Hatched

by Robert F. Barsky

  “It’s over. Now we can but pray for their souls.” He bowed his head, and then, using the chef’s knife to help amass them, began to lay the beans down in a six pan. “May you rest in pieces,” he solemnly declared.

  “Coming through, watch out, it’s hot, hot, hot! Excuse me!” Nick was squeezing past Nate and Russ in a great hurry, carrying a sack of flour. “Hot, hmmm, stop it now, I gotta run! My testes are ablaze!”

  Ever since Nick and his wife started trying to have children, time came to be marked by crosses on a tear-covered calendar. They were being foiled, it seemed, by the heat of the hot plates and stove, which conspired, at the level of genitals, to heat the reproductive organs to a temperature unfit for reproduction. Nicky’s sperm flowed into his wife’s fallopian tubes like egg whites from some filthy Manhattan diner, surrounded by the much-feared Saran Wrap of overcooking.

  There is an understanding in professional kitchens that casual sexual encounters can usually occur without condoms, and few of the female chefs used contraceptives if their partners worked alongside of them in the kitchens. At first, Nicky’s verbal frustration about his impotence had led to joking about his condition, and then, as guffaws turned to concern, he began to receive regular vacations, thanks to Doris’s intervention. But nothing worked. Over time, the jokes in Fabergé Restaurant’s Yolk had turned to sadness, and then, mercifully, back to jokes again.

  “He would be a great father,” Jessica had once declared to Nate.

  Nate, having himself dreamed of paternity and a life with her, hadn’t replied. But it was a shared sentiment in the kitchen that this professional tragedy, which led to overheated sperms and eggs, was a pitfall of the job, and a strange allegory for the coagulated yolk. For a long time, servers speculated that Nicky’s quest would be successfully resolved, just as they believed that at some point Jessica and Nate would come together, as it were. But those who worked in the kitchen knew better, and in hushed voices they all spoke about the power of that blue flame, and, in regards to Nate and Jessica, about the equally destructive stresses of working together in close proximity. The Yolk, they knew, was a place of creation and life, but also of a vitalistic force that is heated by merciless flames to submission.

  There was now that strange lull in the evening, the calm before the proverbial storm of fried, broiled, beaten, stirred, and whipped eggs. Russ was put to work polishing the endless stainless steel of the kitchen in preparation for what would then become a night of pot scrubbing and the caressing of stainless steel.

  John stood by the dishwashing station, prepared for a night of steaming, rinsing, and piling-up dishes.

  Jessica gravitated towards the sauté station, prepared for whatever may come up.

  Johnny arranged the rows of raw meat and fish and lobster, carefully handling each with his fingers.

  Nate stood and admired his handiwork before bringing the slew of vegetables he had prepped for the evening into the walk-in, where he’d probably stop for a quick whippet from the new case of whipped cream containers.

  And then, ritualistically, the servers began to appear, a half hour or so before the opening of the restaurant’s main “crack,” as the front door was affectionately called.

  The walk-in door, heavy and solid, opened and closed frequently through the shift, particularly as the kitchen staff sought solace or whippets or a snack to escape the heat and the noise.

  Nate emerged from the walk-in, silent and serious, surveying the Yolk. This was where he wanted to be, in the very seat of class-consciousness. He flourished in this elite world of expensive cuts of meat, fresh fish and lobster, expensive beluga caviar, whipped cream, and, of course, eggs, some of the most exotic and expensive eggs from some of the rarest creatures on the planet, not to mention, as in the case of the ant eggs, some of the most prolific. Each of these gourmet dishes was served on expensive, French flatware and accompanied by Italian crystal glasses filled with obscenely overpriced wines, beers, and liquors. Most of the clients came to Fabergé Restaurant expecting to spend at least $300 per person, and many in fact exceeded $1,000 per person on a single meal.

