“It’s a quarter past nine. Do this one more time and I’ll have you sent a warning letter. Three strikes you’re out, and you’ll be going back to Rome.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We don’t have any bookings for tonight, it’s Thursday. We’re nearly ready for the group coming in tomorrow, you know everything will be ready for service, as usual …”
“I don’t give a shit. And I have already told you that I don’t like that black uniform. You’re the only one dressed in black; what’s that supposed to mean anyway?”
“But … you told me I could wear it, why the hell are you bringing it up now?”
“Follow the rules and you can wear the uniform. The first rule is be on time.”
I get hustling and make up for lost time to be ready for service ahead of schedule and prove to the prick that his dressing-downs are a waste of time. Hop, hippity hop, I’m dancing around, raising my guard a little, really dancing. But it’s useless, because there he is, breathing down my neck at every turn, worse than before, crossing every t and dotting every i, grabbing things out of my hands, making it difficult for me on purpose. I hate his arrogance, his ingratitude, his stupidity. I wish I could gouge his eyes out and piss in his skull because I have earned this sliver of freedom. I am his backbone in here, his fingers, his nails, and even his eyes, I’m the only one who can see what’s going on between the kitchen and the dining room. How the fuck dare he treat me like that?
As he reaches over for a pan at my workstation, I lunge and grasp it before he does, then I throw it against the wall and glare at him menacingly. A solid high guard. I’m just waiting for him to react, and then I’ll really thrash him. I am going to take him down. His face turns crimson, then he blanches, and just as he inhales deeply, the maître d’ comes in with the first order.
“A house antipasto for two, followed by one ricotta ravioli and one tagliatelle, then a Steak Florentine to share.”
Static’s swirling through the air and he stares at us, expecting the kitchen to blow up and shatter Orlando’s hubris. If he had a bag of popcorn, he’d be sitting back enjoying the show. A couple of seconds pass, maybe three, and he ups and leaves, otherwise people will catch on.
Orlando stops in his tracks, and so do I. Service has started. You can’t argue during service, not ever, no matter what. That’s a given.
Lunch is strange today. It seems that every truck driver on the highway has decided to stop here and order my steak. Wordlessly, I cut the meat, toss it on the grill, raise and lower the flame, then slide it into the oven, slice, garnish, plate, and call for the waiter.
Every now and again I shout, “Yes, Chef,” “It’s on the pass, Chef,” “One more minute, Chef,” “I’m doing the next four, Chef.” Chef, that’s what I call him. To put some distance between us. It’s also a position that, no matter what, I do not question.
Then Orlando goes to the pass, puts down a Crema Catalana with strawberries, removes a pen from his sleeve pocket, draws a diagonal line across the docket, and says, “Last table, service over, kitchen closed.” Then he turns toward me. I place my knife on the red cutting board, parallel to the short side, and take off my apron.
“Shall we step outside?”
We take long strides to get as far away as possible from the building, in silence, to the far end of the garden.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you challenging me?”
“You’re the one who’s picking on me for no reason at all.”
“The fuck I am. You’ve been getting my goat. Every single day. The way you clown around and give lip all the time. Do you think learning how to butcher a cow and debone a quail gives you the right to do as you fucking well please? We are working here, not playing around. I can put up with pretty much anything, but I won’t tolerate you jerking around.”
“Who? Me? Jerking around? But my mise is always perfect.”
“You think your mise is perfect because I let you get away with it like that. Do you know how many things I let you get away with every day? How many things you should be doing better? Do you think you have the right to roll in late just because there’s less work? I don’t give a shit if you are a junkie, a pervert, a whore, a psycho, a drunken thug, or a social misfit. Just never lie to me. I need to be able to trust you. Are you prepared to begin service on time? Not a minute before or a minute after, or when you’ve had a rest, or when you’re feeling better, or because there isn’t much happening today. On time. Every day. Can I rest assured that tomorrow you’ll be here on time and you won’t leave me screwed six ways to Sunday? If you can, then we can make beautiful food together. But you slip one more time, and I’ll kick your teeth in and send you away. We have to be unassailable in the kitchen, it’s the only way to command respect.”
“But you’re on my back all the fucking time — explain that.”
“Why do I give you a harder time than Michele? Because kitchen staff fall into three categories. The self-styled artists, who want people to call them ‘Maestro’ and do all that molecular shit, the mad scientists who charge millions and get away with murder. That’s not us. And then the poor schmucks who end up in the kitchen because they don’t know what else to do. They learn to cook because they have to, otherwise they’ll fall to pieces. It’s what they do to escape from some failure or another. Like Pietro, who couldn’t hack it here and won’t hack it anywhere else either. Or Michele, who doesn’t have the cojones to run a poker game let alone a dog and pony show like this, and crashed before the first month was up. I’d never hire him again. Then you have the mercenaries, the loners who only do it for the money but are on top of their game. Bright, fast learners, able to think on their feet. They’ve got a gift for cooking and manage to have other interests on the side as well. The only reason they hang out in a place like this is that they’re well paid. That’s you. And it’s me too. But if you lose face, you’re a worthless piece of shit. So you can do as you please, take photos, shoot up, screw around, but do not lie to me and do not try to fuck me over. I’d rather have a keen worker bee with no talent than a fucking artist with no backbone. You’re either born with guts or you’re not — nobody can teach you. This is not a post office, it’s a kitchen. It is a privilege to work in one. If a waiter doesn’t turn up for work, we can still get by, but if there’s no chef, the restaurant might as well close down.”
