by Laura Dave
“Probably shouldn’t thank me until you hear my definition of good job.”
Before Douglas could say anything else vaguely resembling a threat, the kitchen door swung open, and there he was. Z. He was in his chef’s jacket and pants, wire-rim glasses covering his eyes. He was in his fifties and surprisingly good-looking, considering his red hair, his never-even-seen-the-sun skin. It wasn’t entirely a surprise. He was, for a time, as well known for the women he dated as for his food. There was something about him. Call it confidence, call it not giving a shit. He was hard not to notice.
“All right, people, let’s do it,” he said.
Lottie stood to his right, and everyone else gathered around him in a semicircle. There were several dishes lined up on the counter behind him—piping hot pastas and a lamb shank, an elegant arctic char.
Chef Z picked up a plate of what looked to be some kind of flatbread pizza.
“That’s Z’s strawberry sofrito pizza,” Douglas whispered. “Garden-grown strawberries, heirloom tomatoes, homemade ricotta cheese, balsamic vinegar, fresh basil . . .”
I swear, my stomach started to rumble. I was scared that Douglas had heard. But his eyes were firmly on Z. Everyone’s were.
Z broke off a piece of the sweet, ooey-gooey goodness, which looked like a work of art—the ratio of tomatoes to strawberries to the dense thick cheese—perfectly decadent.
Z seemed less than pleased, though. “Kristin, where’s the basil?” he said.
One of the sous-chefs stepped forward, not answering at first.
“Kristin?” he said.
She pointed to the other five pieces in the pie, which were strewn with gorgeous julienned pieces of the herb, so fresh and abundant, I could smell it from several feet away.
“Chef, it’s right there,” she said.
“Are you planning on going to each table tonight to make sure our guests happen to pick up a piece that you decided deserved fresh basil?”
“No, Chef.”
He pointed at his piece. “It should be right here,” he said.
Then he whispered something to Lottie and dropped the pizza on the countertop, disappearing out the same door he came in.
Lottie sighed. “An hour to service, folks,” she said.
Then she motioned for Kristin to follow her out of the kitchen.
I looked up at Douglas. “She’s not seriously getting fired over that?”
Douglas shook his head. “What did I tell you about those kind of questions?”
Douglas could move. In the first half hour of dinner service, I think I ran a mile just keeping up with him. I started to sweat, and not the cute kind of sweat—beads of perspiration dripping down my back, staining my new shirt. I was desperate for a glass of water, but too smart to dare ask. I was trying to keep mental notes, Douglas racing through responsibilities he assumed I understood from my imaginary years working at restaurants as fancy as—and far busier than—this was.
I tried to sneak peeks at Chef Z, who stood opposite his cooks line, monitoring the orders and doing quality control on every single plate before it went out into the dining room. He didn’t talk to anyone except his cooks, and he spoke to them constantly, giving them orders. I need a sofrito. Where is my salt? Steak, five times. It was like he was a different man from earlier in the evening. Calm, evenhanded, in his element. I started to think: Why was everyone making such a big deal about this kitchen being a nightmare? Then I heard his voice.
“Taylor!” Chef Z screamed. Loudly.
I swung around toward the cooking line, expecting to see Chef Z. But he was standing at an empty workstation, in the back of the kitchen.
“TAYLOR!” Chef Z screamed again.
A thin and scrawny guy came running from the bathroom, back to the workstation. He had tattoos up and down his arms—one in notable block letters. I tried to read it without being too obvious about it. You’re the reason I’ll be traveling on . . . Don’t think twice, it’s all right. Why did it sound familiar? They were lyrics to a Bob Dylan song. I loved that song, though a little less on someone’s arm.
He wiped his hands on his apron. “Yes, Chef.”
Chef Z held up a dirty dish in his hand, a few tomatoes scattered across it.
“What is on this plate?” Z said.
“Those would be tomatoes, Chef. I believe from the strawberry pizza.”
“So you do recognize the fruit, then?”
The kitchen got quieter than before. Everyone was pretending they weren’t doing exactly what everyone was doing: looking back and forth between them, no one saying a word.
“Before you took off on your little break, or wherever you’ve been, did you or did you not mark that a plethora of tomatoes were left behind?”
“I did not.”
“And why not? Isn’t it your one job to note which foods return from the dining room uneaten?”
“I didn’t consider the amount to be a plethora.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“Absolutely not, Chef. We’re early in the evening, and before I disturbed you with it, I wanted to see—”
“A diner leaves a dozen tomatoes on his plate, I want to know. A diner leaves a single tomato on his plate, I want to know that too. Who leaves a tomato behind? I sat in the garden. I planted it myself. That is heaven. They left a bit of heaven on their plate.”
“And in a few weeks, it won’t even be around to waste,” I said.
He looked around the kitchen, meeting my eyes. “Who are you?”
Everyone turned and looked in my direction. I cleared my throat, knowing I’d just taken a risk, but knowing I had to, if I wanted to get anywhere with Z.
“I’m your new server. In training to be, at least.”
“So you’re not particularly useful.”
