by Rick R. Reed
“I see that.”
Carmela walked away.
In just a few moments, though, her polar opposite approached the table. Rosalie, as this must be, seemed like she’d come straight from central casting where the request was for someone who looked like an Italian mother. Rosalie had an upsweep of salt-and-pepper hair and wore a black dress and what his mother would call sensible shoes. Her nose was big, her features careworn, but there was something about her eyes, a greenish-brown in color, that exuded warmth and maybe, if he looked really hard, mischief. She didn’t smile. “Did Carmela get your drink order?” she asked.
“Yeah, she’s bringing me some water. And bread.”
“Good. Take a look at the menu and see what you want. The fish today is good. Snapper with olives, garlic, and tomatoes. It’s fresh.”
She hurried away, and Henry opened the menu and began to scan it. He wanted to let out a little sigh. For him, this collection of food was like porn was to some of his peers. Right away, he could see the offerings leaned toward what Henry imagined was southern Italian comfort food—baked manicotti, ricotta pie, braciole, greens and beans in tomato sauce, a pepper and egg sandwich on “Mom’s homemade bread,” were just a few of the things that set Henry’s mouth to watering.
The menu was like the family photos on the wall. It made him feel like he was visiting someone’s home, sitting in their kitchen, and being welcome. No pretense. Just a suggestion of “we’re so glad you’re here.”
When Rosalie returned, Henry ordered a cappicola sandwich with mozzarella and arugula, also on homemade bread.
“Anything else?” Rosalie asked. Henry noticed she hadn’t written anything down.
“Does it come with anything?”
“Like?”
“Fries?”
The question finally got Rosalie to crack a smile. “We don’t have fries. I can have the cook make you a nice salad, or we got roasted red potatoes with olive oil, rosemary, and garlic. Very tasty.”
“Sounds like it. I’ll have the potatoes.”
“Good choice. You could stand to gain a few pounds.” Rosalie looked him up and down.
Henry was surprised to hear her assessment. His mom was always getting on him about watching his calories and carbs.
Without another word, Rosalie turned and walked away. She disappeared into the kitchen. She came back out moments later and set down a small cup full of what looked like some sort of stew.
“What’s this?” Henry asked, inhaling the rich aroma of tomatoes and garlic. “I didn’t order it.”
“On the house. Just something to tide you over until Vito makes your sandwich. It’s what we had at our family meal today.”
“What is it?”
“Tripe with tomatoes and potatoes. It’s good. Mangia!”
Henry wanted to ask, “Isn’t that cow stomach?” but Rosalie had already taken off to wait on another table. He picked up his spoon and moved it around in the cup with more than a little doubt. Hey, if you’re thinking you’re some kind of foodie and today could be the start of a new direction for you, you can’t be a candy ass about trying new things. Just take a bite.
He did. The tripe was a little chewy but had a wonderful meaty richness to it that was complemented by the sauce, which was redolent of tomatoes and garlic. Henry could also taste carrots, onions, and herbs like oregano. He was surprised that it was actually quite delicious, and in no time he had finished the small bowl and found himself wishing for more.
The rest of Henry’s lunch did not disappoint him and continued on its theme of Italian comfort food. Everything he ate was filling, richly flavored, and bore all the signs of being prepared fresh right here on the premises. The bread was a revelation—light, airy, with a golden crust that stood up to the bite. The crust was hard, but in a delightful way.
He pushed his plate away and wondered about dessert. Rosalie, after all, had said he needed to put on some weight. But he was so stuffed—that sandwich was huge—that he was afraid he’d burst if he ate so much as another morsel.
Now came the moment of truth. Of course he’d pay the check; that was a given. But did he have the nerve to do what he’d really come here to do?
Baby steps. He told himself he’d be a fool and a coward if he didn’t at least fill out the application. He could always refuse the job if he decided he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, as the universe expected him to do. That way he could turn it down if they called him, which even Henry knew was unlikely.
