by Nan
“You explain, lady,” Louie asked, “why Long Island duckling come from Wisconsin?”
“They’re the best. Everything has to be the best. Everything has to be perfect.”
“Everything perfect, lady. You bet!” Louie looked at Ho and shrugged his shoulders.
Cham, who was responsible for coordinating vegetables with main dishes, had taken a handful of green beans and was blanching them in boiling water. “Chào cô.”
“Chào cô.” Libby stared at the beans. “We don’t want them overdone.”
Louie pushed Cham aside. “You get complaint, lady? He no do beans good?”
Libby pointed to the pot of boiling water. “Shouldn’t he take them out?”
“You want out or you want blanch?”
Libby picked up a fresh bean. She stared into her palm, gasping as she read her own future. The bean hadn’t been trimmed properly. Libby’s heart began to pound. “Look.”
“Lady, you want I kill him?”
Libby grabbed Louie’s sleeve. “You always steam the ducks, don’t you?”
“We steam duck, get fat out, stuff duck, then grill. Is very perfect, lady.”
“But do you have enough mustard fruits? And Louie, they’ve got to be careful with the rice!”
He shook his head and waved his hand. “They always careful with rice! Yellow people no overcook rice. Italian, German, Spanish cook rice to death. You get complaint from customer?”
“By the time you get a complaint, Louie, it’s too late. It’s all over by then. The minute you think something is wrong, something is wrong.”
Louie nodded. “Very interesting. What you think is wrong?”
Libby hurried over to Liang and Gan. “Chào cô!”
“Chào cô. Chào cô. “The cold station men were paid nearly twice as much as the prep men. Instead of merely “turning” vegetables, cold table chefs turned vegetables into elegant garnishes. They were responsible for plating cold appetizers and entrées, composing salads, and making desserts.
Libby stuck a finger into the jalapeño cream being whipped for the coconut chili. “Louie! It needs salt!” she said, anxiously. Liang handed her the salt. Libby sprinkled some in her hand and tossed it into the bowl.
“Delicious,” Liang nodded, as he mixed it in.
Louie shook a fist in Liang’s face. “You make perfect or you get fire!”
Alfero should have been checking the temperature on the dishwasher. But he couldn’t take his eyes from Libby. The way the pink sweatsuit clung to her body. He wondered what it would be like to put his arms around her. He had wondered the same thing about Mary Tyler Moore. He knew just what he would do. First, he would take a very clean towel and dry his fingers. Gently, he would put one hand to her face and feel her silken skin. Then with his other hand, he would slowly reach around and grab a fistful of ass.
“Alfero.” Libby leaned close, shocking him out of his reverie. “I want to see the fish.”
“Señora! Fish?”
She heard Sonny’s voice from the basement. He was arguing with the laundry man. Something must be wrong with the linen. Thank God she had come downstairs when she did.
Alfero opened the door to the walk-in refrigerator. Once inside, Libby pushed away the seaweed covering the live lobsters, checking that they had both claws. She pulled back the paper on top of the sole and looked at the eyes to be certain they weren’t cloudy or sunken. She sniffed the trout as suspiciously as a sommelier sniffs a cork.
The moment Libby saw the red snapper she knew there was trouble. It had no sheen. She lifted the gills. They were pink instead of bright red. “Did Sonny check this in?”
Sonny stood watching. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Libby picked up a snapper. It was limp, not firm as though just taken from the water. “Something’s fishy,” she said, tossing the snapper to him.
“Says who?” he asked.
“Says the fish.”
Sonny threw the snapper back in the box. “Who you going to believe? Me or some dead guppy?” He motioned for Alfero to leave them alone.
“Maybe you need glasses,” Libby said. “What is it? You never used to check in crap. They wouldn’t serve that fish at the A.S.P.C.A.!”
“Used to be, if the fish was no good, the chef would thicken the sauce. That’s all. Simple. But not anymore. Today, everybody’s a prima donna,” Sonny shouted. “What the hell do you need a chef for if the fish is good?”
