacks. She’s seated on an ergonomic chair in front of one of the laptops, her hand on the mouse. The A/V station consists of two laptops, a screen to test our presentation, speakers. For “C,” concept, a one-minute commercial. She chews on the inside of her mouth. “I only know Powerpoint.”
“But she’s a quick learner,” her aunt added.
Damn. We need familiarity with a lot of software, video editors, movie makers. I wet a finger and fly through pages of the stapled rulebook. A/V section: I can’t hire anyone else at this point. No outside gurus. Nausea stirs inside my stomach. I ignore it, take a couple of deep breaths.
“I’ll figure it out,” Elena says.
“Marc, how about you?”
“Tif’s the expert on that stuff. I’ll text her if we get stuck.”
Any assistance on his wife’s part is highly unlikely. She’s otherwise occupied running the contest’s social media stream. But I won’t stomp all over their good intentions. “You’ll also have to be our runner, Cos. Pick up deliveries in the lobby.”
“Gotcha.”
I clap my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, guys. Bear with me. I’ve still got a hangover and enough caffeine in me to fuel three Baptist revivals. We’re gonna make my world-famous poppers, an extra thick cheeseburger and flourless chocolate —”
A rumbling comes up from my stomach, a gurgle of green seasickness. If I don’t get to a bathroom right now, I’ll ruin everyone’s juju and possibly remove their will to live.
“Nick?” Elena says, concerned.
“Gotta run.” Since our toilet’s taped up like a sprained ankle, I tear out for the meeting room behind the Affluence Room, where I know there are bathrooms.
Once I get there, I see nothing but roadblocks. The contest organizers have placed a scaffold that runs the length of the room, where they can aim cameras and shoot down into the various team operations. The scaffold is also the shortest route to the bathrooms, and I shoot up the metal steps nearly two at a time. What I didn’t realize was that this crosswalk provides a clear view of the other contestants.
The rule book warns against “spying” on other teams. That’s fair, I wouldn’t want to cheat anyway. But scrambling across this scaffold and trying not to look down? I can’t run or gallop. While it’s pretty noisy, my feet might draw attention from below. Best keep it stealthy.
Based on the clues below, plastic bags of pretzel buns, a chef chopping up fries, a tray of raw wings—pub grub rules. At least two of the teams here are sports bars. This little sports bar went to contest. This little sports bar had sliced roast beef, this little sports bar had none.
At the end of the scaffold, last divider wall, I spy Bobby DeVille leading a team of three chefs. They’re Team Two. Bobby’s talking with several star athletes wearing jerseys who are sampling ribs and shaking their heads appreciatively. Lexi’s there, too, exaggerating laughs, throwing her head back, her blond extensions reaching her butt. DeVille’s sneaking looks at her and arranging jumbo jalapeño peppers on a butcher’s block, four dozen of them.
One of the assistant chefs carries in a cardboard box. It’s a block of cheese, and I instantly recognize the cow logo, Adventure Cheese. Wait a minute. I searched the entire Midwest to ferret out this brand. How would DeVille know about it?
Then I recognize DeVille’s assistant, the temp from REPLEN*ish.
Chatty boy Sterling.
He must’ve noted the farm’s address on the side that day.
No. They can’t be that low.
Urrp. A belch pushes its way up my throat, leaving the worst taste imaginable. Goddamn hangover. I stagger a little and reach for the steel rail. Someone on the scaffold wearing a headset, a young guy, comes up behind me. “You okay?”
“Sick.” I clutch my belly and something unholy fills my mouth and I gag, regretting every drop of Jameson. I sense heads turning below. Just as I lose the battle and bend over, emptying what’s in my stomach, I see Lexi looking up, clipboard in hand, eyes gleaming.
Elena intercepts me before I can reach the hotel lobby’s revolving doors. “Where are you going?”
A bitter taste sticks to my tongue. “This little sports bar is staying home.”
H
er grip tightens on the crumpling manila envelope in her hand. “You can’t quit now.”
Heads turn at the urgency in her voice, so I guide her behind a giant white column to a secluded corner, where the lighting is low. While I tell her about the stolen poppers, I toss in a few peppermints.
“All sports bars make poppers.”
