Hungry Hearts

by Elsie Chapman

  Eventually, I make it back to my station and wait for the judges to come over again.

  The first judge who does is a short, white man with red hair. He takes a fork and sticks it directly in the middle of a chicken breast.

  “Tender. Perfectly cooked all the way through. Nice and soft.” He doesn’t look at me when he says this. Just writes something down and takes a big, cheesy bite. “Excellent.”

  Yes! I celebrate in my head. Point for me, right? He’s only one judge, though. There are four others. If he likes it and the others don’t, his compliment would suddenly mean shit. So I stop celebrating and wait for the others to come around to my station. I stare at my brown hands, messy and greasy-looking from giving this meal my all, until I notice two people in front of me, both in casual clothes. The next two judges.

  They are both women—one’s Latina, and the other is black, with her natural hair out and proud, reminding me of Momma, catching me off guard for a split second. They both compliment my work and smile. Something about this makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

  The last two judges finally make their way to my station and try my soul-smothered chicken, and they’re both reactionless, like they’re somewhere between Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsay on the judge niceness scale.

  The judges huddle together, maybe to compare whatever they wrote down on their clipboards. Minutes slip past—agonizing minutes that make me feel clammy all over.

  I interlock my fingers and say a quick prayer. I don’t know what I’m even praying or who I’m even praying to anymore, but it’s my desperate attempt at hoping I win this.

  The judge pulls out the big check for five thousand dollars. It’s one of those huge ones you’d see on a game show. Everyone gasps. One even slips out from deep within my gut.

  They announce third place first. It’s an Asian girl who made some form of moo shu pork with noodles. She walks over to accept the bronze trophy and shake the hands of the judges. They even take a photo for her. The whole room erupts in applause.

  The Latina judge is getting ready to announce the next winner. She’s talking slowly, describing how much she enjoyed this next dish, how it reminded her of her honeymoon to Italy a few years ago. A yelp comes from the back. A mother and son who made some sort of Italian dish win second place.

  I don’t even notice that my fingers are crossed until I go to clap for them.

  “And finally, for first place in this year’s Hungry Heart Row Food Competition, we’ve got a new champion.”

  The room falls silent.

  I imagine a drum roll going on in the distance, so much hope trying to beat, beat, beat its way out of, or into, my chest.

  I clasp my hands together tighter.

  “Leonelvis Watkins.” My name falls out of the judges’ mouths simultaneously and in different pitches.

  “That’s me.” I have to convince myself, the words coming out in a weird glob. “That’s me. That’s my name!”

  I gasp and gasp and gasp deeper. It’s in this moment that I realize that my hands aren’t shaking anymore, my chest isn’t so heavy, my jaws aren’t burning up. I’m standing in shock at just how far I’ve come, from once upon a time being an anxious mess who would’ve never even entered the competition to growing a pair and not only signing up but also winning, and the tears are nearly pouring from me now.

  There are so many butterflies fluttering in my stomach right now. And I feel frozen for a moment. Suddenly my face is a watery mess, and everything is blurring in front of me. I have to force myself to take tiny steps toward the judges, where they are holding up the first place trophy and check. I’m so happy right now, and there’s an entire Fourth of July celebration inside me. A celebration’s going on in my chest, not only because I won—holy shit, the more I let that sink in the more it feels huge—but because I didn’t let my fear or anxiety stop me or destroy me one bit. I own my anxiety; my anxiety doesn’t own me.

  After taking the photo while holding the trophy and check, I see Grandma in the audience with the biggest smile on her face. Immediately I think about Momma, and the tears keep coming.

  I call her up. I can’t wait to tell her the news. My heart is racing, and I don’t think it’s a panic attack coming out.

  She answers, her voice a little croaky, like she’s waking up from a nap.

  “Momma,” I say through the phone, hella excitement probably evident in my voice, “I’m coming home. You’re gonna live.”

  And I will too, and I wish I could live inside this moment forever.

  The Missing Ingredient

  BY REBECCA ROANHORSE

  Mom’s screaming again.