“What the hell do I need you for if the fish is bad?”
Sonny was furious. “You couldn’t run this goddamn place without me!”
“Then don’t let me forget it!” she shouted back. “Not for one minute. You understand?”
“No, I don’t understand. What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Nobody uses thick sauces anymore!” Libby shouted. She held up her hands and then spoke softly. “It’s getting harder to cover things up. Sonny, don’t give me a hard time.”
“What’s going on?”
Libby took a deep breath. “We have a big booking on Thursday. Lots of snoopy people are going to be around for the next couple of days.”
“What kind of snoopy people?” he asked flatly.
“Top of the line. They’re running checks on everyone. The whole staff. I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Sonny, I don’t want them to find anything wrong.”
“Like what?”
“How should I know? They’re coming through here with a fine-tooth comb. It’s like an audit from God!”
“So? What have you got to hide?”
Libby put a hand to her forehead. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Louie stood wide-eyed at Sonny’s desk. “What you mean? I have to have red snapper!” He waved a menu detail card in Sonny’s face. “I need for lunch special. See? Red snapper.”
“You speakee English? There is no red snapper.”
“I speakee English good. Why they no had red snapper?”
“They had red snapper. But I sent it back.”
“You send it back?”
“Yes!”
“What we do now?” Louie shouted.
“You change the special. That’s what we do now.”
Louie shook his head. “Oh, no. Chef no like that.”
“Fuck the chef.”
“Fuck the chef? Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
As Libby reached for the spigot on the coffee urn, Alfero said, “You sit in dining room. I bring coffee.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m right here.”
“Por favor.”
She knew that look. She had been in the restaurant business long enough to recognize all forms of hunger. Alfero wanted something.
Libby walked into the dining room. The overhead cleaning lights were on. She saw patches in the carpet. There were stains on the apricot leather banquettes. Scratches on the chrome. All the things you saw when looking at something in a different light.
She sat down at Phyllis and Donald’s table. The best table in the house. But at nine-thirty in the morning, the best table in the house was a piece of laminated composition board on a scuffed chrome base. Darlings, she imagined herself saying at the trial. What’s the big deal? It’s not as though I slept with Nixon.
At first, Libby didn’t recognize Alfero. He had brushed back his hair and put on a busboy’s white jacket and tie. So that was what he wanted.
Alfero walked briskly to the service area for a black under-cloth, a white top and four napkins. He spread a crisp black cloth on her table and smoothed it out. He unfolded the white linen and draped it carefully on top, remembering to point the corners. He put the napkins one-quarter in from the left on each side of the table.
His hands were sweating as he positioned the black service plates, careful to lift them between parallel open palms to avoid fingerprints. Each piece of silverware was pic
ked up between thumb and forefinger, making certain that when he put them down, the handles were on a horizontal line. He held the large crystal goblets by their stems and placed them at the two o’clock position. Butter plates at ten o’clock. Butter knives horizontally from ten to two. In the center of the table, a cut glass vase with a fresh white rose. An oblong frosted glass ashtray. Two cut crystal cellars filled with freshly ground salt and pepper. Alfero stepped back and stared at the table. He adjusted a glass, then looked up at Libby.
She was smiling. Libby had found her replacement for Chickie. “Hey, busboy!”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Didn’t you say something about a cup of coffee?”
Like an animal just released from his cage, Alfero strutted back and forth in front of the table. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, turning quickly, he tangoed down the aisle to the coffee machine. He held the cup and saucer above his head as though offering the bull’s ear to a cheering crowd.
* * *
The kitchen was beginning to heat up. Cauldrons of whole chickens boiling on the stove. Veal bones browning in the oven. Onions simmering in large pots. The staccato of chopping and mincing had segued into the sizzle and hiss of sauté pans, the whirring of food processors, the splashing of water.