I back down. I get it. Orlando wants me to be like him, he wants me to put the kitchen first while we are both working in it, the way he does. There is no other way. It’s either black or white, you are either in or out, right or wrong. No room for interpretation. When we both stopped talking, it was out of respect for the service, and in that precise moment we were speaking the same language, following the same rules, playing the same game. Interrupting the argument because the first order coming through means that work and success are our top priorities. “Respect” is the magic word. Total commitment entitles us to do as we please, but not a minute before closing time. Simple. It’s all about doing the right thing.
I start turning up for work a quarter of an hour early so I don’t have to rush and I can be in my black jacket with a knife in my hand and the cutting board on the pass five minutes before service. I tell Orlando of my comings and goings, without fail. He knows when I’m back in Rome, when I sleep over at Thiene, if there’s a girl with me or if I’m by myself.
I used to admire Orlando, but now I am his faithful follower. I cling to my chef, my knives, and everything else in this cramped, sweltering space like the acrobat clings to the trapeze in Kafka’s short story.
30.
I was sitting on the stainless steel counter of the pass, in darkness, the only light coming from the emergency exit sign. I was wearing my low-rise Levi’s, NO STRESS T-shirt, and Adidas sports shoes. Orlando was with me, and he was still pissed off at the maître d’ over their latest ludicrous spat. I told him that toning it down a bit might be a good idea, especially for himself. He was leaning agai
nst the door leading into the dining room. From the club came the muffled thump of the bass beat and the strains of the summer hit “San Salvador”: “hear the voices ringing, people singing. San Salvador, now the festival is just beginning.” We were knocking back mojitos and waiting for Gabriel to wander over from the bar with a couple lines of coke. Yesterday we gave him our share of the money — he was the kitchen staff’s official dealer.
Gabriel was tall and black, and he cracked jokes in a thick Florentine accent. He had two small children and a very patient wife. The previous week he’d wrecked his Beemer. Said that someone cut him off and then sped away. Saturdays he would head off to Florence completely tanked, and only a line of blow would sober him up long enough to drive back home. He probably came to with the air bag in his face and no idea what the fuck had happened.
He boasted about the women he picked up and the blow jobs he scored in the private club room. He was a good-looking guy, to say the least, and he was a masterful juggler of bottles and shakers behind the bar. Women liked that sort of thing. They liked the ones who strutted center stage and stole the spotlight. His real name was Gabriele, but everyone called him Gabriel, without the final e, and he was fine with that.
“It’s good shit. A bit scant, but good,” Orlando said.
We moseyed down to the club. It was packed but not to the rafters. There should have been a much larger turnout according to the estimates of the three hotshot owners. “They spent a cool million,” Orlando told us. But the bar was swamped. I didn’t like the crush, so I ducked behind the counter. Orlando followed and started mixing cocktails next to Monica. I took four swigs of ice-cold beer and felt reborn.
“Why aren’t you guys dancing?” Monica asked. So we did. Orlando climbed onto the bar. “Saaaan Salvador!” And I climbed up too. Off came my T-shirt. I’d lost some weight and looked damn hot. “Saaaaaan Salvador!” No one told us to get off — we were the lords and masters of the venue. The restaurant manager was Orlando, and the bar manager was our dealer.
I felt someone tugging at my belt. It was Gabriel mouthing something and pointing upstairs. I bent down and put my ear to his lips.
“Fill in for me at the bar for five minutes, will you? I have to go upstairs, Giustini wants me in his office!”
I scrambled down from the bar, put my sweaty T-shirt back on, and started haphazardly mixing cocktails. Gabriel supplied everyone in here with drugs, from the dishwasher to the managing director. Two jobs and twice the benefits, more money and a rock-solid day job.
The dance floor was packed and slutty hostesses worked the room. People were thronging to the bar, waving money around, Orlando was still dancing at the far end of the counter, the boys looking at us with a mixture of scorn and admiration, the girls with curiosity.
I felt my jaw clench and broke out in a sweat. The expressions on the dancers’ faces were scary. You’d find more sanity in a mental hospital or a mortuary. Except that here the strobe lights messed with your head. Some of the girls, however, were luscious.
“What the fuck do you mean by luscious, Leo?”
“Great tits and world-class booty!”
“You are such a lowbrow!”
“Well, I’ll leave all the highbrow ones to you.”
The crowd was jiving and the music was crap. I felt a notch above them all. I weaved my way over to Orlando, and he bent down and roared, “Don’t you feel a notch above them, Leo? Above them all!”