  Top of her lungs, with enough f-bombs to send the kitchen staff scurrying for cover. Something crashes against the tile floor, the high, tinny sounds reverberating through the empty restaurant like the cymbal solo in my favorite Peaches song. Heather, the bartender, flinches. I take another sip of my Diet Coke.

  “Kelsie!” my mom screams. “Get in here!”

  Heather shoots me a sympathetic glance. “You don’t have to go in there, Kelsie.”

  I slide off the barstool. “Yeah, I do. Or she’ll bring the drama out here. And no one wants that.”

  Heather grimaces. She knows I’m right.

  “It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “She’s just fired up because a review of the restaurant came out in the Rowbury Times today.” I tried to beat my mom to the paper, taking the one that lands on our stoop every morning and tossing it in the recycling out back. I even made sure no one coming in for the lunch shift brought a copy with them. But somehow she’d gotten hold of one anyway.

  “Was the review bad?” Heather asks.

  “Not as bad as the last one. Three stars, I think? They liked the drinks.” I give her a weak smile and start back toward the kitchen. I can hear my mom still muttering at volume, but I haven’t heard anything else break, so the angry is probably passing into tears by now.

  Behind me, Heather says, “It’s hard running a restaurant all by yourself like your mom does. It’s a lot of stress since . . . you know. Your dad. Your mom’s lucky she has you. That she has someone who loves her.”

  I pause, look back. Heather’s a nice person, but she’s only been working at the Indigenous Gastronomist a few weeks. I know she means well, but she doesn’t know anything. She sees the slick modern décor, the glass wall up front, the hip antler chandeliers that drop soft, gauzy lighting over the intimate clusters of tables, and she thinks everything is beautiful here. She hasn’t caught on to the rot just underneath. The stink of failure hiding behind the pretty plating. She doesn’t know that the restaurant is failing, and my family is failing along with it.

  I think about telling her. Telling her that I hate this place, and more than that, I hate my mother, and my mother hates me. But I know normal families don’t hate each other, so people like Heather always react with some platitude about how that can’t be true and how my mom really loves me and I just don’t realize it because I’m only sixteen, so I just smile and say what she expects me to say.

  “Yeah, we’re both real lucky.”

  * * *

  “Oh, there you are!” Mom says, grabbing my arm, her fingers digging into my bicep, as soon as I come through the swinging door. “Did you see the paper today? Three stars! We won’t survive on three stars.” She literally spins me around to face the newspaper.

  The restaurant section of the Rowbury Times is spread out on the stainless-steel cooking counter. I rub at the red marks she leaves on my arm and, with my other hand, turn the paper around to face me. Skim the articles. There are three reviews for this Sunday. A new Mexican restaurant on Tansy Street, a halal food cart in the park that I tried last week and loved, and mom’s restaurant, the Indigenous Gastronomist. The other restaurants have good to great reviews. Ours is by far the worst.

  “You shouldn’t read—” I start before Mom cuts me off.

  “Did you see this?” she demands, turning the paper back toward herse
lf and stabbing a finger at the print. “Did you see what they said?” She leans over to read: “ ‘The innovative restaurant, serving fusion Native American cuisine, was once the most promising newcomer on Hungry Heart Row. But after the sudden death of its founder, Franklin Tenorio, the dishes seem to be missing something. Call it heart. Although the endeavor has been nobly carried on by his wife, the Indigenous Gastronomist fails to live up to the hype’ . . . blah, blah . . .” She huffs. “They don’t even mention me by name. Just ‘his wife.’ My name is Jeanette.” She stabs at the paper again. “Jeanette!”

  “Well, Dad did start the restaurant,” I say. “And you’re not even Native.”

  She stares at me so hard I take a step back, worried I’ve gone too far. But somebody had to say it. It’s not like nobody’s thinking it.

  “Mind your mouth,” she spits at me. “You’re part white too.”

  “I never said I wasn’t. I’m just saying that this was Dad’s dream, and he’s the Native one so . . .”