  This conspicuous consumption was taking place in the United States, so some of the meals weren’t even long affairs, but were rather, like the sex that might follow, in which the quantity spent to procure the favor could be likened to the value of the favor itself. Hence the array of wealthy people, men and women, who came to Fabergé Restaurant with partners who were clearly not their legal spouses, but rather, same sexed or not, guilty pleasures, guiltily brought to this haven of champagne and caviar, for the timid, crocodile eggs carefully placed in a pool of ant larvae, for the more experimented or curious. These wealthy people, or at least those with enough wealth to bring them in for one of these meals, were all served by employees who couldn’t make enough in a week to pay for the exorbitance of a meal that they themselves knew how to prepare.

  Nate was in his element here, because expensive restaurants are institutions where class can lead to class consciousness, or class warfare. The disparity of wealth, even in the kitchen itself, can be dramatic, particularly between highly trained chefs and unskilled workers. Furthermore, unlike miners or factory workers, those who toil in the service industry rub shoulders, often literally, with the upper classes that they serve. They can thus become astute observers or, in the case of people like Nate, curious investigators into the very bases of social relations.

  Nate undid the strings holding his chef’s apron and then did them up again, tighter, and moved like a professional athlete, or perhaps a union organizer, towards the fray. His form of hobnobbing was akin to readying himself for a fight, and he, as always, was ready for prolonged combat.

  Jude stayed away, probably because he didn’t have enough money to have had any real choice in the matter. There was enough to keep me amused, though, as I watched the Yolk from the perch from which I observe what unfolds in Fabergé Restaurant. It was a busy shift, and somewhat more somber than others, perhaps because John was even more convinced that, as usual, an inspector was fated to enter the premises that evening.

  I don’t think that an inspector would dare enter Fabergé Restaurant, unless tempted by its tastes, because everyone, it seemed, knew that there was no point in looking for filth as long as John-the-Owner was the owner. Moreover, I wouldn’t want to be the ones charged with inspecting John’s Fabergé Restaurant, because there’s no telling what he’d do if he found out. Maybe he’d cut them open, as he did the lobsters, and then look for eggs to extract. If I were able, I know that I would most certainly extract other eggs from myself. Perhaps the Fabergé egg replicas that adorn my innards already achieve this purpose?

  Chapter 12

  When Tina saw Steve, she sensed the arrival of a kindred spirit. He was tall, clean, and not just clean-shaven, but clean—everywhere. He was impeccably dressed, silent, observant, ponderous, introverted, and serene. He looked like a murderer.

  Tina decided right then and there that she wanted to be murdered. Tina wanted to be murdered by him.

  Steve stood at the entranceway, ignoring the activity around him and staring obliquely into the dining room. He looked to be casing the place, and Tina was almost tempted to cross the dividing line between the dining room and the kitchen, something that only occurred in extreme situations, to tell John that the inspector had arrived. She stared at him, taking in his entire being, and knew that her impulse to call John had come from some other place. Inspectors didn’t wear designer clothing, and this man was wearing a Hermes shirt, and, yes, a matching tie from this year’s collection, under a Gucci black-suede parka.

  Tina did not shop at such places, but without checking the labels on her own impeccable clothing one might think that she did, because she kept up with fashion trends in her spare time. When she did shop, she didn’t just go for knockoffs, she studied catalogues to understand the spirit of designer work, so that she was able to find in mid-range department stores clothing that, on her frame, looked like
it came from expensive boutiques. As a consequence, she could spot recent clothing lines from expensive brands from a mile away, a skill that sometimes served her well in Fabergé Restaurant.

  Tonight, her knowledge served her well. She approached this man with caution. “Good evening, sir, may I show you to your table?” She had no idea if he had a table, if he’d made a reservation, or if he knew that on a Thursday night he should. But it didn’t matter, she was going to seat him, and if this meant that she had to eject the wealthy client from Tucson, Arizona, who had read the flattering write-up by a schmoozing journalist who had wanted a free meal at Fabergé Restaurant and got one in exchange for writing for the American Airlines in-flight magazine.