Douglas moved slowly away, as though the inevitable firing was something he could catch.
“What do you think about waste?”
“I’m against it.”
There was a chuckle in the group, but I knew that my answer was the right one: succinct, sure of itself.
Z tilted his head, taking me in. His attention was on me; the room’s attention was on me as well.
“Come here, please,” he said.
I hesitated, and Z started flapping his arm.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s go.”
I walked over, and he motioned for me to step behind the workstation, next to Taylor. I looked at Taylor, who turned away.
“Here’s the deal. Watch everything that Taylor writes down. If he misses anything, if he misses one tomato, you tell the captain and you take his job.”
“And what if he gets everything right, Chef?”
“Then there’s no use for you here.”
Z turned and walked back over to the line, started checking on the next course’s dishes.
Taylor leaned in toward me, tidying his station. “Why did you get us into that?” he said.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” I said.
He shook his head. “Well, you meant to do something,” he said.
He dropped the tomatoes into the trash.
“He does this every few nights. Threatens his regular staff with someone new, makes them work a little harder for their job. But there is no way he’s actually giving you my job.”
His station was spotless, ready for the next rush of dinner returns.
“I was just promoted to trash too,” he said.
“That’s something you get promoted to?”
“It’s not my strength. But if you want to cook for him eventually . . .”
“Trash is the path?”
He nodded. “Trash is the path.”
“So, the idea is that you’re writing down what people don’t eat?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask way too many questions?”
“Yes, they have. And I totally understand if you don’t want to answer them, considering that I’m now the competition.”
He smiled, my honesty
having warmed him. Imagine that!
“Noting for Chef what is left behind helps him ascertain whether it’s presentation that isn’t working or the item itself, so he can adjust accordingly. It’s pretty important. At least as far as he is concerned.”
“Weird. They haven’t done this at the other places I’ve worked.”
“They don’t do most of what Z does anywhere else,” Taylor said. “He’s fastidious.”
Taylor nodded, proud to work there. And I started to feel conflicted that he was trying to help me out, even though I was trying to take his job.
I suddenly wanted to do something else.
“So maybe we can figure out a way to convince him he needs two people to do it,” I said.
He laughed. “No, it’s you or me.”
“I was suggesting an alternative.”
“No offense,” he said. “But the alternative is that you’re ending your little regime at 28 right when it’s getting started.”
The thing about working in a restaurant kitchen, even under intense pressure, is that it gets really quiet, really quickly. The only sound is the noises of the kitchen, its own life-form, stainless-steel pots and fire and bubbling water, finding their rhythm together. Especially a restaurant like 28. The waiters and line cooks move like a machine. I didn’t know how I’d do on trash, but I realized it was a good thing my career as a waiter here had been short-lived, or I would have been fired before the night was out. The rapid movements, the heavy plates lining arms. Getting hit by Z on one side and the snooty guests on the other.
Staying in my small trash workstation, surrounded by garbage pails, was certainly preferable. Yes, even considering the garbage pails. And I found myself watching intently, trying to keep up, trying to learn. I watched the plates come back from service, making mental notes as to what people were eating well. And what they weren’t touching.
Some of it wasn’t surprising. There wasn’t a stray noodle from Z’s homemade cacio e pepe—rich and peppery, covered in cheese. And Taylor had been right: The leftover tomatoes were an anomaly. Besides those stray tomatoes Z had sulked about, every plate of strawberry pizza returned to us clean.
In fact, over the course of the evening, the only unpopular dish was the vegetarian tagine.
It was midnight before Chef Z came over.
“What’s the word, Taylor?” Z asked.
“The tagine’s sauce,” he said.
“What in the sauce, specifically?”
I looked down into the thick sauce, uncertain how he expected Taylor to answer that, when I realized what the answer was.
“I would say the preserved lemon, Chef,” Taylor said.
“Would you?”
“Often, there were several chunks left in the bottom of the dish.”
Chef opened up the trash bag and peered inside. Then he looked at me. “Is that right?”
I paused. I needed this job. I needed the proximity to Z for my plan to go as needed. Then I looked at Taylor. It seemed like if I gave a different answer than he had, he’d be out of a job. Or would he? Was that too easy for the game Chef Z was playing here?
“Preserved lemons, Chef.”
It wasn’t that I’d developed a conscience. It was that it suddenly occurred to me that there was a smarter way to go.
Z looked surprised that I backed up Taylor. As for Taylor, he looked downright shocked.
“Okay,” Z said.
“But I don’t think the lemon is the problem,” I said.
“And what is the problem?”
“The dried cherries. They’re close to the lemons in consistency. And once people have the sweet, they’re probably less interested in the savory.”
Chef Z moved incredibly close to me, whispered in my ear. “Did I ask you to evaluate my dish?” he said.
“No, Chef.”
“So do not offer it then, especially when you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. Though I could see it. He was just a little bit insulted. Which, for a narcissist, was a step away from impressed.
Z looked between us. “So which of you is staying?”
It wasn’t a question. “I’d say we both should,” I said.
“Not possible.”
