by Adriana Peck
I shake my head nervously, still focused on getting the eggplant fried up correctly as I boil another round of penne. I don’t like Mason’s attitude at all, so I elect not to respond. He huffs and storms back out to the front of the restaurant.
He’s lucky he’s so good looking, or else I’d be really mad at him.
By the time I’m about to finish the dish Mason is already back in the kitchen. He’s standing on the other side of the counter, looking directly at me.
“Don’t forget to leave off the cheese and basil,” he says in an oddly reassuring tone. I can tell he just doesn’t want to upset the new girl on her first night, but I keep my head down and make sure the plate gets finished correctly.
Once I’m sure it’s done perfectly, Mason picks up the plate, hoists it above his head in a classy waiter-esque fashion. He looks dapper tonight, even with just a black vest over his white button-down server suit. I can’t help but stare at him in all his handsome glory as he goes back out with my finished plate to the front of the restaurant. He’s still a prick, but a handsome one, at least.
“Thanks,” Mason grumbles to me as he leaves. That’s it. I’m onto the next order card, and for the rest of the night I don’t hear anything from Mason. I assume I get all his dishes done perfectly to-order, because he sticks to the lobby until it’s time for closing.
When the tables are all wiped down and most of the chairs are stacked up on top of the tables, I spy Mason rolling silverware alone in the lobby through the partition between the kitchen and the restaurant itself. Chefs Robby, Julia and dishwasher Benicio have all gone for the night, so I finish my closing duties alone. I wipe down all the counters, make sure the sinks are drained, and that oven and grill are cleaned and turned off. It’s a lot of work and a lot has to be checked off my list, but when I’m done I flick off the kitchen light and head out into the lobby.
Mason doesn’t look up at me when I walk in. He’s focused on the silverware as if it’s the most important thing in the world to him. I consider my options. I sit down at the table with him, trying my best to clear the air with friendly conversation.
“So, what brought you to Restaurante Porto?” I ask him cheerily. Mason doesn’t take his eyes off the silverware he’s rolling, but after a long pause he shrugs.
“Always loved restaurants. My dad always dreamed of opening one. Chef Gambio’s got a good thing going here. Plus, he didn’t bat an eye when I came to him in a time of need.”
I think that’s the longest sentence he’s ever said to me that hasn’t been a scolding or directions on how not to mess his order up. We’re making headway already.
“What was that time of need, exactly?”
Mason shakes his head. He sets the rolled silverware aside, placing it into a mountain of rolled-up cloth tubes. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you.”
“That’s okay,” I say. I’m driven to make this conversation work one way or another. “Do you want to be a server forever? I mean, do you want to do anything else in life?”
I cringe. I really couldn’t have thought of a better way to ask him that? It feels like I’m interviewing him for a job title he hasn’t applied for.
Another shake of the head, but this time, no response. I shift the focus to myself to avoid grilling him further. I look at his stack of silverware remaining. Two knives, two forks, two spoons, then roll it up into a tube. Mason doesn’t have much work left, but I grab a stack of silverware and help him out anyways. I need to get this conversation up to speed if I have any hope of actually getting to know him better.
“I always wanted to be a chef,” I start as I carefully roll up my utensils. “Ever since I was a kid, my parents said I had a knack for the kitchen. Putting dishes together, making everything look pretty on the plate. It’s just in my blood, I guess.”
Mason doesn’t say anything as he finishes his last roll of silverware. He scoops up the linen rolls, takes them to the front of the restaurant where he stores them inside the host’s cabinet for the next day.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Rosa,” Mason says quietly as he closes the cabinet doors. He turns to look at me intently, and I see a look of grim seriousness on his face. “This place is a death trap. I despise it here. Gambio likes me enough to keep me around, but I’m not going to be here forever. Don’t try to get comfortable or anything. This place’ll eat you alive.”
“That’s fair,” I say, his comments stinging. I thought I was happy here. After his comments, I start to second-guess how I really feel about the job. I want to ask Mason so many questions, but I know it’ll just piss him off more. And I can tell he’s trying to leave.