“Not the same recipe.” I chomp faster. These effin mints are Rikers Island strength. “I lost what remained in my stomach a couple of minutes ago. Yeah. Clean-up on scaffold seven.” If only I’d opted not to pickle myself last night. “They’ve got professional athletes to help introduce Division One. Do you know what I’ll look like out there? Like I brought Legos to an MIT competition.”
She blows out a breath and opens the yellow flap of the envelope. “I want you to see this. Something to help keep you going. Your mother’s neighbor, remember? Her daughter recently found these.” She digs out two 4x6 photos, careful not to bend them, and flips over the white sides.
Mama.
I hold the first picture by the corner, staring down at it, and feel a flutter in my belly. Our old kitchen, years ago, a blurred wreath on the wall. I’m about seven, and Mama would’ve been in her early thirties. Her dark hair’s piled on top of her head, wavy curls falling in her eyes, fingers plunged in bakery dough. She’s smiling. Happy. I’ve got flour on my nose, grinning down at the mixing bowl.
I can almost smell the sugar cookies baking and hear a pot bubble on the burner.
I move my thumb to block my younger self. That kid’s so happy with the simple things. Dough inside a bright red bowl. Cookies about to happen.
Elena touches the edge of the photo. “She looks like a young Isabella Rossellini.”
“Who?”
“An actress. I only know her from Cousins, an old romantic movie my aunt loves. Your mother was stunning.”
She got much heavier once I got into grade school, and that’s when my father stayed out a lot more. She went from humming around the house to becoming quiet and withdrawn.
“I didn’t tell you everything.”
Elena flinches a little at the drop in my voice, and seems to brace herself, gripping the envelope until the edges curl. “I thought you’d be happy. Your dad didn’t burn all her photos.”
“He didn’t burn them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m getting to that.” I can’t look at her while I spew this ugly confessional, so I stare out the window at the stone building across the street. “When I was young, I didn’t have a lot of friends. To fit in, I started playing more sports like basketball and thinned out. Started to notice girls. Mama kept trying to do things with me like we used to, baking stuff, going to a movie. One time, she interrupted practice. That day was in the sixties, and she showed up in her winter coat while everyone else was wearing shorts. She was wearing her coat to hide the weight she’d gained, and she was carrying this crazy pink bag. I mean, this thing was neon magenta. She’s walking along the sidelines of the court and waves. ‘I made your favorite cookies!’ And one of the guys said, ‘Did you eat all of them on the way?’ The entire team’s laughing. And I’m embarrassed. I pretend I don’t know her. She saw me standing there. But I ignore her. And later . . . later, I heard her crying in her bedroom.” I tap a fist against my forehead. “God, if I could take it back. If only I could take it back.”
“Nick, you were young. Starting adolescence. Every parent embarrasses their kid at that age.”
“I burned them. Me.” I close my eyes, and it’s like someone’s stepping on my throat. “I was mad at her. Mad at her for leaving me with him, so I had the maids bring out all her photo boxes, and we threw them into the fireplace. One of them tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen.” My hand’s over my forehead, finger digging into the temple. “I threw in the photos faster than any of them. Not that there was a lot to begin with.”
“Nothing stored digitally? Videos?”
I shake my head and glance up toward the coffered ceiling, feeling as though I’m a snail that’s crawled free of its shell, exposing my slimy parts. I didn’t even have the guts to call her Mama out loud, because that made me a mama’s boy and a target for my father and friends. And because I rejected her so thoroughly, I had nothing left of her, except the recipe box, and only because a kind old woman saved it.
I swallow. “I’m going to forfeit.”
“That’ll be your choice.”
I look at her. “It’ll affect us.”
“It’s still your decision. Just like I had to decide.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
“I’m not supposed to.”
Why can’t Elena ever be normal? Other girls would berate me. Yes, you heartless shit. You were terrible to burn your mother’s photos. Telling me to man the hell up. Instead I gaze into those serious blue eyes and I see all this . . . lousy kindness.
“You’re too nice, Elena Glynn.”
“Don’t call me that.” But she’s smiling, and her eyes are gentle.
Her expectations are too high. Elena doesn’t want me to do the best for her. But to be the best for me. None of this makes sense, but she gazes up at me, kind and warm, and her softness can absorb how hard I am. Another hard surface and I crack on impact. I purposely dated girls as hard as me, and we sunned ourselves on the afterglow of my father’s fame. And now I’ve thawed out, and there’s nothing to cushion the fall I’m about to take.