Working here would be fun, Henry thought, even if he wouldn’t fit in with his flaxen hair and blue eyes. So what? He could be from northern Italy. They had blonds there, didn’t they?
Rosalie brought him his check. “Take your time,” she said. Henry pulled out the cash he had brought along—no way was he using a credit card for this—and put down enough to cover the bill and a generous tip for the “warm and welcoming” Rosalie.
And then he sat back. Everything he had eaten began to churn. I can’t do it. It’s more than just filling out an application and waiting to see what happens. It’s defying your family. You know they’ll be unhappy, especially Dad. Unhappy? He’d be furious, ashamed, and questioning my sanity.
If I do this, and they just so happen to offer me the job, I will want it. No doubt. And this is not a summer job. It’s not fair to take it under the pretense that I can just leave when school starts in the fall.
So at least you understand yourself now and what’s at stake. No illusions.
He picked up a piece of cappicola that had fallen out of his sandwich and gnawed on it, its rich spices and heat bursting on his tongue. He slowed his breathing to listen to the bustle in the kitchen. Someone shouted, “Throw it away! It smells rotten.” Henry grinned.
He took in all the other diners. They seemed happy, content, their bellies full. Wouldn’t it be something to feed people as his life’s work? Wouldn’t that mean more than managing stuff like portfolios, hedge funds, and other things his dad talked about over the dinner table? Henry was pretty much clueless about what his father did, and worse, he was sure he had no interest in finding out.
Do it.
He looked around for Carmela. She’d seemed the nicest to him. She’d be the one he should ask for an application.
There she was. Across the room, at the bar, she was chatting with the stunning Antonio. Flirting really, from the looks of it, with her head thrown back and laughing at something he’d said.
Henry stared hard at Carmela, hoping he could telepathically “catch her eye” before he chickened out and hurried from the restaurant. But she seemed immersed in whatever she was talking to the bartender about.
Rosalie came by and gathered up his check, along with his plate and used napkins. “You sure you don’t want somethin’ else? A sweet?”
Now would be the perfect time to say “Yes, I’d like an application for the kitchen help job.” But Rosalie, to be honest, intimidated him. He was afraid she’d laugh in his face.
“No, thank you,” Henry replied meekly and watched her walk away with longing and self-disappointment. Maybe this is a sign. Go on, get yourself home. Do what’s expected of you.
Just then Carmela, who may or may not have picked up on the thoughts he was transmitting, waltzed over to his table. “So how was everything? This was your first time here, right?”
“How did you know that? And everything was amazing.”
“You look scared.” Carmela laughed. “Not used to eating alone? Or does Italian food frighten you?”
“No, no, of course not.” Henry felt a blush rise to his cheeks as he realized Carmela was teasing him. He wondered if she was flirting with him. There was really no reason for her to come over to the table. After all, he had paid and should be clearing the spot for other potential diners. “Do I really look scared? That’s silly.”
Carmela shrugged. She wrapped one of her red curls around her finger. “I don’t know if it’s scared or just gorgeous.”
She laughed again, and Henry noticed how delightful that laugh was. It was a little raspy, like a woman much older than Carmela, maybe even like a man. But the contrast worked for her.
Flirting. Definitely a little flirting going on here, Henry thought. At least on her part. Sorry, girlfriend, but you’re not my type. I may be young, but I’m already quite sure I prefer sausage over pie.
“Well,” Henry started to confess, “maybe I am a little nervous. I don’t know about scared, but anxious? Yes. Okay.”
Carmela looked quickly behind her. Henry supposed she was making sure there was no one she should be greeting or seating. “What do you have to be nervous about?”
Like the moment before he entered the restaurant, Henry just summoned up the courage and took a leap. It was a now-or-never moment. “I was thinking about applying for the job here I saw on Craigslist.” He smiled. “At least, if you guys are still looking.”
“What? You?”
This was exactly the reaction he’d expected from Rosalie. He nodded. “Yes, me,” he said defensively. “Why not?”