Just like that, Mason is out the door. He’s got his jacket thrown over one shoulder, looks left and right across the street, and crosses. He’s done for the day, going home. It’s up to me to lock up, I guess. Fortunately, Chef Gambio gave me a key to lock up, just in case I’m last to leave. I check the thermostat, make sure the back door is locked, and go out the front, locking the door behind me with the key Gambio entrusted me with.
Mason is across the street, eyes glued to his phone. He could be texting someone, I think. Probably a girlfriend back home nobody knows about. I figure he has one, he’s certainly good-looking enough. Or maybe it’s his mom. Mason doesn’t seem to me like the type to text at all. But if he did, how would he type? Would he ever put a smiley face at the end of a sentence? I nearly laugh at the thought, and across the street Mason sees me looking at him.
He winks. I know it’s at me, because I can feel my face blushing with embarrassment. I look away suddenly, but he knows I was looking at him. Staring at him, even.
Why? Is he mocking me? Making fun of me? We’ve done nothing but butt heads here at work. I don’t get him.
Across the way, a yellow cab pulls up to the side of the road just in front of him, and I see him get in the back seat. Mason is once again glued to his phone, I the backlight from the screen illuminating the outline of his face. I see him tell the cab driver an address. The cab pulls away, and I am left standing alone in front of Restaurante Porto. I take the long way home, alone in my thoughts after my first day.
All I can think about is Mason.
Three
I get back to my apartment after a short walk uptown. I’m only five blocks away from the Restaurante Porto, which is a blessing in and of itself. I don’t do traffic. The entire way home I’m stuck thinking about Mason. His ruthless attitude, his faded tattoos, and the mysterious figure he’s texting after work. I’m obsessed with him, and I seriously don’t know why.
I let myself into my apartment. The whole place is a mess of boxes and bubble wrap, and the thought of having to unpack every singe one of these gives me a headache worse than any hangover I’d had back in college. Culinary school prepared me for a million different things: how to salvage a plate you think you’ve completely ruined; or, more importantly, when to scrap a dish entirely and start anew. A good poker player knows when to go all in, and when to fold. Same as a good chef.
When I see all the boxes towered up to the ceiling, I just want to fold.
I go to my bedroom. Bland white walls, a few posters tacked onto the wall. A photo of Ma, framed on my nightstand. She’s standing in her ceramic kitchen back home holding a wooden spoon and grinning at the photographer, my Dad. It’s a nice photo, one of the few I actually have of her. The rest are at my Dad’s. I flop down on my bed, trying to sigh out all the stress from the day. My legs are killing me, standing from four to midnight takes a toll on your ankles, and that’s before I even get started with my arms. Turning ladles, lifting pans, chopping and dicing veggies for hours on end can make anyone’s arms turn to jelly. I’m entirely made of jelly after today.
Drifting off to sleep has never been easier. I close my eyes and I think about my first day at the Restaurante. Chef Gambio’s barking laughter as he tells the same joke over and over for the millionth time that night. Benicio and his one-liners. Robby and Julia, two other c
hefs who seem to read one another’s minds, always in sync. I wonder what it’s like being inside their heads, what it’s like to know someone else so well they don’t even have to make a single movement to get their point across perfectly.
And Mason. It always circles back to Mason. I wonder how he stays so calm, so collected in such a hectic environment. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to go absolutely insane, but then I’ll just look through the little partition window and see Mason standing perfectly cool, taking an order from one of a million busy tables. You can see customers waving their hands, explaining just how they want their meal done just right this way or that way. I’d go crazy, but Mason nods, writes it all down. His tickets are always clear and easy to read. If I mess an order up, which I’ve definitely done tonight already, it’s not Mason’s fault. All the moving pieces in the kitchen all come back to the waiter, in a sense. If me or one of my chefs mess up a plate, Mason’s going to take the brunt of the customer’s abuse. If we give the customer the best meal of their life, Mason’s going to get the praise and a hearty tip, too. He’s everything or nothing out there.
