North of Happy

by Adi Alsaid

  He takes a slow drag from his cigarette. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or not. He holds his breath for so long that I feel like whole meals were cooked during the span. A whole new set of customers were seated during his breath.

  Finally, he exhales, no Felix in the smoke. “I don’t hate anybody, man.” He tucks one of his tattooed arms beneath the other, ashes the cigarette onto the ground. Little gray specks of ash saunter away in the breeze before they even hit the ground, as if the island is carrying them away. “You’re a weird dude,” he says, shaking his head. Then he stubs his cigarette out and walks back inside.

  CHAPTER 26

  MOM’S SPAGHETTI BOLOGNESE

  6 stewed tomatoes

  1 onion, diced

  4 cloves garlic, minced

  1 bunch basil leaves

  1 pound ground beef

  ½ cup red wine

  ¼ cup parmesan cheese

  2 tablespoons red pepper flakes

  1 tablespoon oregano

  2 bay leaves

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  Splash of balsamic vinegar

  METHOD:

  It’s late afternoon, in between lunch and dinner service. I’m facing a mountainous heap of dirty dishes, and over the sound of my spray hose I can hear the kitchen clamoring. Out of the corner of my eye I notice someone poking their head in.

  It’s Emma’s lovely face. She’s somewhat stoic, as she tries to be when we’re in the restaurant and her mom might be lurking. I can always spot a little glimmer in her eyes, though, meant only for me. It makes me want to rip my apron off and take her to the lake, watch her swim, read, watch the world become secondary to her, its beauty just a backdrop. “Um, Carlos, someone’s here to see you.”

  The first thing that crosses my mind is that Emma’s making up some cover to sneak me away for a few minutes. I peel my gloves off and hang up my apron, and then I follow her out of the kitchen and into the empty dining room, where bussers and servers are seated at a table, folding napkins. Out of habit, I look beyond them to the patio, the golden light of the sun drawing out the shadows of the chairs outside. What a world.

  When I turn my head, Emma is holding the front door open, and I still think for a moment that she wants to take me somewhere, until I see Mom standing outside. I freeze, my brain trying to wrap itself around the fact of her presence.

  Emma gives me a little smile, while Mom looks like she’s about to cry. She’s wringing her hands nervously, and a few tourists are walking past, looking into the restaurant curiously. Emma tells them that we’re still closed and then puts a hand on my shoulder before closing the door behind me.

  It’s so bright outside compared to the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen that it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  She wraps me in a tight hug, and I’m pretty sure I feel tears on my neck. “If you ever greet me like that again, I don’t care how old you are, I’m giving you a spanking.”

  I laugh. “You’ve never spanked me.”

  “Oh, trust me, I feel like doing it now.” She pulls back and wipes at the tears on her cheeks. Then she breaks out into a smile.

  I can’t believe how long it’s been since I saw her. It’s the longest I’ve been apart from my parents my entire life. Still, I can’t resist looking over my shoulder into the restaurant to see who might be watching. It’s so strange to see her here.

  “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  I hesitate. “I’m working.”

  She looks like she’s about to cry again. Rummaging through her purse, she pulls out one of those miniature packs of tissues and blows her nose a couple of times, and then she crumples the tissue in her hand. Spotting the bench, she walks over and takes a seat. I follow her.

  We sit quietly for a while, Mom looking around as she occasionally dabs at her eyes. “Pretty town.” Then her eyes flick forward to the Provecho sign. “I’ve been hating this place ever since I found out you were here,” she says. “I even left it some bad reviews online.”

  I chuckle. “Why?”

  She turns and gives me a heavy look. “Oh, please. You know.” When I don’t say anything, she looks away. “It took my baby away from me.” A family walks by, comically eating ice cream, happy, careless. I watch them uncomfortably, aware of the time that I’ve spent away from the sink, the work piling up. Aware, too, of Mom thinking about what to say. I can practically hear her mind whirring. Mine’s still wrapping itself around her presence. It’s so unexpected, as if I haven’t told her where I am, as if I’ve been hiding out from a whole other world.

  Felix’s absence weighs heavy in our silence.

  “You know, I’ve caught your dad a few times looking at the satellite images of this very street. He tries to hide it, clicks out of it as if I’ve caught him looking at...” Thankfully, she doesn’t finish the thought. “I can see how the stress of you leaving has affected him. He can’t sleep.” She turns to look at me, puts a hand on my forearm. “Please just come home. We can talk about everything else once we get back. But we want you to come back.”

  Of course. I should have guessed this was coming as soon as I saw her. They don’t want another Felix on their hands. They don’t care about how well I’m doing, how happy I am here. My first reaction is to just stand up and leave, go back to the kitchen where I belong.

