Hatched

by Robert F. Barsky

  The impulse of chefs like Boris in times like these is to pick up the dropped or thrown or otherwise misplaced food item, cover it with cheese, broil it, and ensure that it’s served to the unwitting client post haste. Accordingly, he tore off the two claws that were still digging into his right hand, tossed them into the trash bin, grabbed a towel to wipe his blood-soaked hand, and marched with determination to the forbidden sanctuary where Fabergé Restaurant’s masterpieces are ingested (and paid for). His bulking, sweating, formidable self appeared before the hushed guests. He halted before them, and then stared downwards with hatred upon the carcass that lay slightly quivering upon the floor. He bent down, scooped it up, looked around the room, made a kind of inappropriate and final bow, and then hurriedly retreated back through those great, wooden doors that stood between his current employment and his future despair.

  The stage had been set, the floor had been sullied, the prey had been ripped in half, and my own encasement was slowly crumbling from the inside. No amount of foresight could have prevented the unfolding disaster, and I felt a pang of pity for that poor creature whose eggs she had protected with a shell as powerful as my own, and to the same deceptive end.

  Chapter 27

  To wrest John from his Hobart lair could be considered either an act of great courage or the gaffe of a great imbecile. This particular wresting, of course, was the latter. John crossed the Yolk with the determination of Napoleon directing his troops with courage, and without doubt, to Moscow. His entire body knew not a single cell of uncertainty, ambivalence, or concern as he confronted the enemy. Boris attempted in the few moments left to occupy his uninjured left hand with the tasks that had lined up at his station, to no avail. John was beside Boris, and Boris was escorted, first in gaze, and then in person, to the corridor so feared by deliverymen, and then the back entrance to Fabergé Restaurant, for the very last time.

  Time stood still in the intervening moments, and when John returned, it was over. The fans sounded as though newly lubricated, conversation resumed in the dining room where guests, although stimulated by this shocking display of culinary and erotic pageantry, were ignorant of all actions beyond the limits of their sight, and therefore unaware of everything that transpired in the kitchen subsequent to the flight of the lobster.

  Tina had raised herself up from her crouch, pulled her tight skirt back over her derriere, and entered into the Yolk, taking a firm but careful stand upon the threshold between the depths and the surface of Fabergé Restaurant. She and Jessica, in particular, had watched John re-enter the Yolk and resume his old and familiar place at the sauté station with trepidation, and then relief. It was as though he had never left, as though the thousands of dishes that had intervened between this day and all days since leaving his station had never occurred. There was no need to tell him what needed to be done, not even a whisper of the orders under preparation. It was as though he had not been at the great stainless-steel Hobart monolith of clean and sterilized dishes, but had in fact always been everywhere in Fabergé Restaurant, from the tables where orders had been given and taken, to the vast, steel warming stations, prep area, and stoves where, in whisper, orders had been conveyed.

  Nate and Johnny felt reassured, feeling as children do when a long-absent parent returns, that sense of familiarity, calm, and reassurance. Nate indicated to Russ that he had knowledge to convey to him, and Russ, in fearful obedience, followed his gesture. The new guy now had a place adequate to his skills and willingly marched towards his destiny. The Hobart station seemed a sanctuary from the machinations, and here he received instructions about sliding trays of egg-emptied plates into the square, steel area of the Hobart, descending the steel box down upon the tray and pressing the button of hydration and heat that could clean and rinse and sterilize the plates and utensils for a four top in one minute.

  With the new guy in place, Nate returned with surprising purpose to the prep area, and John, with a very quick glance over the Yolk, noticed as he noticed everything at Fabergé Restaurant, that Nate seemed profoundly engaged, determined, focused. Was this the result of stations being manned, as they previously were, by those competent to the task? Or was there something else in Nate’s demeanor, a newfound sense of purpose, the fulfillment of some plan, long prepared? Nate looked up and caught John’s gaze, as though it were prophesized, and then, without so much as a grin, he reached for the chef’s knife that lay upon the wooden cutting board and gripped it with purpose, to prepare.

  Having witnessed these movements, Tina was prepared for her own voyage back to the dining room; and after what seemed like years, she presented herself to her kingdom, unruffled, and ready to continue the evening. She was the remorseless version of Lady Macbeth, the one who could purge herself of those damned spots and reclaim control after great tumult.

  He who was most anxious for Tina’s return was, of course, Jude, who had been staring in the direction of her departure ever since she had entered the Yolk. He now looked at her with admiration and hunger, as though he’d seen a secret that revealed some deeper essence that was not just mysterious in its invisibility, but was now strangely real. She had inadvertently but majestically shown to him what she kept hidden, and as a result he had seen a tear in the universe, a tear that had revealed her flesh, her softness.

  And now she had returned to him.

  As though to settle emotions unexpectedly unveiled, Tina walked directly to Jude’s table. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what she might say, what recrimination she might force him to endure for his gaze.

  She said nothing. She simply tidied up in front of him, arranging the cutlery around the books and articles he had brought in that evening in apparent anticipation of an actual meal in Fabergé Restaurant.