“It’s not going to matter,” I say. “In the end, the king still rules.”
“So what, you’re not a king. The best men invent themselves. They improvise. Remember what you said, Nick. You’re a climber. Decide if it’s going to be your father’s ladder you climb or the one you build.”
She turns to go but I reach for her. Wrap my arms around her in a long, unhurried embrace. Then she gently extracts herself, kisses me, and leaves.
I love her. I love her with everything in me, and the knowledge isn’t accompanied by a dramatic cathedral chorus or rose petals. It carries a quiet power, as though the parched cracks inside me finally receive rain.
Then I hear it.
See what’s in front of you.
Not now, Mama. Or God. Or whoever this is. If it’s the horned guy from down below, I’m not answering.
I stare at the photos.
What I see is as clear as day, as clear as seeing to the bottom. It’s been right in front of me all along.
I run back to the storage room and arrive at the open door frame, out of breath.
Team Seven stops chopping and peeling. Chris and Auntie Rob pause, spoon and spatula mid-air. At the laptop, Elena pauses, forefinger frozen over the mouse. They’re working hard, making a real effort. And it gets to me. They’re not here because I pay them big bucks.
“Guys. We’re not going to win against the other sports bars or Division One. We won’t win against the trendy foodies.”
Even Cos stops staring at the laptop and spins to face me from his chair.
“My gut tells me that people want something that endures. They crave authentic. They want family. Friends. Memories.” My heart’s pounding as I lean over to grab hold of an item that I tucked away on a shelf. “Ladies and gentlemen.” I bring out the recipe box and place it in the middle of the stainless counter. “Our sling.”
“We’re using Mama’s recipes. I’m thinking of an Italian chophouse.”
Elena’s pretty face breaks out into a smile. Auntie Rob clasps her hands, fingertips under her chin. Chris gives a thumbs-up.
Seated at the laptop station, Cos goes party-pooper on me, grimacing as he leans back in his ergonomic chair. “Can you do that? Enter as a sports bar and switch to a different menu?”
If a public puking didn’t disqualify me, this shouldn’t. We’re simply Team Seven at this point, a no-name contestant, and there’s no time for debate. “What did the general say? It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to ask permission.”
“A female admiral said
it.” Elena waves a forefinger and beams with the confidence of a solar-powered librarian.
I shoot her a look. Why did I have to fall for a history buff?
Scratching at his arm, Cos rocks in the chair, which squeaks under his weight. “Nick. Bro. It’s not in the rules.”
“Once they taste this food and see our presentation . . .” I turn to the team. “We’ll change their minds.”
Cos’s phone chirps, and he pulls it out from his slacks’ pocket to skim a text. “Tif says Team Two’s about to do their ambiance and concept. I’ll go check it out. It’ll give us an idea of what we’re up against.”
“Go,” I say.
He pushes away from his chair, and he’s out the door.
I grab a few white napkins from the package. “Gather around, Seven.”
The team forms a half circle behind me; Chris and Auntie Rob in their chef whites, Elena huffing dark bangs from her eyes. I whip out a marker from my suit jacket pocket and sketch a leafy mound on a plate. “To start, a simple salad. Red onion, arugula baby leaves, a little salt, grape tomatoes sliced in half, mushrooms. Parmigiano Reggiano at room temperature. Topped with a red wine vinaigrette.”
I lay down the second napkin and draw a bowl with a swirl above it, suggesting heat rising. “Next, we’ll do an Italian fish soup with white beans. Celery, onion, garlic cloves, cannellini beans, fillets, prawns, mussels. Fresh parsley on the top. I’ll get us the best seafood in Chicago. We may have to use canned beans, but we’ll rinse and drain them.” I snag a recipe from the box and lay it above the napkin.
“Canned stuff is allowed?” Chris tugs on his hairnet.
“Yeah. I checked. That’s one rule we’ll follow.”
He grins and shakes his head.
“Okay, grill maestro.” I give him a fist bump. “For the low-carbers and carnivores, we’ll do several New York strips, medium-rare. Grilled asparagus and red peppers, add a small red onion, a little olive oil, seasonings. The steak will work well with the onion and arugula salad and we’ll steam the broccoli to perfection, crisp and flavorful. We’ll time everything.”