by Adi Alsaid
I shrug, squint at the strong morning sun. I can’t say anything.
Elias actually gives a chuckle, as if he can tell all of this is going through my head. “Welcome to the restaurant world, man. Just ’cause it’s fun doesn’t mean it won’t stress you the fuck out.” He takes a sip from his coffee, puts his feet up on the chair in front of him. I’m still not sure what to say. That weight is pressing down on my chest, and it feels like I’m moments away from another panic attack.
“Let me guess,” Elias says. “Chef is getting to your head a little bit?”
I find it in me to nod.
He chuckles again. “Yeah, she’ll do that.” He reaches over and gives me a friendly smack on the arm. “Don’t worry about her, man. She’s tough, but she wouldn’t be taking time out of her day just to fuck with you.”
“Really? ’Cause that’s exactly what it feels like,” I say. I look back over my shoulder, into the dining room. The only thing I can see is my own reflection in the windows. Emma might be in there, smiling at me, or Chef and Matt might be scowling, hoping for me to have a breakdown. There’s a bad feeling in my stomach, and I try to settle it by looking out at the beauty of my new home. “I’m not getting anywhere with these stupid onions. She’s either an asshole or I’m so bad at this that she’s afraid to let me touch anything else. Maybe I’m not ready.”
Elias full-on laughs now. “Relax, baby. How do you think I got to where I am?” He drinks again and then puts the mug down on the table and crosses his arms behind his head. I think he’s seeing this as a pleasant, quiet moment before the madness of service starts. I wish I could be in the same mind-set. “Listen, man, you’re going to be okay. I’ve tasted your food. You’ve got some skills. But these things take time. They take struggles, you know?
“It wasn’t that long ago that I was in Seattle, watching the business I started fail, all my money in it fuckin’ burning away with each supply order we put in or, worse, each late night partying.” He sighs and reaches for his coffee again.
“Right now you’re at the bottom, and people are gonna give you shit. Trust me, I’ve been there. Everyone in this kitchen who’s more experienced than you has been there too. You think Chef made it easy on me?” Behind us, the patio door slides open and Michelle, the other sous-chef, asks him if he has a minute.
He stands up. “You’re doing fine, man. No one climbs without struggling.”
As soon as he disappears inside, a cloud over the horizon turns itself into Felix. It points in the direction of the restaurant. “That dude’s trying to steal my role. Tell him I’ve got the market cornered on inspirational pep talks.”
What Elias said didn’t magically solve my issues, but I find it in me to laugh, which is an improvement from a second ago. “You wouldn’t have said it like that.”
“Damn straight, I would have said it better.” He flips himself upside down, does a handstand-walk across the horizon. Then he does a little somersault and stands upright again. “But he’s right, you know. It’s not all just going to magically happen all at once. Or has no one ever told you that?” He puts his hands on his hips for a second, chewing on his lip. “Shit, actually, no one really does tell you that, now that I think about it.”
Felix shrugs the thought away. “You’re fine. Trust me. You’re young. You’re alive. Give it time.”
“I’m fine? I’m talking to a fucking cloud,” I say. That nameless weight is creeping back in, and I want to run from it. “I miss you, man. I miss Mom and Dad. Sure, I’ve got Emma, but Chef could find out about that at any moment, and...” I trail off when I hear someone coming out onto the patio. It’s Matt, smacking a cigarette pack with the palm of his hand. He smirks at me when we make eye contact, and he lights his cigarette, still staring at me. I turn back to the view.
“You think I never had that?” Felix says, ignoring the fact that Matt almost certainly just saw me talking to myself. He climbs out of the sky, turns into a flesh-and-bone version of himself and takes a seat next to me. I keep my eyes on the horizon. I don’t want to deal with being insane right now; I’ve got other shit on my mind. “Happiness is not easy,” Felix says, and I think I know what’s coming next. The line sounds rehearsed, part of a larger speech that Felix probably tinkered with and repeated throughout his travels, pitching it at younger backpackers he’d run into at hostels, in bars. It still comes out sounding sincere. “But it’s possible.”
