Monster's Chef

by Jervey Tervalon

  Cooking and cleaning and not thinking were meditative balms. I hated when thoughts slithered in on their own and had their way with me. Grief caught me slipping; I needed to see her; thought of leaving, blowing the whole thing off, my contract with the halfway house staff, to make a run to see her, force her to listen to me. But then I’d go to prison and I had sense enough to know I didn’t want that.

  Maybe I might have tried, maybe prison would have been worth it, if I could get her to listen to me, but I had no words left to beg with. I was out of prayers and I was sick of lighting candles to the patron saint of hopeless causes.

  She was gone; maybe here, probably in some other city.

  “It’s for the best,” my caseworker said when I confessed why I wouldn’t talk in therapy.

  “It’s not about the drugs. It’s about losing my wife.”

  “Drugs are why you lost her. You drove her away.”

  I cried then, in front of that fool. I stopped talking to him after that. Before that I felt like maybe he was okay. I was wrong. Up until that moment, I didn’t want to do cocaine again. I really was through with it. And then the cravings started and the fiction that kept me alive, that the drug did me and that I didn’t do the drug, fluttered away and I couldn’t hide from my fiendishness.

  Trying to avoid contact with my fellow losers at the halfway house, I took to mincing cloves of garlic, like garlic would keep everyone at bay, as though they were vampires, vampires that suck smoke instead of blood. It worked; they kept their distance, except for Asha; I was her reclamation project. I accepted her good intentions, but I didn’t want to be drawn out or in, or anywhere. I wanted to stay lost. Alone would be good, but I had to get with the Twelve Step program, show requisite progress to get these people out of my life. Still, Asha was pleasant and charming, with big, luminous eyes that were easy to look into. Good thing she didn’t go for men because our friendship would have been much more complicated. Finally, I explained a little about myself, and so when she came into the kitchen with this look on her face, I knew I had probably said too much.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You! I read about you.”

  “What? That I’m a fuckup? You already knew that.”

  She shook her head.

  “Yeah, I made a mess of what most people think was a promising career.”

  “Don’t you miss that life? Running that restaurant, cooking?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I do.”

  “My girlfriend works for this famous entertainer. She says he needs a chef.”

  I raised an eyebrow in spite of myself.

  “I wouldn’t get past the interview,” I said.

  “She’s crazy about me and listens to what I have to say. If you’re interested, you’d have a shot.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said without a hint of enthusiasm. I wondered why she wanted to go out of her way for me; she was more than clever enough to notice I was a fuckup. It had to be her nature, trusting and giving, and maybe a bit naive, coupled with being smart about people and hard-nosed about the everyday affairs of running the halfway house. I guess that’s what you need in her line of work, skills that contradict one another. Strange how a woman, young and attractive, would choose social work—running a halfway house must be like hanging around unflushed toilets all day—when she could choose so many more attractive occupations. Maybe she wanted to be a Hindu Mother Teresa and if she could drag me back to respectability, she’d be one giant step closer to sainthood.

  THE INTERVIEW WAS AT THE TRUMP PLAZA, at this overblown, overhyped restaurant that only idiots thought anything of.

  Bridget, Asha’s girlfriend, was a thin blonde who wore a short skirt, though I could see the first flurries of snow falling from the gray sky.

  “I hate New Jersey,” I said.

  Bridget laughed. I didn’t mean for it to be funny.

  “So, you had that cute restaurant in the Village.”

  I smiled. “I don’t know about it being so cute,” I said.

  “I loved that place,” she said.

  “I did too, but not enough.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “When I think about it, maybe I didn’t care for it.”

  Bridget nervously tapped a fork against her water glass.

  “Gibson is a fantastic cook,” Asha said. She glanced at me and probably could tell I was near tears.

  “What happened?” Bridget asked.