  But it’s Mom here. She flew all the way to Needle Eye to talk to me, and I’ve missed the hell out of her. The least I can do is stick around and listen.

  “Please, Carlos. We miss you. You don’t know how much this is affecting your dad.”

  “You’re right, I don’t,” I say, rage bubbling up. It’s been easy to forget how I felt when I left, but their attempt to guilt me brings it all back to mind. “He doesn’t ever bother to call, does he? Not that I’m surprised, after the things he said about Felix in his stupid little speech, and before I left.”

  She reaches into her purse again and grabs another tissue. “You don’t understand. Your father doesn’t show his emotions well.”

  “Oh, I’d say he does a damn fine job of showing how he feels.” I stand up, ready to end the conversation. “I’m sorry, Mom. I miss you, and I wish it didn’t have to be like this. But I can’t leave. Did you guys not notice how badly I was doing back home? Could you not see me disappearing right under your fucking noses?” I hold up my hands, knowing I’m making zero sense, but I’m not able to stop. “Look at how much better I’m doing here! I can feel every moment I’m a part of now. I’m not thinking of the future or the lack of one. I’m happy!” I’m shouting. I take a breath to calm down. “You want to take this away from me?” I say, much softer.

  Mom lowers her head, and it hurts me to see that this fresh new batch of tears is without a doubt my fault. But I’m not going to unravel everything I’ve built for myself here because Mom’s sad or because Dad’s Googling stuff out of guilt. I take a breath or two, lower my voice.

  “I hope Dad feels better. I really do. And if he wants to call and talk or if he decides to come visit, that’s great.” I sigh, realizing how many people passing by are doing little double takes, interested in the sidewalk drama. It’s been too long. I should go back inside. “This is my life now. This is what I want for myself. And I’m not just going to step away from all of it because Dad’s guilt is chewing him up.”

  I walk back to the restaurant, open the door, turn back to look at Mom, who’s trying to contain her mascara from running. “It’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here.” Then I step back inside, letting the door slam behind me.

  CHAPTER 27

  TUNA THREE WAYS

  1:

  3 ounces sashimi-grade ahi tuna

  4 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds

  ½ small cucum
ber, spiraled

  1 roasted Scotch bonnet pepper

  1 clove garlic

  3 tablespoons ponzu sauce

  3 tablespoons basil leaves

  2:

  3 ounces sashimi-grade ahi tuna

  2 tablespoons Cajun seasoning (thyme, cayenne, paprika, garlic, onion)

  ½ cup cauliflower florets

  1 cup veggie stock

  1 sprig fresh thyme

  1 clove garlic

  1 teaspoon lemon oil

  3:

  3 ounces sashimi-

  grade ahi tuna

  2 tablespoons chili

  ancho aioli

  2 teaspoons Mexican

  chimichurri

  1 flour tortilla

  berry

  METHOD:

  It’s been a week.

  I met up with Mom for dinner once before she left, but she kept looking at me with tears in her eyes, like I’d told her I was never going to see her again. We ate quietly at a place down the street from Provecho, avoiding all sorts of elephants in the room.

  If guilt comes knocking (it does), I have plenty with which to keep it at bay: the kitchen, Emma, the knowledge that Dad’s at fault. The electric lake, fireflies, impossible full moons. It was hard to see Mom take things so hard, but she should have known that I wasn’t just going to come running back home. Hasn't she noticed how how much more present I am, how the island has given me back my full self? Felix makes a few appearances over the week, playing in the clouds, swimming in a sauce, but he doesn’t say much.

  I wake up on another day off, as early as any other day. Elias is downstairs making coffee. “Hey, man. I thought you had the day off today.”

  “Still have a training session with Chef,” I say.

  “Always at it,” Elias responds, opening the fridge and grabbing some eggs. “You doing anything with the day off? Sleeping?”

  “Going into the city with Emma. Her dad’s in town for some event thing. She wanted me to go with.”

  “That’s cool,” Elias says. “Getting pretty serious, huh?”

  I shrug, play it cool, though the fact that Elias is even asking makes my stomach flop around with giddiness and nerves that he isn’t the only one who’s noticed.

  I leave the house with a good-bye, my knife tucked under my arm. Sunrise, the fog reaching out for its usual morning embrace with the island. The forest is a dream to walk around in at this hour, and I’m still good on time, so I veer off the road. The paths that once seemed only visible to Emma are now familiar to me. I can spot where the grass has been matted by our footsteps; I recognize minute differences in the trees pointing the right way, like a map in invisible ink.