Felix scoots his chair into my line of sight, not letting me pout. “You’re going to be okay,” he says, smiling before he disappears.
CHAPTER 19
PIBIL EGGS BENEDICT
1 English muffin
2 slow-poached eggs
4 ounces pulled pork, cochinita pibil–style
A pinch of chopped cilantro
For the habanero Hollandaise:
2 habanero chilies, deveined
and seeded
3 egg yolks
1 tablespoon lemon juice
¼ teaspoon Dijon mustard
½ cup butter
METHOD:
When I make my way back into the kitchen, the staff is gathering around Chef. She’s standing in the pass, waiting for everyone to show up. Sue’s at her side, ready to take notes. I slip in between Elias and Memo, playing it cool, like I didn’t just have a breakdown outside.
Once everyone’s around, mostly quiet thanks to the morning calm, Chef adopts a slightly militaristic stance. Anytime she speaks I’m sure she’s about to fire me, belittle me, make a spectacle of my inadequacies.
“Alright, guys, today’s gonna be a shit show. We’ve got more covers than we’ve had all summer.” She picks up a clipboard. “We’ve got a ten-top and a twelve-top coming in right as we open, so we’re gonna get our asses kicked from the get-go.”
There’s a few groans at this but a few high fives and whoops too. Elias leans toward Memo and whispers, “Listo?”
“Siempre, papi,” Memo says with a grin.
She looks down at her notes, and there’s a building excitement in the air. Someone in the back is sharpening a knife, the metallic clang of it reverberating through the murmurs in the crowd like a war drum. “You’re gonna need some energy if you’re pulling a double today, which is every single one of you, right?”
A few laughs and some more “Yes, Chef”s.
“So, Memo, why don’t you make a shitload of scrambled eggs for everyone? We should have some of those sausages from last week’s special left over so fry up whatever’s left of them. Roberto, Carlos, these guys are gonna be running through pans, and you know how many fucking glasses the brunch crowd uses up, so we need you guys on top of your game. Help them keep their stations clear when you can, and we’ll keep your beer glasses full when this is all done.”
Someone claps a hand to my shoulder, and I can’t help but get caught up in the rumble of excitement building up in the kitchen. My mind stops drifting to nameless worries, focuses on the present. Chef runs through the specials and then she dismisses us by saying, “Have fun out there,” and everyone flurries into motion. Burners flicker on, the hood starts to roar, knives come down on cutting boards, thumping like the beat of a war drum. What a world.
Just like that, all else fades, disappears to irrelevance. I collect some pans from the prep kitchen, depositing them at my sink and then running back out for more. I take out a few bags of trash, and I hear the whirr of the first order ticket coming out from the printers at each station. Chef’s voice calls out over all the chatter in the kitchen, “Ordering! Three veggie omelets, three pulled pork bennys, four special bennys...”
All the cooks respond with a well-coordinated, “Yes, Chef!” They make little comments to each other, coordinate their respective components so that everything hits the plate at the same time.
I heave the trash into the Dumpster outsid
e and get back into the kitchen before the side door even shuts. I might not be holding a knife, I might be the lowest guy in the pecking order, I might always be out of my mind. But I’m a part of this kitchen now. I belong here. I don’t even pause to watch the first orders being cooked. I’ve got a job to do.
Every dirtied dish that comes my way I take pride in, as if it’s an onion that Chef has asked me to chop. This is the thing I’ve done more than any since I got to the island, probably, more than sleeping, more than cooking, and I’m good at it now. These struggles will lead elsewhere.
I run through a tray of coffee mugs and champagne flutes smudged with lipstick and the pulpy remainders of the fresh oranges used in the mimosas. Roberto and I communicate two or three words at a time, always in Spanish. “Sartenes primero?”
“Si.”
“Ve a ver,” Roberto says, our shorthand way to see if anyone needs help.