And of course, his piercing gaze and bright blue eyes can make any right-minded girl melt where they stood. That much, I knew. They certainly were working on me.
But that attitude, his snark. I sometimes don’t know if I want to kiss him or strangle him.
I slip into a comfortable dream, this one all about Mason. His eyes pierce my soul. I make dish after dish, trying to keep up with his orders, but I can’t. He turns his back to me and walks away.
I awake with a start, and I look at the clock. 3:30 in the morning. I sigh and close my eyes, determined to sleep in before my shift started again in a little more than twelve hours. The Restaurante Porto would re-open tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and every day until Chef Gambio decided to finally take a day off. I’d get a day off just to myself in three more shifts. I’d finally get time to unpack the boxes and figure out what to do with myself here in this tiny apartment.
Four
Just before opening the next day, Chef Gambio collects his staff and tells them to meet in the kitchen before opening. Tonight there are going to be critics in-house, and Chef Gambio pulls the entire staff together at four p.m. sharp, giving us all a pep-talk before we dive into collective madness together in a little under an hour.
“You all know the drill. Critics coming in tonight, don’t know who they are. All we know is they’re from Deporte Magazine, and we all know how popular that magazine can get. We do not want bad reviews seeping out. I’m not telling you to treat the critics any differently,” Gambio says, eyeing Mason intently, “but if we know they’re going to give us a zero-star rating, come get me so we can jump them before they reach the door.”
The staff chuckles. Everyone knows Gambio isn’t completely serious, but we all get the gist—if a critic is obviously about to rake us over the coals, go into overdrive. Give him a free meal. Offer him dessert on the house. Do something to make it right. Or, at the very least, beat the critic over the head with a blunt object and stuff him into a closet until we know what to do with him.
I look over at Mason. He’s not laughing at all. Something tells me he’s been with Gambio on the night where a bad review manages to get out the front door. What happened? I wonder to myself. I make a mental note to ask Mason another time what sort of reviews Gambio’s had to deal with before. It might help to know what dishes to avoid serving to the critics.
“We good?” Gambio asks, clapping his meaty hands together and rubbing them like he’s plotting something. Everyone nods, Mason included. “Fantastic. Break a leg.”
And the whole staff scatters. We have less than an hour to finish prep and get the restaurant ready for one of the busiest nights we will ever have this year. I see Mason with the rest of the waitstaff go to the front, setting tablecloths and cleaning seats of chairs. Benicio, the dishwasher, goes to the sinks to fill them up with scalding soapy water. He’s a lanky guy, with a contagious smile and a heart of gold. I go to my station, making sure all my utensils are in order and ready to go. I take a deep breath and look at the chaos unfolding around me. It’s almost too much. I know tonight’s going to be one hell of a night already.
Gambio’s behind me. He gives me a tap on the shoulder and I am suddenly jerked back to reality.
“Rosa, can I count on you tonight?” I nod honestly.
“Good. Don’t let the pressure get to you. I’ll be out front all night, so you’re on your own back here. Keep an eye on Benicio for me, won’t you?”
My heart sinks. No supervisor. Nobody to look over every dish I put out to make sure it’s perfect. And I have to babysit Benicio, too. I feel a sense of dread wash over me as I prepare to hold myself accountable for every dish and morsel of food that goes through those kitchen doors.
An hour into the night, I find that things are running by smoother than I expected. I put out plate after plate of carbonara, prosciutto and cheese, and even a paella, a traditionally Spanish dish (but don’t tell Chef Gambio that). I hear the voices coming from the restaurant lobby. We don’t know what the critics will look like, so every plate must be prepared as if our livelihood depends on it. Every waitstaff has to initiate pleasant conversation. Even Benicio, the dishwasher, has to make sure each and every plate is spotless before I can arrange food on it. The pressure is immense, and I feel as if the weight of the entire restaurant’s livelihood is resting on my shoulders. I wonder how Mason’s doing out there. I know he’ll do just fine, but a part of me wants to worry about him for some reason. I doubt he would think about me in that same way, but a small part of me certainly hopes so.