“What do you wanna work in a restaurant for, Golden Boy? You look like you should be swimming at your club or out on a sailboat on Lake Michigan. Don’t you have some Ivy League school to go to in the fall?”
Henry caught himself before he told her he was slated to go to NYU. Instead, he said, “Maybe I want to be a chef. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever dreamed about being. It isn’t all about power and money.”
“Well, that’s good, because you won’t get much of either of those here.” Carmela cocked her head. “You really want to apply? ’Cause I have to tell you, it’s gonna be grunt work. Busing tables, bubble dancing—”
Henry cut her off. “Bubble dancing?” He imagined the unimaginable: that Fiorello’s staged weekend strip shows. An image rose up in his mind of himself covered with soap bubbles that would gradually pop before he finally stood naked before a room full of Chianti drinkers.
“You really don’t know the business, do you? A bubble dancer is what we call a dishwasher.”
Henry laughed, long and hard, both to release some of the jitters he felt and for the stupidity of what he’d been thinking. “Yeah, I knew that. And I also know this is entry level.”
“Entry level,” Carmela scoffed. “I’ll go set things in motion. It would be fun having you here.” She actually winked at him.
Henry shook his head as he watched her walk away. One of the first things he would have to do if he did land the bubble dancer gig was to set Carmela even straighter than she already was.
And then it came to him. Carmela had caught him eyeing up Antonio as soon as Henry walked in the door. She knew. She knew! That girl was a perceptive one. He’d have to make sure to stay on her good side. Anyone who could make such quick judgments and see through people so easily would be a person he’d want on his side.
Carmela came back just a few minutes later. Henry looked down, expecting to see a printed form in her hand and maybe a pen, but there was nothing. His immediate thought was that whomever she talked to in the back had told her they weren’t looking anymore, or that Carmela had said he was completely wrong for the job.
“Got somebody already lined up?”
“What? Oh! For the job? No.” Carmela scratched her head. “Rosalie wants to talk to you.”
“Oh. Okay.” Henry’s nerves ratcheted up a notch. “Why?” He mentally kicked himself under the table for asking such a dumbass question.
“Oh, I don’t know. She thinks you’re hot. We got kind of a casting couch situation for new hires here.” She winked. “Rosalie digs all kinds—boys, girls, you name it.”
Henry shuddered. “Really?”
“No, of course not, you twit.” She reached out and grabbed Henry’s wrist, digging her fingernails into it hard enough to make him wince. He snatched his arm away, rubbing at the red marks she’d left. Carmela said, in a low voice, “Don’t you dare mention I said that. Not even joking!”
Henry stood up from the table, and Carmela moved back to let him pass. As he went by her, she said, “Just so you know, she wants to talk to you about the job.” Carmela said the words slowly, enunciating each word with exaggerated precision. Henry didn’t know whether he should love or hate this girl. Right about now, he was leaning toward the latter.
He headed into the kitchen and paused once he passed through the swinging doors. It was like stepping into another world. Where the light was muted and warm in the dining room, here the illumination was harsh from overhead fluorescents. In the dining room, there was the murmur of people talking and cutlery clinking on plates, all underscored by a muted backdrop of Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, and a bunch of others Henry was much too young to know the names of. Out there, dishes came out perfectly plated, garnished with fresh herbs and slices of lemon. But in the kitchen, it was organized chaos. A very tall, husky man Henry took to be the chef, clad all in black, stood at the stove, flipping ingredients expertly in two different sauté pans. He had a mop of curly black hair, and Henry was amazed at his dexterity and concentration. Down from him a bit, a short guy, probably only a little older than Henry himself, chopped vegetables and herbs at a cutting board. His hands were a blur with the chef’s knife, and Henry checked quickly to see if the guy had all his fingers.
He did.
The man at the stove turned for an instant, presumably to see who had entered his domain.
