Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

  Ward turned to the source of the comment. “You’ve already seen Klepp, the garde-manger.” Then she led Emily toward an Asian who had been hacking chickens in half at the butcher block. “Here’s Yip Chick, the broiler cook.” Yip Chick lowered his head slightly but never stopped cleaving poultry. Ward looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Byron?”

  A soigné blond laden with butter and eggs walked out of the cooler. “My God!“he cried, halting. “What’s all this about?”

  “This is Head Chef Major,” Ward announced. “She was able to begin working a few days early. Major, this is Byron, your first mate. He’s been trying to keep us above water recently.”

  Byron bent at the knee. “I’d shake hands, but I’m just loaded with butter. You may rub my rear end instead. Whoops! I guess that’s sexual harassment, isn’t it! Pardon me!”

  Ward sighed. “You’ll get used to him.”

  Emily watched the cook delicately pile the blocks of butter at his station. “What are you making there, Byron?”

  “Butter birds.”

  “He makes little sculptures on Saturday night,” Klepp said in yet another accent that Emily could not place. “Puffs and shavings for the bread basket. Terribly cute.”

  “Stop picking on him because of his sexual orientation,” reprimanded Chess, the vegetable woman.

  A cloud of steam suddenly billowed from the dishwashers. “Ah, I’ve forgotten someone,” Ward exclaimed. “Slavomir! Come here!” The slight, elderly man wielding the water hoses either heard nothing or ignored everything. He seemed to be chanting to himself as he ricocheted water off porcelain, creating a fine mist throughout the area. Ward led Emily to the corner. “Slavomir, this is Emily, our new chef.”

  “Hxxxi,” the man said absently. Then he looked over. “Ehhh!” he cried, dropping the hose.

  Ward lunged for the dancing nozzle, finally managing to turn the water off. “He frightens easily,” she explained, tossing Emily a towel. “And he doesn’t speak much English. Klepp can translate the Russian if absolutely necessary.”

  “Klepp is Russian?”

  “No, Estonian. He hates Russians.”

  “Aha.” Emily’s drenched blouse adhered to her bra. “Have we missed anyone?”

  “No, that about does it. You’ll meet the waiters and waitresses soon enough.”

  “Waitron is the preferred term,” Chess called.

  A curvaceous young woman entered the kitchen. Her black halter set off, among other things, a golden tan and slender neck. She knew her face was attractive. “Good morning,” she called, sailing to the coffee machine. Those in her wake sensed a light, spicy perfume.

  “This is Lola,” Ward told Emily. “One of the wa—serving staff.”

  “It would be criminal to call a woman like that a waitron,” Klepp mused. “Good morning, love. Try to sell a lot of asparagus quiche for me today, would you?”

  Ward looked at her watch, “Take it away, Major,” She returned to the dining room.

  Except for the mutters of the dishwater and indefatigable chopping at the butcher block, the kitchen was silent for a few moments after Ward had left. It was not a sympathetic silence and for a tiny second, Emily foresaw disaster here, “Please go about your business,” she said finally. “Today I’ll just be observing.”

  Byron leaped into action. “You need an apron, honey.” He lowered his voice. “Come to the locker room.”

  Emily followed him out back, where the sous-chef removed a clean apron from a drawer. “Listen, sugar pie, this is the scoop,” he said. “You’re going to have trouble with Francesca. She’s a bitch. Yip Chick swam over from China. He’ll be all right if you let him steal an occasional side of beef. Mustapha burns about half the desserts he makes. Klepp is a homophobic maniac. And Slavomir is a walking vodka bottle. He occasionally tries to drown himself in the dishwater.”

  “Excellent,” Emily commented, tying her apron. “What about you?”

  “I’m perfect, darling.” Pausing in front of a wall mirror, Byron adjusted his coiffure. “Cooking’s just a sideline. I’m really an actor. People tell me I look like a blond Tom Cruise.”

  Emily tried not to laugh. Byron was at least fifty years old. “No kidding.”

  “I’m between soaps at the moment.” He admired his three-quarter profile in the mirror. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the spitting image of Philippa Banks? Only your hair’s different.”