I left the bar with another mojito — the alcohol seemed to be winning against the coke, and my head was spinning. Kids were roaming around like the morons they were, coming here to spend money while the only reason I was here was that I worked here. I was earning a living in this place, and I could shit all over those clowns. Someone came up behind me and covered my eyes with soft, small hands that smelled of soap and beer.
It was Anna. Last week she’d hung out at our place to work off a hangover and do a couple of lines with some friends of hers. Strangers hanging out with other strangers, doing things nobody found at all strange. The others had left and she’d stayed behind with me.
“How about going back to your place?” she asked.
“Not just yet, there’s something I have to do with Orlando first.”
“Can I do it too? With both of you?”
“No, it’s not what you think, tonight we two boys are behaving.”
“But have you seen yourself in the mirror?”
She kissed me on the mouth and left with her girlfriend, who’d been waiting nearby. I surveyed the room and saw all these people I had nothing in common with. Orlando took me by the arm and we returned to the kitchen with Gabriel. Orlando picked up a dessert platter, one of the big flat ones.
“Who’s gonna do it?”
I got my driver’s license and a credit card out of my pocket. “I’ll take care of this,” I said. In the meantime Gabriel put the plate in the microwave to dry the coke properly.
“I think we should be careful,” I said.
“About what?”
“Those kids. The ones who were over at our place the other night and just came out and called us cokeheads.”
“What are you saying? They paid me two hundred euros for a teener!”
“Yeah, but you know what it’s like, don’t you? It’s a small town, people gossip …”
“Leo’s right. We need to play it safe,” Orlando said. “I mean, we work here after all.”
“Hey, guys, snap out of it! Even if word gets out that people are doing drugs here, it sure ain’t nothing new. Show me a club where that doesn’t happen …”
“What about restaurants?” Orlando retorted.
I enjoy learning to do new things, starting to feel at home in new places, knowing my way around kitchens. And there’s nothing I like more than chopping three perfectly straight rails in a matter of seconds.
“You know what’s funny?”
“What, Leo?”
“That one of the reasons I took this job was that I wanted to chill out somewhere quiet, in the country. You know, close to nature, the lake, and all that. I actually thought that with all this peace and tranquility I’d be able to start writing my dissertation.”
“Sure, that’s why you decided to work in a club. Great choice. Let’s go back in and dance some more.”
We staggered out of the place at dawn. In four hours we had to be back in the kitchen. The three of us were wasted, but it had definitely been a night to remember.
It was pouring rain but it wasn’t cold. There had to be an umbrella somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I headed home on foot. Walking in the rain, it occurred to me that what I needed was a nice sensible girl and an undemanding relationship. Maybe a farmer’s daughter, living with her family near our place, who’d definitely be into long flowing skirts. I’d want nothing more than to be with her in a dry, sweet-smelling bed, under clean scented sheets.
“Hey, Matte.”
“Yo.”
“Have you still got that girl hanging out at our place?”
“Nope, you were right. I’m not cut out for commitment and living with a girl.”
“I guess I’ll come back to Rome, then.”
“What happened?”
“Dunno. It’s like there’s something missing.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Nah, it’s nothing, I just miss things. I’m coming home.”
“D’you miss your days as a rookie here in Rome? Or is it more than that?”
“It’s like I miss the person I could maybe become. It’s kind of like if I stay here, the person I was is never going to be the one I might be …”
“Gimme a break, Leo. Stop overthinking everything.”
“My pay is a month late.”
“Ah, right, then you’d better come back. I’ll be waiting.”
31.
I got up from my chair and shut my laptop on the round table in the living room and rolled and lit a cigarette, having almost given up pot because i
t made me paranoid. The radio was playing “La guerra è finita” by Baustelle. If I had a decent connection, I’d download it. Instead, this crap heap of a laptop was barely good enough for me to write my dissertation on. I felt as emotionally unstable as the girl in the song, who cries and doesn’t want to be caught shoplifting in supermarkets. I’d been caught red-handed robbing from destiny, and even though I wasn’t crying, it felt pretty damn awful.
I’d done it yet again — found myself wallowing in abject misery. I let my thoughts flow like ripples lapping the shore, on the off chance a few rivulets might trickle into the questions that lay buried in my mind and wash up the answers. I sat down again, turned the laptop on, and begged my mind to get its act together. No luck: The tide was out. Nothing but a wasteland. Asking myself questions didn’t do me much good anyway. When I just lumbered on without asking too many questions or waiting for answers, things generally turned out for the better.
Which they did in 2005, amid stacks of assignments, loads of anxiety, some good times, and a few fleeting moments in the kitchen, even though I had promised myself to stay away from work until I’d graduated. The panic attacks had started in Tuscany, and I had no idea why. It wasn’t the cocaine or the fact that my wages were always late. So it had to be because I’d allowed myself to drift through life without a rudder. Because I had something to prove. It was time to start something from scratch, and succeed because I wanted to, not because fate had blindly thrown some good luck my way.
Matteo’s reaction to my musings had been: graduate. I thought it might work. I checked my bank balance and calculated that €12,000 would just see me through the year. Twelve months to take my final exams and write my dissertation.
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