And Henry’s heart just about stopped. While Antonio in the front of the house was good-looking in a slick, player sort of way, the chef was—how could Henry put it? Rough-edged? His eyes, the color of whisky, were fierce and penetrated into Henry’s core with the simplest of glances. He had a heavy shadow of beard across his face and strong jawline, too heavy to be called five-o’clock shadow. Maybe nine o’clock or even ten. This brute probably needed to shave three times a day.
But he was gorgeous. There was something brooding, dark, and exotic about him. Henry wondered what the chef would look like clad in, oh, maybe just an apron. Shame on you! Get your mind out of the gutter!
Henry smiled weakly at him and he nodded, lifting his chin only once. If Henry hadn’t been staring so intently at him, he might have missed it. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. He suddenly understood what the term “awestruck” was all about. And that was maybe why he didn’t see the fifty-pound bag of yellow onions on the floor as he moved toward the chef, hoping to at least shake his hand. Henry tripped and went down hard on one knee. He grabbed for the counter as he fell and knocked off a ceramic mixing bowl, which shattered.
Henry stood, hands shaking, and then bent over to reach for the broken pieces of bowl at his feet.
“Leave it,” Carmela hissed.
Henry stood up straight again, wiping his hands on his pants. He knew his face must be cherry red because his cheeks were burning with a kind of four-alarm intensity. He looked to the chef, to give him a sheepish grin and, he hoped, get a little sympathy.
The guy had paused, but only to stare at Henry as if he were some specimen in a zoo. A chimp, maybe. He rolled his eyes, and his lips turned up in a smirk. The chef returned to his pans, and Henry felt dismissed.
Someone else was staring at him too.
Rosalie had emerged from what must have been an office in the back and was watching him watch the chef, hands on her hips. Henry felt chastened, embarrassed. What was it with this place, anyway? In the space of an hour, he’d been caught staring, googly-eyed, at two different men. No need to come out of the closet here. His eyes outed him every time!
Rosalie was framed by the darker space behind her. She wasn’t smiling. “I’m back here,” she said and turned to disappear into the room.
Feeling sheepish, Henry followed.
“Sit down,” Rosalie commanded. Henry took a seat across from her. The room was indeed her office. It was no bigger than a closet. One wall was shelves, crammed with ledgers and old cookbooks that were falling apart at the seams. A dusty window looked
out on the alley behind the restaurant, and Henry could see part of the dumpster. Above her head was a painting of Jesus, his hand holding his robes open to reveal his glowing heart.
Rosalie’s desk, a dinged-up green metal affair, was covered in papers, a stapler, a rubber stamp, and an adding machine. Henry assumed the papers were invoices and order forms. He felt like he was back on the ‘L’—the sweat was already beginning to flow from his armpits, even though the office was air-conditioned.
“Carmela tells me you didn’t just stop by for a little lunch.”
Henry tried to give her his best smile and wasn’t sure how well he’d succeeded. He wasn’t expecting to be on his first job interview today. God, what if he couldn’t think of anything to say?
He nodded and tried to summon some saliva to his suddenly overly dry mouth. He scratched at his neck. “Um, yeah.” He took a breath and tried to mentally still his thundering heart. “I was wondering about the job you posted on Craigslist.” He scratched at himself again, then snatched his hand and held it with his other one in his lap. “For the kitchen helper?”
“You don’t know what it’s for? You’re asking me?” Rosalie picked up one of the papers on her desk and scanned it. She set it back down and folded her hands in front of her.
Henry noticed the hands. No manicures for this woman. The nails were bitten down to the quick. These were careworn hands, hands that worked hard. He looked up again to see Rosalie, thankfully, smiling at him.
“I’m just givin’ you a hard time, kid. Relax. So, I gotta be honest—you don’t look like nobody else who’s come in for the job.”
“What do you mean?” Queer?
“Well, most of the folks who come in looking to be glorified dishwashers—and I gotta be honest, that’s what this is—are cut from a little rougher cloth. Working people. What are you? Seventeen?”
“Eighteen.”
Rosalie nodded. “You just graduate high school?”
Henry nodded.
“Do good?”
He nodded again.