“Except the issue with the food that is thrown out is twofold, Chef. Taylor accurately noted everything that didn’t leave the plate, but there is another important aspect—the other elements in the dish that were preferred. That has to be taken into account in considering what they chose to consume and what they chose not to consume. That’s really a two-person job.”
He looked down at his watch. “That was almost ninety seconds that I’m never getting back.”
I nodded, a subtle apology.
Chef kept his eyes on me. “Taylor, walk away.”
“What?” Taylor said.
“Walk away.”
“Chef, Sammy will tell you . . .”
“Who is Sammy?”
I raised my hand.
“Stupid name.” He shook his head. “Is that what your parents named you, or did you shorten it all by yourself?”
I looked around the kitchen, wondering who would react to the lie, who knew my real name. Everyone continued working, cleaning up their stations, closing down for the night. If anyone was interested in outing me, they were going to do it when they hadn’t been on their feet for fourteen hours already and were dreaming of getting into their beds, confrontation free.
Z turned away from me, looked Taylor up and down.
“Taylor, why are you still standing here?”
Taylor walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with Z.
“So, Sammy. This is your entire job, trash. You look at what people left on their plate. And write it down. Then you throw it out. Is that understood?”
I nodded, trying to contain my joy. “I won’t let you down, Chef,” I said.
“Of course you will,” he said.
Then he walked away.
24
On the way home from the restaurant, I stopped at a pay phone off of Montauk Highway to call Danny. I knew he wouldn’t pick up if I called from my phone, so I had to try a different way. It felt wrong to have a night like I’d just had and not tell him about it—not hear him laugh about how scary Chef Z was—and how scary Douglas was. He would probably say Douglas was scarier. And it felt wrong not to tell him that I had scored a first victory on the way to getting a life back.
We’d had a tradition when one of us had a big day—something at school or work, something worth reporting—of bringing home some super-unhealthy takeout, dealer’s choice. It had started in the first apartment, the garden apartment, when we were so broke that any takeout was a treat. And we had stayed with it.
The night that A Little Sunshine was picked up to series, we hadn’t gone to some fancy restaurant. And of course, I didn’t cook. I had ordered spicy chicken and extra egg rolls, and we ate on the couch while imagining what we were going to do with the (small) influx of money. It was enough to put a dent in the down payment on the town house. But I hesitated.
Ryan had already signed a lease on the studio in Chelsea. He wanted Danny and me to get a place not so far from there.
As hip as Red Hook was, Ryan decided that my living in Manhattan was more relatable—especially to people unfamiliar with New York. That was the dream people aspired to, as opposed to our dream of living off the beaten path. It wouldn’t appeal to viewers in the same way to engage with someone who was living miles from the nearest subway station.
They wanted what they’d seen on television—what they thought New York was supposed to be—lively streets crowded with sexy people and late-night bars. Fancy restaurants. And a dream apartment in spitting distance of the action—where they could dream they would have a chance to live too.
Danny was holding his ground on staying in Red Hook—not ready to give up our dream just yet. But, as I enjoyed my greasy takeout, I was already happily envisioning the East Village apartment that Ryan thought c
ould be perfect. It was right by Astor Place, shiny and new, with a shower that was larger than our current bathroom. I told Danny that we would figure it out together, but I think I already decided that was the way I wanted to go. Takeout and dreams be damned. I was already willing to sell us out.
As I dialed Danny’s number, I remembered the night of the surprise party. Danny had offered me the takeout option. Sushi and a terrible movie. Why hadn’t I taken it? Maybe if we had been home when those tweets came through, I would have handled it better. I would have convinced him it didn’t define us. Which, of course, it didn’t.
Right now, there was no chance of takeout. The most I could hope for was just to hear his voice. And, at 1:45 A.M., that was unlikely too.
Still, my heart dropped when he didn’t pick up. The phone went right to voice mail, and all I heard was the machine-operated version of him, saying he’d give a ring back.
I knew he wouldn’t.
So instead of leaving a message, I held the phone out so he could hear what I was hearing. The late night breeze, the ocean kicking up, and somewhere on the beach in the distance, someone laughing at something I couldn’t see.
25
I tiptoed into the guesthouse a little after 2 A.M., and turned on the kitchen light.
“I thought you disappeared on me!”
My sister was sitting on the living room couch, arms folded across her chest.
I jumped back. “Holy shit! You scared me.”
She was pissed. “I scared you? I thought you just took off.”
“And left all my things?”
“It’s what you did last time.”
I looked at her, not saying anything. I had to catch my breath from finding her sitting there. It was like I was suddenly fifteen again, and walking into the house late. My father didn’t give us a curfew. But if I arrived home even a second after ten, Rain would have a million questions about where I’d been. It wasn’t that she was actually worried about me. She was worried about my father. She didn’t want him to be woken up or to manage what that would mean for him the next day. And for her.
She stood up. “Where were you?” she said. “I wanted to go to the hospital and see Thomas. Isn’t that why you’re here? You get a place to stay and you help me with Sammy? What the hell were you doing?”