  “Some fat hick wouldn’t be able to taste the quality of Fabergé Restaurant’s food anyway,” she thought to herself, “and he probably only comes to New York occasionally, so his being kicked out wouldn’t change anything on the bookkeeping side.” She scanned the dining room for a candidate to her uncharacteristic impulsivity. There was in fact no need, several tables were unoccupied, and the reservation list had gaping holes that evening. She symbolically lifted the golden rod of flowing ink to inscribe his name into her sacred book. She looked into his eyes, and he uttered, simply, “Steve.”

  “Steve,” she wrote.

  Steve looked right at Tina as she undertook this task, without evident motion. “I am waiting for someone else as well. Two people, actually, but the second will arrive later.” Silence.

  Tina looked up into Steve’s black eyes, took in the smell of warm animal from his black coat, and lowered her gaze. She then looked up at him again, right into the very depth of his still features.

  “Would you care to wait at the bar, sir? Or would you just like a table?”

  “I don’t have reservations,” he replied, matter-of-factly, and then, as though as an afterthought, added: “But I prefer to eat at the bar. I assume the menu is available for patrons of the bar?”

  Patrons of the bar. She was going to remember that. John would appreciate patrons of the bar much more than, say, some down-home expression spontaneously uttered by a rich rancher from Tucson, Arizona.

  “Of course. Please choose your place, I will prepare it for you and your guest.” She hesitated. “One guest now, and then one more you say?”

  “Yes,” he answered, without looking her way. “We are two. And then three.”

  “Sounds like a pronouncement of great import,” she thought.

  “Follow me, sir,” she said, and gently implored by drawing her gaze into his face. She wondered who he had invited, and put symbolic money on it being another man. He was quite gorgeous, tall, big, and sleek, with jet-black hair and perfect skin. She knew Japan, but had never been to other countries in Southeast Asia. He was especially hard to place, because he was so tall, so solidly built, and, moreover, because he sported an American accent. “Half breed?” she asked herself. “Certainly, but from where? China, that was certain, but then, well, his skin was dark. Vietnam? Korea?” But he was very big, and he looked dangerous. “Mongolia?”

  She was in a state of frantic inner monologue, even as she was calmly seating him at the place where Jude had been seated with Ted in the late afternoon hours. When she realized what she’d done, she almost suggested he move to another table. Why? And then it struck her that somehow this was an ideal choice, and so smiled inwardly and then again wondered about the connection that would inadvertently bring those meetings, distant in time, together in space.

  She offered to take Steve’s coat, but he refused, and instead draped it onto the back of the chair. “That’s strange,” she thought, “for a coat like that.” She arranged his table, moving quickly but silently to the server station to pick up the menu and wine list, then returned. As she did so, another man entered the bar and walked directly over towards her.

  “I am Tom, here to meet . . .” He motioned towards Steve, who was now seated and staring forwards.

  “So this is the first guest,” she thought, as she stealthily accompanied him to Steve’s table. She pulled the chair out for him and offered to take his coat, which was equally gorgeous, but in this case it was well-worn, like the dark skin of its owner. She eyed Steve as she fussed with the newly arrived guest’s jacket, helping to liberate this large man of this outer layer. In so doing, she revealed a rugged core and not-so-faint indications of his sculpted muscles.

  He turned to thank her, and she had a flash of sudden recognition. This “Tom” was the mystery man, the man in black who occasionally met Jessica at the front of the restaurant. She had only seen him at a distance and was now assaulted by his animalistic presence.

  Jessica appeared, in his presence, in a different light. She felt a wave of desire and jealousy. She returned to task, as Tom turned back to Steve. She thought the jacket was beautiful and unique, as it gave way into her arms. She guessed it was a vintage-style cut, but it was clearly custom made, a fact she confirmed when seeing the simple signature of the designer in the place where a retail item would have had its label. She held it close and moved towards the coat check.

  “Steve!” she heard the newly arrived guest expulse. “Steve, fucking nice to see you, Steve!”

  “They are clearly old friends,” thought Tina, and she turned to witness Steve rise to greet Tom with surprising warmth.

  “Tom. You look good.” The two of them sat down.