Cham was stuffing lobster hash into shells brushed with Pernod. One prep man wrapped slices of sugar-cured bacon around oysters, while another pre-portioned sausage and lentils for salad. Liang sculpted the salmon tartare with his hands. Gan added saffron to the Georgia peach chutney. Ho kept one eye on a smoking bed of charcoal while he pounded chicken breasts for the paillard.
The moment Bud walked into the kitchen, Louie shouted, “Sonny send back red snapper! Only one fish special. What we do?”
Bud looked over at Sonny. He spoke in Louie’s dialect. “We put Sonny balls on menu!”
Louie stared at him blankly, then doubled over with laughter. “No enough for one portion.” He immediately translated for the others.
Sonny handed the inventory to Bud. “You better find yourself another special.”
Bud scanned the pages. “Why the hell does this keep happening?”
“It’s called quality control.”
Bud looked up. “It’s called having lousy suppliers.”
“Listen, chef,” Sonny said, pronouncing ‘chef’ as though it were a dirty word. “The food may taste like shit by the time you get through with it, but either it comes in right or it doesn’t come in.” Both men stared at one another. “That’s the way I run this restaurant.”
“Fuck you,” Bud said.
“Fuck you.”
Bud flipped the pages on the clipboard. He hated to improvise. Professional chefing was, for him, the art of re-creation. He liked to cook because there were rules to follow. The routine itself was satisfying. Very much like sex. Sauces thickened and egg whites peaked as predictably as his own orgasms.
Finally, Bud saw just what he wanted. The most expensive item on the inventory. Truffles.
* * *
Special Agent Harmon sat in the gray Plymouth across from Libby’s. He was thinking how much he missed San Antonio. Davis, his partner, had gone for coffee. Like the other rookies on surveillance, it was Harmon’s first time away from home. After three years in a Secret Service field office investigating counterfeiters and government check forgers, he was reassigned to the New York Protective Detail, a/k/a Birnbaum University. He hated New York. He had never seen such a filthy place. Or so many crazy people. Maybe it was Fun City for the gorillas in the FBI, but not for Special Agent Craig Harmon.
Even though Harmon had majored in art history, he was as representative of the Service as were men recruited from other law enforcement agencies. They were all college graduates. They were well-spoken and well-mannered enough to exchange pleasantries with political leaders throughout the world. They had the rugged good looks that could appear as readily on a campaign poster as on a running board. An unstated prerequisite for the job. You couldn’t have the President of the United States surrounded by a crew of mean-looking thugs with cauliflower ears.
It was the company they kept that most clearly distinguished the men in the Service. There were lots of educated cops and sophisticated FBI agents, but they worked in worlds populated by criminals. They had access to graft at every turn. Compromise was a private decision. It could be hidden. They could get away with it. Not so with Special Agents on protective duty. There were no gains to be pocketed. Most importantly, there were no small losses. Everything made headlines.
Harmon saw Libby come out the front door and run up the block. “Harmon to Leader. Harmon to Leader. Subject is leaving premises. Should I pursue? Repeat. Should I pursue?”
“Good morning, Harmon. This is God.”
“I can’t maintain surveillance. She’s getting away!”
“Calm down, Harmon,” Birnbaum said. “The subject is obviously a jogger. No one gets away in a shocking pink sweatsuit.”
“How do you know what she’s wearing?”
“You question the word of Yahweh? Harmon, you schmuck, I’m on the roof across the street. There she goes. Just as I thought. She’s heading along Sixth to the park.”
Harmon’s voice grew impatient. “Should I follow in the car?”
“Are you crazy?” Birnbaum asked. “And give up a parking space?”
* * *
The kitchen was hot. All the ovens were going. Bourbon baked beans with sun-dried tomatoes. Chunks of beef braised with red onion rings and papaya. Pork chops basted with beer. Breasts of pheasant coated with fresh cranberries. Wild turkey goulash bubbling furiously next to the sedate simmer of a catfish bisque. And then there were the puff pastry cases for Bud’s new special—Truffle Pot Pie.