  I shrugged, and Asha took over. She leaned over and began to whisper to Bridget. Asha wore this loose-fitting, burnished-gold tunic; her dark skin and hair looked even richer against the paleness of Bridget’s skin and hair. As she whispered, whatever resistance Bridget had toward me faded. Bridget was totally smitten with Asha, and when she took her hand, she was transported.

  I was almost embarrassed to see how much she was taken with Asha.

  “Listen,” Bridget said, loud enough for me to hear. “I’ll tell you the bottom line. We have a hard time getting quality people up on the mountain.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “It’s a tough job, the type of job for a particular person who wants to be in a beautiful place and needs privacy. It’s very private there.”

  “You mean isolated?”

  “I call it very private. You can call it what you like.”

  “Isolated. I don’t mind isolation. I don’t mind it at all.”

  “Do you know who Lamont Stiles is?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’ve heard of Monster Stiles?” Bridget asked.

  “He’s that singer?”

  “He doesn’t do much of that anymore. He’s more of a producer, with three acts at the top of the charts. Everything he touches is bling; his clothing line made millions last year, and this year it’s expected to double in sales.”

  “When you say ‘bling,’ you mean . . . ?”

  “Beyond priceless. You had to have heard of that expression.”

  “Yeah, but I never used it.”

  She looked at me as if she had already made up her mind about me.

  “So, Mr. Stiles needs a chef?” I asked.

  “He prefers to be called Monster. He fancies himself the monster of music, of cutting-edge fashion, of life.”

  “Monster it is.”

  Bridget laughed. “I like how direct you are.”

  Her face hardened. We were going to get down to it. “You need to understand how this works. If you repeat this to anyone, I’ll get fired and you’ll get sued.”

  I laughed. “Listen, I’m on parole. If I don’t jump through hoops, I go to jail.”

  She nodded and smiled at me after Asha patted her hand.

  “This might be hard to believe, but many people aren’t comfortable on the mountain. It takes a special person, someone who really enjoys quiet and his own company. The perfect candidate for this job loves nature, because that’s where you are, in the clouds. It’s God’s most beautiful, pristine country. That’s what Monster loves about it, he’s above it all, but people get lonely for their families, for life outside of the Lair. Plus, well, Monster is demanding. He says that about himself.”

  “How so?”

  Bridget sucked her teeth. “You haven’t heard all of that rubbish about him?”

  “No, I really don’t keep up with the music scene.”

  “He made all those bubblegum pop songs. You got to wonder about people like that,” Asha muttered. “And he had that pet koala hanging around his neck.”

  “He’s got rid of the koala, that was a big mistake,” Bridget said, with perfect seriousness.

  “I’m not sure about this. What do people say about him? Is there any truth to it?”

  Bridget laughed. “I’m not going to go into it. People say all kinds of things about him. You’d think he bathes in the blood of little boys, that kind of National Enquirer bullshit.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Well, it’s hard to explain,” she said
, softly, as though she was wary of being overheard. “Monster isn’t really someone I see a lot of. He is a great employer in that he’s very generous. But mostly he’s on the road or holed up in the Lair—that’s what he wants us to call it. It’s really his encampment, the inner grounds of his mansion and the gardens where most staff aren’t allowed. I think that’s how those horrible stories of Monster get out. Disgruntled former employees spread rumors when they really don’t know what goes on in the Lair. Anyway, if you’re really interested, I’ll fly you out to interview. Asha can come with you. I’ll show you Solvang, and there’s this wonderful little Danish bakery. You’ll love the pastries.”

  “I’m not sure of what he wants. Will I be his personal chef, or will I be running the kitchen for everyone there?”

  “You know, I couldn’t tell you at this point. With Monster you go with the flow; he’ll fill in the blanks, he always does.”

  Bridget shrugged and put her head on Asha’s shoulder.

  Business was done for the evening.