  Smiling blandly, Emily went to the door. “What about Ward?”

  “She’s working out some problems through weight lifting. Need I say more?”

  “No thank you. How about a tour of the premises?”

  Byron led Emily down a tiled hallway. “Where did you work before, Maje?”

  “Cafe Presto. Near Quincy Market.”

  “Oh! Is that the place that wins those awards all the time?”

  “Yes.’ Emily followed him into a cool, dark room smelling of earth and spices. She walked slowly past the well-stocked shelves, stopping in front of a crate of mushrooms. “Chanterelles,” she said, sniffing. “Where are they from?”

  “A monastery. The monks pick them in the woods and bring them here. Actually, only one brings them in. He’s quite cute. Much too cute to be a monk. Such a waste.”

  Emily eyed a small basket. “Peace Power Farm. Never heard of it. Where’s Hale, Massachusetts?”

  “Midstate, I think. They supply milk, butter, herbs, and the rankest goat cheese in creation. The delivery woman makes Ward look like a cream puff.”

  “When’s she coming in next?”

  “Monday. So is the monk.”

  Emily and Byron returned to the kitchen. Several of the serving staff had arrived and were chatting with Lola at the coffee machine. “New dictator,” Byron called, “Leo’s replacement.” They waved.

  Emily ambled to the pastry chef, who was removing a few cakes from the oven. “How’s everything over here, Mustapha?”

  They both stared at his dark, fissured handiwork. “Something’s wrong with this oven,” he said after a moment.

  The nearly black cakes looked fused to the pans. Emily resisted an urge to ask where Mustapha kept his crowbar. “What are you making?”

  “Burnt Molasses Cake. It’s a secret recipe from my family.”

  “Can you serve them this way?”

  “They’re supposed to be a little burned. Otherwise the flavors don’t come out.”

  Emily looked into the refrigerator. “I saw something called Chocolate Morgue on the menu. Could you tell me a little about it?”

  “It’s chocolate. Eat too much and you’ll die.”

  “I see. Carry on.” Emily left the pastry station and went to Chess, who was dicing eggplant. “Ratatouille?”

  “Pastitsio,” Chess said, sliding the eggplant into a large pot.

  “Meatless. I hope you don’t mind if I just call you Emily. The word chef is deeply offensive to me.”

  “Chef is gender neutral.”

  “But it implies that certain workers are more important than others. We’re trying to make this a nonprejudicial work area.”

  Emily placed the lid on the eggplant pot. “Let’s get something straight, Francesca. My name’s Chef Major. I am now the boss here. You are not my equal. If you don’t like that, then leave.”

  “Yeah!” cheered Klepp, stowing a few quiches into his oven.

  Across the way, a modest altercation between Byron and Slavomir suddenly blossomed into an opera. “Wash it over again!”the sous-chef screamed as the dishwasher spewed a river of Russian at his tormentor.

  “I’m not going to translate that, Byron-Boy,” Klepp said. “But it’s anatomically accurate.”

  Emily strode to the dishwasher, catching Slavomir’s hand before he launched a cup. “What’s the problem here, Byron?” she asked.

  The sous-chef showed her a white dish. “Look at that.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “You’re not looking at the right angle. See that sme
ar?”

  “No. Stop this nonsense.” As Emily put the plate on the outgoing stack, the dishwasher’s ranting intensified. “What’s he saying, Klepp?” she called.

  “He says you’re a devil.”

  No one even tut-tutted in her defense. After a moment, Emily turned to Byron. “I’d like a complete inventory of provisions. Now.”

  She watched him stomp off, then went to the broiler, where Yip Chick was thwacking poultry with his cleaver. “How’s everything here?”

  Yip Chick immediately stopped and gazed fixedly at her forehead. “Don’t stand so close, lady,” Mustapha called. “It makes him nervous.”

  Emily stepped backward, thought a moment, then went out to the dining room. She found Ward at the bar watching a college football game with a few customers, “What’s the verdict, Chef?“Ward asked, finally noticing her,

  “I quit,” Emily ignored Ward’s little laugh. “They’re lunatics.”