  “This new arrival is equally intriguing,” ruminated Tina, “and rich.” She subtly brought the warm coat to her chest. The smell of lamb’s wool lining and kid leather was intoxicating; it seemed to reek with the powerful scents of a formidable body. She thought Tom looked as exotic as his friend, but was even more difficult to place. He was part African, or maybe African American, but he also looked Hispanic, or Filipino? She approached the cloakroom closet, hung the jacket up on a heavy, wooden hanger, and then returned to the table. The two men were deep in conversation, speaking on something that seemed to be of great importance. She drifted away, busied herself with adjacent tables, fussing over napkins and the placement of glasses, but never let her gaze stray from their direction for long. After a few minutes, she returned to their side. Tom was gazing at Steve, mid-thought, and he let her stand there as he ruminated.

  “Come on, Steve, don’t give me this. We don’t have to wait anymore, it’s out there. Christ, we could oversee the fucking operation with a bloody iPad.”

  “So sorry, gentlemen!” They looked over to Tina, simultaneously. It wasn’t clear to her whether they’d wanted her to be party to their deliberations, but familiar with the constant occupational hazard of social awkwardness, she forged ahead. “Can I offer either of you a drink?”

  The two men looked at each other briefly, and then back at her. Neither offered a reply, but instead looked at her intently.

  “I am your maître d’, and my name is Tina.” She inadvertently turned towards Steve, who responded by glancing downwards at the table. She continued. “Your server, Elizabeth, will be with you shortly, but I can get you started if you wish.”

  “What do you drink, Steve? Oh Christ, sorry, does it still turn you from yellow to green?”

  Steve blushed, rather crimson in fact, and Tom laughed. Steve looked a little self-conscious, and so, feeling as though he should offer some explanation perhaps, Tom looked straight at her, his eyes flashing.

  “We used to be roommates in college, and this guy had his first binge with me and some other friends. He had,” he turned towards Steve, “what, one beer?”

  “One sip.”

  “One sip!” he smiled broadly, revealing a row of gleaming teeth framed on his dark complexion. “Maybe, Steve, it was a large sip?” He grinned in Steve’s direction. “Tina, I thought he was going to slip into a coma!”

  “I’m more tolerant of some liquors now,” Steve said to Tina, almost apologetically. “Do you have any porto?”

  “Of course they have port, Steve.” Tom looked towards her.

  “Sorr
y, Tina, my friend Steve clearly hasn’t heard much about this place.” He turned to his friend. “Steve, they have port, but it is derived from the egg of a rare Australian bull’s testicles. Isn’t that right, Tina?”

  Tina smiled, showing him her own pearly white teeth.

  “I’m not so sure about the testicles part.” She smiled politely and blushed slightly. “The list of portos begins on page twenty-three and continues to page twenty-six of your wine list,” she said, subtly reaching for the menu and advancing the pages forward.

  “Do you have Quinta do Noval?” asked Tom, before they even came to the porto section.

  “We stock a bottle of the 1962 Quinta do Noval,” replied Tina, without hesitation. She knew that because it was the very best year of the very best bottle they had. And she mentioned it first because she knew that these clients could afford it.

  “Two, please,” said Tom.

  “When will Ted arrive?” asked Steve.

  “What time is it now, four thirty? He should be here by five thirty. You should be passed out by then, Steve. I’ll fill him in.”

  It was Steve’s turn to blush, and in so doing bore the same complexion, nearly, as Tina. Tom thought about the strange connections that linked Tina and Steve across time and space: they both had flawless skin, and were both nearly hairless, except for their eyebrows, their gleaming black hair, and an inevitable soft tuft of pubic hair. It was probably as unlikely that Steve would grow facial hair as Tina. And there was something remarkably similar about the shapes of their eyes. Tom brought himself back to the task at hand and looked to Tina.

  “And what should we eat with that, Tina, caviar? Scrambled eggs?”

  “I have a small entrée of caviar, served with fresh egg bread.”

  “For two, please, Tina.”