Oblivious to it all, Bud leaned over the counter and stared at a truffle. He looked deep into it, as a gypsy would into a crystal ball. “Louie, what do you think?”
Louie shook his head. “I think I never hear of Truffle Pot Pie, boss.”
Bud smiled. “This is going to make me, Louie.”
“Yes, boss. Make you what?”
“All you need is one dish. And this is it. It’s what they call high concept. This little sucker is going to be my Pêche Melba.”
“Yes, boss.” Louie looked up at the clock. “You got recipe yet?”
“No.”
Louie shook his head and giggled. “I like you, boss.”
Bud picked up the truffle and sniffed it. He imagined the scent of damp, cold earth in his nostrils before inhaling the pungent aroma. Like overdressed women, truffles often had more aroma than taste.
“I have excellent idea, boss. Nice cream chicken sauce. Many different veggies. Strips of ham.”
“No.” Bud shook his head. “Too many colors.”
“Okay. You right. We use potato, onion, white turnip . . .”
“Louie, check the dumplings.”
“Excellent idea.”
Bud cut a slice from the center of the truffle. Dark brown, nearly black, marbled with thin white strands. A polished sliver from a culinary geode. Very slowly, he bit into it. Poised for that first instant of taste, Bud anticipated a moment of inspiration. But just then the waiters came in.
“What is he eating?” Maxie asked. “A prune?”
“You never heard of the Galloping Gourmet? Why do you think he was galloping?” Norm looked at Maxie. Maxie wasn’t smiling. “What’s the matter? You don’t think that’s funny?”
“I don’t like prune jokes.”
“You said prune. I didn’t say prune.”
“I said prune because it looked like a prune.”
“You should have said cherry. If you don’t like prunes, you should have said, ‘What is he eating? A cherry?’ ”
“But cherries are red!” Maxie shouted.
“No, putz! Roses are red! Roses are red, violets are blue, I hope it’s a prune and he shits on you.”
“Fuck you,” Maxie said.
“Fuck you,” said N
orm.
George, who waited Station One, sat at the bar. “Bunions. Bunions are the worst.” He was talking to the bartender but his eyes were on Chickie. “Jesus H. Christ! Did you see where he put the butter plates?”
“You want some ginger ale?”
George shook his head. Chickie, the preppy Puerto Rican busboy, was driving him crazy. “You know what he listens to on his Walkman? Mantovani! He told me he has every Mantovani tape ever made. Now maybe Henry Mancini has every Mantovani tape ever made, but a P.R.?” Even while sipping his drink, George watched Chickie. “You see that? Do you see where he put the pepper?”
“You’re a real Type A, George. You gotta learn to be more laid back.”
“Let me tell you something,” George said as his face grew red. “Good waiters aren’t laid back. They don’t come from California. They’re not tan and skinny. They’re like me. They got foot problems. Lousy landlords. Ugly wives. You heard of Hollywood Wives? Well, if Jackie Schmackie was gonna write a book about waiters, she would call it Ugly Wives. Oh, no! What is that sonofabitch doing now?” George rushed toward Table 12. “Yoo hoo, Señor Ebb Tide!”
Steven was at a table in the back. He had two telephones. A folder of notes. Seating charts. The reservations book. A memory for names and faces. A head filled with gossip. A total lack of perspective that made every detail as vital as every breath. The tools of his trade.
Steven tapped his pencil on the open pages of the leather-bound book. He fingered the seating chart, as complex a piece of navigation as any planned by NASA. Libby’s was not a restaurant in which customers were seated here or there in order to balance the waiters’ stations. Steven “blocked the room” as though he were hanging pictures in a gallery. The prettiest ones always went up front. Two landscapes were never hung next to one another. Colors that clashed had to be kept at a safe distance. No matter that the front tables were too drafty or too close to the bar. That’s where everyone wanted to be. Amateurs to the rear. Next to each name, with great relish, he wrote either WD for “window dressing” or BD for “bury the dead.” For most of Libby’s clientele, being buried was far worse than being dead.