  “I told you they might be difficult. But give me specifics. Were you insulted?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Disobeyed?”

  “No.”

  “Are they incompetent?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “They detest each other. And me,” Emily said. “How’d it get that way?”

  “What can I tell you? This is nineties America.” Ward polished a few wineglasses with her service towel. “Come on, give it a try. I’ll back you up.”

  “I’m a chef, not the UN Peacekeeping Force.”

  “One week. Then you can decide. Please.”

  Emily still hesitated. “What happened to the other chef?”

  “Leo? I told you. He disappeared on me. Come on, Major. You said you needed this job. I believed you.”

  Ah, why not. It was better than waiting for her husband to come home and beat her to death. “One week,” Emily said. “That’s it. Now where’s my office? I’d like to go over a few files.”

  After several hours, Emily returned to the kitchen. By then, Byron had shouted himself hoarse and Slavomir was moving with the deliberate grace of the totally drunk. Mustapha, who had arrived at five that morning, had gone home; Klepp was rhythmically passing a slab of prosciutto over the slicing machine. Chess shredded lettuce. In the dining room, Zoltan was instructing the staff how to pronounce the evening’s specials. He expected a packed house: There would be no better night this year to exhibit the summer lovers everyone had picked up on Nantucket.

  Diavolina’s first customers trickled in around five o’clock, wanting shrimp and beer. By six, every table was full. Everyone seemed to be ordering chicken; as Yip Chick’s mountain of poultry hissed under the broiler, he gradually acquired the hue of a Peking duck. Byron became a swing cook, flying Superman-like to various stations, defeating catastrophes. The waitrons only screwed up a few orders and the kitchen didn’t run out of anything but Mustapha’s Burnt Molasses Cake, which Lola was pushing aggressively in the dining room. Emily slaved until midnight, then stayed another hour talking to Ward about menu changes. She took a cab home, found no messages on her machine, and dropped into bed, missing Ross dreadfully. After brutal days at Cafe Presto, he would often massage her feet and toes; it was no good trying to do that sort of thing herself. She watched a Bette Davis movie, drifting off occasionally, waking when she thought she heard her husband coming in downstairs. When the birds began to chirp, she knew she’d be alone another day.

  3

  A pale yellow haze, anemic with yesterday’s residual heat, enveloped Boston. The sun drifted upward, raising the temperature of an already molten metropolis. Soon many air conditioners would die. Once again, Emily awoke dull and anxious for her husband. She was used to him there beside her in the morning; he was part of getting up and facing the day, an unacknowledged necessity like hot water and electricity, absence of which suddenly turned the simplest routines into unpleasant little ordeals. Her ankles were swollen, as she discovered with her first step out of bed: too much standing yesterday, then no foot massage. Emily pulled on some clothes and got the Sunday papers at a newsstand at the bottom of Joy Street. She bought croissants and fresh orange juice. A steady, salty breeze blew over Beacon Hill, less to cool its inhabitants than to flee a gigantic front rolling in from the Midwest; perhaps it would all accumulate into a thunderstorm this afternoon. Emily took the news and breakfast home, ate and tried to read about the same old earthquakes and assassinations. Even the crossword puzzle irritated her. Where was Ross, damn him?

  She went to the garage, inflated the tires on her racing bike, and took a long ride along the Charles River. Rollerbladers eddied over the Promenade, occasionally slapping joggers with their flailing arms. The owners of expensive dogs on expensive long leashes paraded grandly along the macadam, perhaps unaware of the traffic they were forcing into the grass. Less expensive dogs, without leashes, chased ducks and children, yelping when they got hit by cyclists training for the Tour de France. The putt-putt of pleasure boats sounded lazily over the water. As she passed the marina, Emily checked for Dana’s boat: gone, of course. He and Philippa were probably screwing each other blind as they drifted toward the Bermuda Triangle. Three days asea now: Were those two scoundrels cured of each other yet? There was a phone onboard Dana’s boat, Emily knew; for several moments, she stared toward the harbor, needing her sister, willing her to call. Sometimes the telepathy worked.