  ENGLISH PEA SOUP WITH MORELS

  SERVES 4

  4 teaspoons unsalted butter, plus more as needed for the shallot and garlic

  3 cipolline onions, peeled and “brunoised”

  1 small carrot, peeled and cut into ½-inch diamonds

  2 teaspoons Maldon salt or flaky sea salt

  ½ cup dry white wine

  Five-finger pinch of chopped tarragon leaves, plus torn leaves for finishing

  4 cups smoked ham hock broth, plus more for deglazing

  Two 10-ounce packages premium frozen baby peas

  Extra-virgin olive oil (EVOO)

  4 tablespoons crème fraîche

  1 shallot, peeled and “brunoised”

  1 clove garlic, minced

  Freshly ground black pepper

  1 pound fresh morel mushrooms

  Put 4 teaspoons butter in a large lidded pot over medium heat. When the butter starts to froth, add the onions, carrot, and salt and stir. Cover the pot and cook, stirring, until the onions are soft and creamy (without color) and the carrot is tender but firm, about 15 minutes.

  Add the wine and bring to a boil. Let the wine boil until it is reduced by three-fourths, about 5 minutes. Add the pinch of chopped tarragon and 4 cups of the broth. Bring the liquid to a boil and add the peas. At this point the carrot should be cooked. Take out three-fourths of it and reserve for texture after blending. Continue cooking the peas at a simmer until they are warmed through and tender, making sure they don’t lose all their green color, about 5 minutes.

  Blend the mixture in batches until smooth; you will have a bright green puree. Return the puree to the large pot; add the reserved carrot pieces. Cook at a very gentle simmer for about 5 minutes, just to let the flavors develop. Season with salt to taste.

  Add a generous drizzle of EVOO and several torn tarragon leaves. Then add the crème fraîche in dollops from a squeeze bottle.

  In a separate pan, cook the shallots and garlic in the additional butter over medium heat. Add salt and pepper. Add the morels and slow-roast over the heat. Deglaze the pan with a ladleful of stock.

  Serve the soup from the pot, with small bowls of shallots, garlic, and morels on the side.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ASHA WORE SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL. SHE told me the name, but I immediately forgot. Whatever it was, I liked it, a kind of purple pantsuit with fringe around the waist and cuffs. Bridget was in black again, straight leather, suitable for nightlife in the big city but fucking silly on a brilliant, beautiful day in Solvang. Bridget was just as schoolgirl-giddy to have Asha near as I remembered. “You are too wedded to that job,” I heard Bridget say. Asha shrugged.

  “You know I trained to be a social worker. It’s what I wanted to do, and I’m happy with my life,” she said to Bridget. It was the same thing she said to me when I asked why she was so content to run a halfway house. I guess Asha was sincere in what she said to people; I admired that, and how rare it was.

  At the Danish bakery that Bridget was so high on, I lingered over stale strudel while the girls stepped outside to admire bachelor’s buttons and Mexican primrose growing along the road. They held hands, and I saw Bridget lean toward Asha to sneak a kiss. I hoped this Bridget knew what kind of woman she had in Asha, a human being of the first order, but that was too much to hope for. I didn’t get a good feeling from Bridget. She probably thought Asha was hot and exotic, the domestic equivalent of an incendiary foreign affair without the bother of having a passport renewed. Maybe I was jealous, but I knew I was right about this Bridget and her bitch nature.

  I was supposed to be put up somewhere spectacular, a woodsy resort over in the hills, with an amazing restaurant and a wonderful chef I was supposed to know. Bridget mentioned more than a half dozen times just how excited she was to take us to this paradise, but something happened to the reservation or the charge card, and plans had changed.

  As we drove downhill, back to the valley, I thought we’d all be staying at Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn—she mentioned that it was campy and fun—but Bridget couldn’t wait to drop me off. Even so, she took the time to remind me that Monster liked prospective employees to be an hour early for interviews, to expect her to be two hours early, and with unctuous sincerity she mentioned again just how important it was to make a good impression. Oh, yes, he’d be there, he wouldn’t speak and I wasn’t to speak to him, but he’d be highly involved in the process.