  Mom’s face turns a dangerous shade of red, and her words come out hot and fast, grease popping in a sauté pan. “Your father was a line cook when I met him. A cook! A nothing. I’m the one with the culinary degree. I’m the chef. But because I’m a woman . . .” Her fingers curl into fists, and it takes her a moment before she can talk again. When she does, her voice practically seethes. “I work my fingers raw for this place. Who plans the menus? I do. Who hires the staff? I do. Who makes sure every plate is perfect when it goes out that door?”

  “Well then don’t read—”

  “But even I can taste it,” she says, looking down at the paper again, “what Mr. High-and-Mighty Reviewer calls ‘heart.’ Your father had a gift, and I just don’t seem to be able to . . .” She trails off.

  I want to say something comforting to my mom, but the truth is that this is not a new conversation. Every time a review comes out in the paper, or on Served, or even on some rando blog, we have this talk. Because they all say the same thing. Beautiful restaurant, great presentation, but something’s missing.

  I watch as Mom’s shoulders heave, and before I can say anything more, she’s crying, heavy and hard. I have to wait a few minutes for her to get herself back together. When she finally does, she looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I just want the restaurant to do well, Kelsie. Is that so awful, for me to want that? Am I a bad mother for that?”

  Yes! I want to scream. Not because this was Dad’s dream before it was yours, and not because you talk about him like he’s trash even now, but because you are obsessed with your stupid five-star review. Because you love this restaurant more than you love me. Yes, that makes you a bad mom! Yes!

  But instead I say, “No, Mom. I’m real lucky to have you.”

  “We’re lucky to have each other.” She smiles through her tears and comes around the corner of the table to hug me. She’s wearing short sleeves, and the skin on her arms is cold against my own. The hug is suffocating, but mercifully brief. She lets me go and turns back to the newspaper.

  “We should have dinner together tonight,” she says absently. “Something simple. Just the two of us, maybe at that Persian place . . .” Her voice drifts away as her eyes are drawn to the review again. I can see her lips moving silently as she reads it. Twist to bitterness on “his wife.” The feel of her arms around me lingers, and I realize that I can’t remember the last time she hugged me. Maybe not since Dad’s funeral two years ago. Against my better judgment, I feel a little hopeful. Enough to make me say, “So we’ll have dinner together tonight?”

  She looks up, confused. “What?”

  “You were saying maybe we could do something, just us.”

  She rubs at her forehead. “Did I? Hey, could you ask Heather to come in for a sec? I need to tweak that cranberry-sage martini recipe before brunch starts. If I can get the balance right, I’m sure it’s going to be a winner. Maybe even worth another star . . .”

  She’s still talking when I slip out the door.

  I don’t think she even notices.

  * * *

  It’s the lull between brunch and dinner rush, and I’m out by the Dumpster smoking a joint and texting my best friend Morgan when the kitchen door slams open. I jump up, put out the J against the wall, and tuck it into my shirt pocket. Pull out a stick of gum with the same quick move and drop it in my mouth before I turn back around to see who it is.

  Seth, one of the busboys, is dragging trash out. He heaves it up over the edge of the Dumpster lip and drops it in. He’s got his uniform on—black pants and a black button-up shirt with a generic tribal pattern across the chest. In small turquoise letters across the pocket it says making more of myself! in some obnoxiously optimistic font.

  Seth’s a Fresh Start kid. Fresh Start is the program my dad began to bring teens from the reservation to the city to work at the restaurant. My mom hates Fresh Start, but she can’t get rid of it; it’s written into the incorporation documents for the restaurant or something. I don’t know why she would care. It costs her almost nothing, since the Fresh Start kids all live below me and mom in our basement apartment across the street from the restaurant and work for minimum wage. But maybe they remind her of Dad. And if they remind her of Dad, I can only imagine what looking at me every day does to her. No wonder she hates me.

  Seth hasn’t noticed me yet, and I try to act causal, hoping he won’t. But he sniffs the air dramatically and looks my way, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t figure you for a bad girl,” he drawls in his Texas accent. “Does your mama know?”