  As the haze broke, the temperature ruthlessly rose. Emily went home. Still no blinking light on her answering machine; this time, she did not check that it had somehow become disconnected. She drank a quart of water, hoping to stop the pounding in her temple. Then she showered and returned to the restaurant.

  Brunch was on. Ward stood at the bar watching another football game. She looked as if she had slept in the apron drawer. “Hey Major! Back for more?” she called, noticing Emily during a car commercial.

  “Right. Did you go home at all?”

  “I lifted weights instead. More therapeutic.”

  Uncertain how to respond, Emily went to the kitchen, where Klepp, Chess, and Yip Chick grunted a hello. Mustapha was off, observing the sabbath, while Byron worshiped the flesh in Provincetown. Emily glanced over the incoming orders as Chess juiced oranges and Yip Chick attacked another mound of chickens. “Where’s Slavomir?” she asked.

  “Puking his brains out,” Klepp replied, looking up from his omelettes and pancakes. “He generally overdrinks on Saturday night.”

  The wretched dishwasher soon shuffled back from the bathroom to resume his duties. Brunch passed lethargically, as did the afternoon. Diavolina’s patrons were content to chew quietly as football, America’s Sunday opiate, pounded across the television at the bar. During the midafternoon lull, Emily devised new menus, tested a few recipes. When the sun eventually set and her husband had still not called, she went to the bar. “Gin, please,” she told Ward. “One ice cube and two olives.” She glanced at the television just as the quarterback got sacked.

  Ward could guess that her new chef’s anemia had nothing to do with Diavolina. “Thanks for coming in,” she said, placing a large glass in front of Emily. “You inspire the kitchen.”

  “How so?”

  “You take their minds off of killing each other. Now they’re all trying to figure out how to kill you instead. I’m deeply grateful.”

  Not sure whether or not Ward was kidding, Emily tossed back her gin. For a few minutes, she watched chunky humanoids on television slam into each other. When a beer ad interrupted that phony war, she stood up. “When does the monk with the mushrooms show up tomorrow?”

  “Six, six-thirty. He’s usually first.”

  “I’ll be here. Good night.”

  A few men at the bar watched her leave. “Yours?” one of them asked Ward.

  “For a week,” she replied, dispensing beer.

  “Looks terrific. But can she cook?”

  Ward guffawed softly. “Does it matter?” She half turned he
r attention back to the football game.

  Once again, Emily returned to an empty, accusing house. Fear for her husband’s safety had given way to a thought-obliterating panic. She was lying on the couch, swollen legs upraised, when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hi, darling,” Philippa said. “Did you get to the country this weekend? So stinking hot!”

  “No. Ross had a job in Montreal” Emily replaced an ice bag over her forehead. Her skull felt thick and hot as a cast-iron skillet. “Where are you?”

  “Lost at sea. Aren’t we, smoochkin?” For a few moments, Philippa’s voice became smeared and gooey. Then her mouth returned to the phone. “You and Ross must come to dinner with us tomorrow night.”

  Emily sighed. “Dana’s still married, Philippa.”

  “Did you hear that? She says you’re still married!” Again Philippa’s voice became momentarily overmushed. “So! How about it, Em?”

  “Did you hear me? I said Ross is away. He might be away for a week, for all I know.”

  “Then let’s the three of us go out.”

  “I have a new job,” Emily replied. “I’ll be working late.”

  “You mean you’re not at that nice little cafe anymore?”

  “No, I’m in the South End now. A place called Diavolina.”

  “What a cunning name! Have you ever eaten at Diavolina, poopsie?” Phil and Poopsie conferred at length. “Dana says he knows it well. Let’s meet there.”

  “You’ll have to eat without me. I won’t get out of the kitchen until eleven.”

  “So we’ll come around nine-thirty. We probably won’t be getting out of bed until noon anyway.”

  Emily remembered Ross’s comment about needing Dana in the office Monday. “Your boyfriend does plan to go ashore tomorrow, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course! I’ve got interviews. Ouch! No pinching, bub-bala!” Philippa dropped the phone. “Sorry, Em. It’s so beautiful out here. You should see the stars. And all these little sailboats bobbing on the water. What did you do all weekend?”