  Jude wanted to say something to her, anything, but he also wanted to just experience her presence, not as an untouchable being who revealed to hide, but rather as a person who hides in order to reveal a deeper self, someone even more complex than he in his fantasies could have devised. But she resisted his gaze, his corporal intimations, and his spiritual efforts. She simply tidied up.

  Jude relented, and instead took a deep breath in her wake, searching for an essence, an odor of spit, of urine, of sweat, of sustenance, all to no avail. There were but tiny flowers, field berries, a meadow of swaying grasses, that combined in her to let forth a gentle odor of a warm spring morning, a place of calm, of sweetness, of nothing more. And then, inexplicably and without explanation, she was gone, back to her tasks, flitting from table to table like a beautiful butterfly.

  Elizabeth followed shortly thereafter, not giving Jude even the time to look back down to his writings, his notes, the texts that were to serve as his eggy-inspiration.

  “Good evening!” she said, with practiced euphoniousness.

  Jude stared at her and uttered to his own brain, as though obeying Elizabeth’s beckoning,

  “You are a beautiful woman. You are present to me. You stand before me, and I bow down, in awe and obedience, to your presence.” He looked into her eyes, searching, willing, and hoping.

  Elizabeth rebuffed his eager gaze, offering but the warm and glassy glance of a beautiful woman accustomed to being sought out. The door of her very existence was sealed shut, even as it seemed displayed before him by her beauty, her softness, and by the warmth of her bust that was barely contained by the white, lace bra she had selected for this night.

  “You are the anti-Tina,” breathed Jude to the galaxy, basking in the glow of her essence. But she was as distant from Jude as Tina had ever been, she was a temptress who wore her charms openly, but at some level her very presence was but a foil. The very promise of her corporality was so powerful that it could perhaps never live up to what those in her presence might imagine.

  “But if she does . . .!” Jude had willed himself to say this aloud, though quietly, as though testing Elizabeth’s perception. She had heard it, but said nothing.

  He was left with the warmth of her wake, and a men
u, neatly displayed before him. He stood upon an abyss of stupidity and revelation, between revealing and concealing all matter in the universe, all thoughts thereabout, and every breath ever breathed.

  The risk of realizing our innermost dreams is that they cannot live up to the enormous expectations that they have created. More interesting than realizing is inventing, more incredible than satisfaction is discovery.

  Chapter 28

  Jude thought that this might be a good time to consult the menu, and to plot how he was going to spend some of the great profits of his hard labor. He hoped that in so doing, he would be able to kick-start his creative generator. He sat up in his chair and opened the dinner menu, that great opus that describes the masterpieces available to customers of Fabergé Restaurant. He had never gone beyond the first page of this tome, for beyond it lay the creations so far beyond his pecuniary capacities as to be akin to a showroom of Ferraris and Bugattis. Tonight would be different, he would delve into the yolks, whites, and shells of something wonderful, creative, and, above all, stimulating; something that would impregnate him with a profound understanding of the eggs he sought to understand. The beautifully printed names of dishes were dazzling, and they were imprinted upon a paper that glistened, like carefully sautéed egg whites.

  Most of the choices were way out of Jude’s league, even the newly acquired and short-lived league of excess, particularly that “caviar” section that held such a privileged place in the menu as to merit special paper. Hungry to spend his money, but also to find some fertilization for his novel, he perused the possible and settled on the “Turkey Egg” section. This, he thought, would be particularly appropriate, given the importance of turkeys in the mind of Americans during the Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons. Another version of that American turkey was “Wild Turkey” beverages, those that were wet enough, and strong enough, to help those who imbibe it in sufficient quantities to overcome any crappy Thanksgiving dinner.

  As was typical in the Fabergé Restaurant menu, there was a section, elegantly set off from the principle text like some marginalia in a Renaissance scroll that has been annotated by a great philological specialist, which offered some background to the menu item. It turns out that turkey eggs are not only edible, but delicious. “Who knew?” Jude asked himself, grabbing his Montblanc to take a few eggy notes. He read on and learned that the problem with turkey eggs relates to their cost, because, unlike chickens, turkeys only produce an egg every two weeks, and they require much more room to roost than chickens, who (as he knew from reading in the more activist literature about eggs) are crammed like Tokyo commuters into tiny spaces for their short voyage on life’s commuter rail line. And in addition, those gluttonous turkeys consume far more food than chickens do, not that this could be that much, considering the price of the eggs. So, “of course,” he muttered to himself, “it’s all part of a capitalist plot!” That would have to be another part of his story. He could be the John Steinbeck of chickens and eggs, describing not The Jungle, but, hmm, The Henhouse! He felt excited and reached around his table for something to reward the inspiration-driven saliva in his mouth, and found but water. He thought about the Jameson from the other day, and about his bulging wallet, and promised himself a trip to the bar.

  The menu went on to describe the long history of Americans, right back to pre-Columbian, who ate the turkey eggs from the hordes of wild turkeys who used to roam over much of the continent. And Europeans domesticated turkeys and then exported them to England, where they were considered typical American fare. And right here in New York, the legendary Delmonico’s restaurant served turkey eggs, either boiled (for six minutes) or poached (for four). Fabergé Restaurant emulated this tradition, but also added a more elaborate “Turkey Delmonico,” made by boiling and dicing the turkey eggs, then folding them into a béchamel sauce.