I glance through the stations, trying to spot anything that might need tending to. A plate that’s been set aside and might get in a cook’s way, a mug of coffee someone was sipping on and doesn’t have time to bring to the dish station. If two cooks are talking, I do not interrupt, knowing they might be trying to time their respective duties. If I do have to step into a station to remove a dish towel or clear out their trash for them, I announce myself in Kitchenese. “Behind,” I say. “Coming through, hot!” if I’m rounding a corner and carrying pans. Forget English, forget Spanish—this is the language I was born to speak.
Chefs call all the activity that takes place during service “the dance.” And now that I’m closer to it than I ever have been before, I know exactly why. There’s a liveliness to the kitchen, constant movement that feels both primal and yet measured, like a frantic waltz. If I have enough time to study any one person, that’s exactly what it looks like. Vee, for example: how she will test the doneness of a piece of meat on the grill by pressing into it, flip the steaks that need it, take a half step to the right to check the broiler, pivot backward to double-check her ticket, half spin back to the grill. You could set her movements to music.
Chef is standing at the pass, expediting, adding sprigs of rosemary and drizzles of chipotle oil. She calls out a new order, and the entire line sets into choreographed motion. I think of being in class, not that long ago, how our teachers were rarely treated with this much deference.
Approaching Matt’s station to grab a hotel pan that’s just kind of sitting there, I call out, “Behind,” making sure Matt can hear me. I see him give a little nod and then turn back to the portion of veggies he’s sautéing.
I use a damp towel in case it’s still hot, but just as I lift it up, Matt takes a step back, his elbow coming down on my forearm. The pan slams against the counter with a clatter and then goes flying down at the ground. Browned bits of potatoes and rosemary splatter against the stainless-steel cupboards at our legs, which we both jump away from to avoid getting burned.
“Watch it, asshole!” Matt yells.
Taken aback, I’m frozen for a second. Heads turn in our direction. Chef and Elias are both at the pass, staring up at us.
“Chef, you watching this shit? I thought you told this guy to stay in the back washing dishes.”
“Goddamnit, Carlos,” Chef yells. “Didn’t you hear that whole fucking speech I gave today? You pick the busiest day of the year to start running into people?” I open my mouth to complain, to point out that look in Matt’s eyes. “Why the hell should I let you run around if this is how you handle it? Breaking pans and shit. You gonna pay for a new one?” Vee slides a plated half rack of ribs through the window, calls out the table number and returns to her station. Chef grabs it and continues to berate me while dusting the plate with curry powder. “Are you gonna get your shit together or are you gonna make me regret letting you set a single fucking toe in my kitchen?”
“Yes, Chef,” I mumble, kneeling down to pick up the pan, face reddening in shame and anger. I look up at Matt, who’s red-faced and muttering as he turns his attention back to his sauté pan. I wish I could toss this pan at him, wish he knew how much he might be undoing.
“It wasn’t Carlos’s fault, Chef,” Elias says. “I heard him call out ‘behind.’ This little shit just did that on purpose.”
There isn’t really a DJ-scratch moment, because the kitchen would fall apart if things ground to a halt. But there’s a definite sense that people are turning their attention back on the altercation. No one’s talking; there’s only the roar of the hood, food sizzling, the dull hum of the noise from the dining room.
I stand up, the pan warm in my hands.
“You don’t know shit,” Matt starts to say, but Chef shuts him up with a glare.
“Is that true?” she asks, looking at me.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me, especially Matt’s. I shift uncomfortably. “Maybe he didn’t hear me,” I say, finally.
“Because you didn’t say a word, you fucking amateur!” Matt yells.
Chef gives Elias a glance. “I heard it, Chef,” he says. “And I’m back here.” He shrugs and then passes a couple of plates over to the window to the server station, dinging the bell and calling out, “Table six.”
With that, everyone resumes their work, but I can tell their ears are still cocked to hear what Chef will say.