The next order is pushed through. Polenta, grilled and charred, with a grilled leek on the side and chicken cacciatore as the main course. I take a deep breath and get to work. The polenta is the easy part. I prepare the grits in boiling water exactly like I did during my interview. It’s the chicken that gives me pause. I begin to heat some olive oil in a pan as the polenta bubbles up in the adjacent pot. I toss bell peppers, onion, and some garlic into the oil to add flavor and start to dredge the chicken in spiced-up flour to give it that famous Restaurante Porto flavor.
Once the oil’s up to heat, I place the chicken in the pot to cook for thirty minutes. All I can do is wait and start the next meal while the cacciatore heats up and cooks. So that is what I do—I start making my side salads that had been due for a while, grinding up cheese and olives to sprinkle on top.
I apparently take too long to prepare my salad, because the next thing I know the cacciatore is on fire. I look in the pot, the chicken has blackened. I will have to start the whole thing over from scratch. I look up, just as the smoke from the chicken covers my whole workstation as I holler for Benicio to come and help me.
I can’t believe I’m messing up another dish. God help me if I ever want to survive tonight. After ruining the Pasta alla Norma last night I didn’t think I’d have it in me again.
Chef Gambio is standing in front of the partition, watching in horror as I burn the meal and as Benicio covers the flame with his apron to smother it. The look on Gambio’s face reads disappointment, but I know there’s anger underneath the facade. If only I could mess up a dish the night a critic isn’t in our restaurant. Suddenly, my blood pressure spikes. I know I have to get the cacciatore right this time, or else I’m in deep trouble.
I start the chicken cacciatore again. I slice the chicken breast, prepare my spices and flour, and get a pan ready with olive oil and veggies. I can feel Chef Gambio watching me like a hawk from inside the restaurant. He is still standing in front of the partition, and every time I look up I can see him watching my every move.
The pressure is too much. I get the chicken in the pan, lower the heat this time so I have more opportunity not to burn the dish. I check on my polenta, and find the grits have hardened in the boiling water. Overdone. Great. And now I have to start the polenta over too.
I feel the world
swirling around me. The room spins. Gambio is watching me, and now I have messed up two dishes in a row. I don’t know what to do next. I don’t even look at the order cards that have been piling up for ten minutes in a row now. Chef Robby asks me what he needs to start on, and I tell him to get the polenta in order while I run to the pantry for more supplies.
Of course, that last part was a lie. I needed to get away. I needed peace, respite for just one minute as I feel the pressure boiling up around me, like hot water over grits that have been cooked for too long.
I dive into the pantry, a momentary release from the nightmare dinner rush that had been building for the past few hours. I don’t know how I am going to do this tonight. My first real night as head chef, and I’m already totally blowing it with the critics outside all ready to write down how awful of a chef I really am. Chef Gambio’s going to fire me, I just know it. I hunker down, hands on my knees, taking in deep breath after deep breath as I ponder what type of job I’ll have to find after I get fired from this one. It’s dark and cool in the pantry. The dry goods keep good company, plus they don’t talk.
“What are you doing in here?”
I yelp, look up. Mason’s standing there, looking as if he’s ready to scold me. His hands are full, one holding the biggest bag of onions I’ve ever seen and the other rests on his hip.
“Get—getting supplies,” I stutter out. Mason frowns.
“You looked like you were going to have a panic attack. You sure this job’s for you?”
I stand back up, look at him.
“You know, you can be a real jerk sometimes, you know that?”
Mason laughs. “I do what I want. I take what I want. You got a problem with that?”
“Yeah, I do.” I can’t help but stare at his lips as he chides me. He’s a dick, yeah, but seriously. Mason is that good looking. I’m almost willing to forgive his attitude.