  I roll my eyes, annoyed, but mainly worried. Seth’s pretty new, and I don’t know if he’s cool like that, yet. He’s from some small rez in southwest Texas; I can’t remember his tribe, and he’s only been here a month or so. He’s never spoken to me. In fact, he’s pretty much gone out of his way to avoid me. I figured it was because Mom is his boss. Some of the kids don’t mind it; some like it and try to get me to do favors for them or put in a good word with Mom. But Seth has never even seemed to notice me. Until now.

  “She doesn’t care,” I say, trying to sound cool and collected. “She’s got other things on her mind.”

  “Poor thing.” He tsks as he pulls a cigarette pack from his pants. He shakes out one and tucks it between his lips. “What was your nice white mama yelling about?”

  “The restaurant got a so-so review in the Sunday paper. I mean, it wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good, either. Mom wasn’t happy.”

  “ ‘Mom wasn’t happy . . .’ ” He stretches the words out long and slow, like they mean more than I’m letting on. His match flares as he lights the tip of his cigarette. “Sorry to hear it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s nothing new. You’re not working at Le Cirque, you know.”

  He tilts his head. Flicks the strand of black hair that’s escaped from his ponytail out of his eyes and gives me a look. “This is the best job I’ve ever had,” he says. “Three meals a day. A roof over my head. My own bed that I don’t got to share unless I want to. Maybe you take a place like this for granted,” he says, jerking his head to indicate the restaurant, and maybe Rowbury as a whole, “but you ain’t ever lived on the rez.”

  Heat rises on my face, making my ears burn. “You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes,” I say. It’s kind of a blurt, and I know I don’t have any business telling Seth not to smoke when I indulge in the occasional joint, but I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, like I’m some kind of stupid, rich, half-white girl who doesn’t get it.

  He exhales, smoke curling around his head. “Tobacco is pleasing to the Creator. Didn’t your daddy teach you that before he died? Creator don’t mind as long as it’s that clean mountain tobacco you’re smokin’. Which this is.” He lifts the cigarette in a kind of salute.

  “Tobacco’s sacred,” I say, remembering exactly what my dad taught me. “You should be using it in ceremony, for prayers and stuff. Not just standing around smoking it.”

  “My life is a constant prayer,” he quips.<
br />
  “To who? Lord Voldemort?”

  He raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t say anything.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, already regretting my stupid Harry Potter joke. Now Seth probably thinks I’m not only spoiled, but a total nerd. This is turning into the worst conversation ever. “I better go inside,” I say, pushing off the wall. “Dinner rush starts soon, and Mom wants me up front at the hostess station.”

  “She’s an ambitious one.”

  I pause. “Who? My mom?”

  “I can guess her story. A lady like her. Probably went to one of them fancy culinary schools and graduated top of her class. Real smart. But things didn’t work out like she expected. Thought her smarts would be enough to get her what she wanted. She underestimated.”

  “Underestimated what?” I don’t really know Mom’s story before she met Dad. It’s something she only shares in snarls and bursts of rage.

  “I bet having a baby put a real knot in her plans,” Seth continues. “Bet someone like your mama was thinking she’d be a chef in New York City or maybe one of those celebrity places in Las Vegas. But here she is, in Rowbury, a single mom with a teenage daughter and mediocre restaurant reviews. That must really chap her hide.”

  I wince. Even without knowing Mom’s whole story, I can guess that Seth’s real close to the truth. I always suspected I was a burden, but to hear someone else say it stings more than I care to admit.

  “You ever get tired of it?” he asks.

  “Of Rowbury?”

  “Of your mama. Doing everything your mama wants even when it’s never gonna be enough to make her happy.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Seth’s face says he doesn’t believe me. And he shouldn’t, because, yeah, he’s right. But he doesn’t even know me, or my life. He can psychoanalyze my mom all he wants, but I’m not going to let him do it to me. I fold my arms across my chest. “My mom’s problems don’t affect me. I do what I want.” I pat the pocket with the leftover weed in it to make my point.