Matt starts to complain, but Chef shuts him up again by raising her hand. Even if it was a misunderstanding, he was such an unequivocal asshole that I’m happy to see Chef exert her power. She looks at me, the rage now gone from her eyes. “Get back to the sink,” she says simply, and that’s all the apology I get. Then she turns back to Matt. “You’re telling me he’s the amateur? You should know better, prick.” She doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just turns her attention to the food again, yelling, “No more bullshit, everyone. Get back to work.”
When the night is done, I push the door open and am greeted by a wave of fresh, warm air and a sky twinkling with stars.
“Okay, no more onions,” a voice says behind me. I spin around and see Chef leaning against the wall, having a cigarette. She’s got a leather jacket on, her hair up in a tight bun. She smokes slowly, and I get the feeling that she doesn’t really like people knowing she smokes. Her face is half-hidden in the shadows, and it makes her look like a villain in a noir film, like I’d be right to be scared of her. “Tomorrow, it’s omelets,” she says. “Bring the eggs.” She exhales and turns around to lock the door and then leaves without another word.
I swear I see the stars rearranging into Felix’s smug grin for a second and then my phone buzzes in my hand, distracting me. Lake? Me, Brandy and a few others are on the way now.
Hell yes, I respond.
I can’t picture a better way to celebrate the mini-promotion, and though it’s a beautiful night for a slow stroll, my strides are quick and purposeful. I check my phone and see an email from Mom, something forwarded from the University of Chicago, a bunch of question marks added into the subject line. It makes me laugh nervously, and I decide I can put that off until later.
Breaking through the clearing that leads to the stretch of beach Emma likes, I see a few plastic lounge chairs lined up. They’re set up in that bay where the bioluminescent plankton is brightest, and I can see their toes lighting up in the water. Before approaching, I take a moment to appreciate all of it. I can pick out Emma’s laugh in the voices, which are carrying over on a warm breeze, the same one that’s causing little ripples in the water and making it look like the stars reflected on the surface are dancing. Felix is so right. I’m young. I’m alive. I’m going to be okay. Look at this world. How could I not be okay?
I get closer to the group, the sound of my footsteps alerting them to my presence. They all say hi, Brandy enthusiastically, the two guys there, Paul and Reggie, less so, since we’ve never really talked. I wish this were Mexico, just for the excuse to lean into Emma an
d kiss her cheek hello, feel her skin on my lips. Instead I lay a hand on her shoulder, seat myself on the rocky shore by her feet.
We end up playing a game called Turn of Phrase, which is basically a mix of Cards Against Humanity, Pictionary and charades. I’ve always been kind of bad at charades; I can never translate the movie or whatever into actable motions quickly enough and always end up standing there awkwardly gesturing lamely with my hands and looking frustrated.
Tonight, though, the normalcy of the evening makes me dive into the game completely. When it’s my first turn to act, I draw the card and stand in front of everyone, and I don’t feel like they can see right through me. I have to act out the phrase not a single fuck was given, which would normally cause me to just stand there giggling and shrugging until time was up. But instead I wag a finger and thrust my hips and pass out imaginary items to everyone. It takes Emma only about twenty seconds to get it, and we hug in celebration. I’m so into the game I even forget about my exhaustion.
When I’m not acting, I find myself reaching out to Emma. In small ways, mostly, light touches that individually would probably be innocent and friendly but cumulatively speak to something more. At least I mean them to. I’m not sure how Emma sees it.
The game ends and the others jump into the lake. We lag behind, my hand reaching for hers. Crazy how I can tangibly reach for joy this way. Just be near her and I’m better. Emma bites her lip, looks at me seriously. “What was that about today? In the restaurant.”
I should say something true. I should tell her about her mom’s caveat. I should tell her that I had to go have a talk with my dead brother because sometimes I feel like I’m made of hay and that the wind could carry me away back to Mexico or else just scatter me into oblivion. “I had a phone call coming in,” I say. She studies my face for a moment, and I offer such a fake smile that I’m shocked she doesn’t see through my bullshit right away. Eventually she turns away, apparently believing me.