  Flow.

  Monster could flow in any moment and seal the deal, but I couldn’t expect that.

  Of course, I’d have an in, but really, it was up to me to seize the initiative.

  Dragging Asha behind her, Bridget turned her rental around and roared back to the Santa Ynez Inn. Seems Bridget had made sure the Santa Ynez Inn had one room available.

  I had a bowl of very salty green soup and ate all the crackers in the cracker holder. I thought of ordering a beer; then I wanted a gin and tonic, then decided just a couple of hits off of a crack pipe would do the trick. I had another bowl of very salty green soup and found the room Bridget had reserved for me.

  I turned on the television and flipped around. I watched rap videos for a while until it became painful, all of that booty shaking and with me not having got laid in almost a year. I couldn’t help fantasizing being a third wheel between Asha and Bridget; maybe they would suddenly want to experiment and include me. Yeah, I couldn’t sustain that fantasy; too improbable even for a hopeless optimist.

  The next day Bridget was late, which meant I would probably be late. I had been up since five in the morning, so nervous about how the day would go that I went for a walk, even though a fog had rolled in, concealing Pea Soup Andersen’s Inn to the point that it was difficult to know what direction to go in. I was lost almost immediately, and had to get directions from the surfer dude behind the counter at the 7-Eleven. Then I remembered I needed new razors and shaving cream.

  I meandered a bit, eventually finding my way back to the hotel and my room to shave my head with the precision of an anxious man with nothing else to do.

  Instinct.

  It was obvious what Monster thought of himself. Look at how hard he had worked to eradicate the last vestiges of identifiable color from his life and skin.

  I wouldn’t let him hold that over me. Lack of melanin never held me back; actually, it was a kick, a key to acceptance that never had to be explained. Never deny it, but why let them form the question? Don’t make them question their own generosity; don’t make them consider the intangibles. What does it mean to hire a black man? Is it the opposite of hiring a white man, the same? Don’t ask and I won’t tell you.

  I don’t know.

  I know this that Monster bolts up from night terrors, chest heaving as he rushes to the mirror to see if that bleach/chemical peel/skin brightener bled off, shed, absorbed away, or simply vanished.

  Bet he lives in mortal fear of a stray BB, the living nightmare of the paralyzing threat of a nappy head.

&nbs
p; Cool.

  Even if he has a black man detector, he’ll never see me coming. I don’t just pass; I slip by on the strength of the fact that I can. Maybe it’s self-loathing, but I never had the energy for too much of that. I am what I am: the son of two African-American parents who were light enough to pass as white if they cared to. They didn’t because they were proud of who they were and embraced their African-Americanness. Monster, though, doesn’t do passing. He thunders by, shouting to the world, “See me! I’m not like them, I’m you!”

  He hides in plain sight, and I guess I do too. Race explains nothing about his insanity, or my blundering into acceptance and not wanting to rock the boat. Probably, in that sense, we’re brothers under the skin.

  Bridget showed two hours late, a woman in desperate need of a toilet but without a bit of an apology other than a curt “Monster rescheduled” before she hauled ass to the bathroom.

  “Where’s Asha?” I asked after she returned. I needed to see a friendly face, and Bridget wasn’t it.

  “Sleeping in. She needs it,” Bridget said, with a hint of a leer, and I disliked her even more. It still ain’t polite to hit it and strut. As much as I admired and liked Asha, I couldn’t understand her taste in women.

  Bridget sped to the 101 and headed east, back toward Santa Barbara. Another stunningly beautiful day; from the freeway I could see the Pacific lurking behind the hammock of hills, and when we started to climb and banked west, I saw surfers, black stick figures on breaking waves.

  Then Bridget turned east and we headed into the Santa Ynez valley.

  At an access road Bridget drove for another twenty minutes or so, until an official-looking craftsman bungalow came into view. Near the bungalow was an impressive gate, maybe ten feet high, blocking a well-maintained road.