  “Yum,” thought Jude, as he took notes.

  Then there was “Turkey Eggs Soyer,” named in honor of the Victorian culinary genius Alexis Soyer, who used turkey eggs in baked goods. Accordingly, Fabergé Restaurant offered an array of soufflés in this section.

  “Yum and double yum,” salivated Jude, and took down Soyer’s name for future reference.

  There was then some added historical information about the lies spread by French commentators during the Renaissance, about turkey eggs causing leprosy! Jude paused, wondering if they were served in India, the only place he’d ever associated with the disease. In fact, the menu continued, Armadillos can transmit the microbe that actually does cause the disease, Mycobacterium leprae.

  “Hmmm,” thought Jude. “This could make for some very interesting intrigue in my novel! Do armadillos lay eggs?” He noted the question, and then decided, now that the menu had linked, even though negatively, turkey eggs to leprosy, to go back to the caviar section and dream about dishes that in some cases exceeded $500 per serving. Almost overcome by the experience of perusing such munificent choices, Jude looked up, in search of a kindred gaze of benevolent connivance.

  Just as he did so, a familiar figure walked into the restaurant. It was Ted, hundred-dollar-bill Ted. Jude looked back down at the menu and felt out of place. These prices, unremarkable for people like Ted and his friends, represented experiences that someone like Jude could only live once and then recall in breathless conversations thereafter to groups of his own friends, people for whom such expenditures were equally frivolous, or inconceivable.

  “Fuck it!” he said aloud. “Tonight, I am with him!” And he rose to seek out his new friend, who at that moment was being escorted to his table by Tina. And so the three of them moved, with alternative motives but great determination, to the Fabergé Restaurant bar area, there to meet a fate that had entwined them together, for all eternity.

  After such a long period of gestation I knew that I wouldn’t endure another long evening of eggy production and consumption, that the Fabergé Restaurant dining room would become the proscenium upon which the final act of ovular production would be played out. The carefully crafted and purposely mottled bumpy and grainy shell that contained this microcosm had served its complex purpose, and the thousands of tiny pores that provided interchange between the inner and outer body of Fabergé Restaurant were going to give way to growing fissures, betraying a more noble purpose.

  Unbeknownst to any of the unwitting clients of Fabergé’s eggy masterpieces, the calcium carbonate that had been so laboriously applied to the restaurant was now glistening under the nighttime sky, revealing to a more omniscient gaze magnificent crystals rivaling Carl Fabergé’s remarkable efforts. Fabergé Restaurant’s previously semipermeable membrane that allowed the scented air of culinary creations to seep out into the night was cracking open, and the shell’s cuticle, which John had added to the structure in order to ward off bacteria and dust, was crumbling into the night.

  I could feel the atmosphere shift, as the membrane between my shell and the whites of my innards became pervious to the world, hanging on now but by the strands of keratin that had been sewn into the outer structure to maintain its strength against cold nights or jarring winds. I felt a rush of air as the cell of the crater between the shell and the interior grew, and the albumen’s four layers were expanding and contracting, as though all of Fabergé Restaurant had abandoned its gills in favor of lungs.

  This movement created tension in the chalazae, those opaque ropes that secured John’s sacred Yolk within the center of his creation, and I could feel strange pulsations of the vitelline membrane that enclosed and retained the integrity of my structure. It was not long now, not long. I felt a sense of impending doom coupled with the bitter sweetness of nostalgia, for all of those days, all of those shifts that had combined to fertilize this life—the hatching of Fabergé Restaurant.

  Chapter 29

  It was very difficult to know what precipitated the final cracking, chaos, and eventual collapsing of Fabergé Restaurant, although there are a few viable culprits. The most obvious was the wire, strung above the sauté s
tove that, if burnt through, would set off an emergency baking soda dump. This dump was designed to extinguish fires, especially the nasty grease fires that could erupt if oil-filled pans or cauldrons were heated to extreme temperatures. While it was true that John was generous with the port, marsala, and with other so-called ‘burnt’ wines, and certainly true that he was in an unusually generous mood when he reassumed the helm that night, it was unlikely that he would precipitate disaster on that scale without a bit of help. And truth be told, he did receive a bit of help from Nate, who, in preparation for what he had always described to Jess as the “last st®and,” with the encircled R added (orally) for emphasis, had lowered the threshold of it being set off.

  “Jess,” he had cooed one night during their garbage-run romantic embraces, “if the baking soda plunge is about to happen, you’ll know, because it makes a twanging sound first, like the Achilles heel of the bourgeoisie being snapped midstride.”

  Jessica didn’t even bother to ask what this could possibly mean.

  “Jess?”

  “Nate.”

  “Jess, it’s our little secret.”

  “What is?”

  “The baking soda plunge! I lowered the wire.”

  “For the triggering mechanism over the sauté station?” she corrected him.

  “Right, the triggering mechanism. I lowered it.”

  “Why?”

  “To honor the eternal battle between workers and the bourgeoisie, between the haves and the have-nots, between us, Jess, and them.”