  In the meadow, I pick out a handful of the orange berries, peeling them carefully and popping them in my mouth throughout my walk. I can’t help thinking of how I would cook with them, and though I vaguely remember Emma saying something about wanting to keep them a secret, I think maybe she’d be okay if I was the one who cooked with them. I keep a few in my pocket, just on a whim.

  My lessons with Chef have varied lately. One day, she will put me back on omelets; the next she’ll tell me to roast a whole chicken, peel potatoes, sharpen every knife in the kitchen. Whatever the lesson is, I carry it with me the rest of the day, repeating the motions in my head so that the next time I’ll be better at it, faster, more precise.

  I arrive at the restaurant, the tang of the berry still on my lips. Chef opens up, leads me in. Today, she heads straight for the walk-ins. The excitement of stepping inside has not dissipated. The instant chill, the sensory overload of all those colors, all those flavors waiting to be drawn out. Making sure I appreciate that first step into the walk-in is my nod to Felix, how he would want me to treat this place with reverence.

  I look around for him, some acknowledgment that this is true. But it’s just me and Chef. She chews her lip, looks at me like she doesn’t have a plan or is second-guessing the one she already had. There’s a brief moment where I can see Emma in her face, and it freaks me out a little. It passes quickly, because she tosses the clipboard at me and I have to catch it before it hits me in the nose.

  Save for the far-off whirr of whatever engine keeps the room we’re in cold, it’s dead quiet. I’m not quite sure what’s going on yet and am still a little scared to say anything to Chef unprompted. After way too long, my skin pinpricked because of the cold, Chef finally speaks up. “A prep garde manger position is opening up. I thought a little test for you would be fun. You’ve been working hard, both with me in the mornings and doing what you’re paid to do. Your staff meals are good, but those don’t really mean shit. It’s a little soon, but let’s see what else you can do.”

  My heart quickens.

  “I need specials for the day.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest and nods to the clipboard. “You get to come up with one of them. If I like it enough, maybe I’ll put it on the menu.” I want to run and hug her. All those early mornings, those double shifts made harder by the extra work—this is what they were for. Elias was right. “And,” Chef adds, “I’ll promote you to the line.”

  I can’t help but smile at the clipboard in my hands. My mind’s already going to what I could make, using the flashes of ingredients that I can see on the menu. Braised short ribs with mole colorado and a corn puree. Lamb vindaloo pizza on naan crust, topped with cilantro chutney. I’m not throwing this opportunity away.

  “I want to see a detailed recipe with exact quantities of every ingredient you’ll use per portion. Make sure we’ve got enough for at least the day. I don’t want to eighty-six it before we’re even setting up for dinner.”

  “Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.”

  She nods and heads toward the door.

  “Um, Chef?” I ask, remembering all of Chef’s outbursts, thinking there’s gotta be some sort of catch to this. “What if you don’t like it?”

  “Then I don’t make it and you don’t get the job, genius,” she says, not slowing down. “And I don’t let you cook again for a year. You have until the prep cooks show up.”

  Having imagined this scenario plenty of times before, I expect to feel like I’m in one of those cooking shows I’ve watched over the last few years. I wait for the surge of adrenaline, the scamper to the pantry. I expect a giant timer to show up over my head.

  Instead, what I do is stand there in the middle of the walk-in, looking at the produce, studying the clipboard, suddenly impervious to the cold. I check the time. I wasn’t expecting to be here long today, but there are hours to go before I have to meet up with Emma and take the ferry into Seattle. Plenty of time to just think up a dish and explain it to Chef, maybe even cook up an example the way I’m envisioning. Emma’s probably still sleeping. I put my phone on a nearby shelf to see what’s hiding in the back.

  I find a scrap of paper, write a bunch of notes to myself about the ingredients, leave the walk-in. I spend about an hour on the patio, tapping a pen against the table, urging brilliance from myself.

  I’m surprised but relieved to look up and see Felix at the table, eating a plateful of chilaquiles, tendrils of steam rising from the dish as he scoops forkfuls into his mouth. I was starting to worry that we weren’t going to get a chance to say good-bye. “How about some of these?” he says.

  I give him a look. “Please.”

  “Okay, chilaquiles with, like, foie gras and a mango demi-glace and truffle shavings?”

  “You’re just throwing as many Food Network words out there as you can.”

  He chuckles to himself and takes another bite, following it up by running a piece of bread through the sauce on the plate. “What about some tacos? We never found the perfect al pastor. You could make that.”

  The suggestion stirs a thought. I hold up a finger, though asking for quiet has never worke
d with Felix, dead or alive.

  There’s a big hunk of prime ahi tuna that has barely been touched and needs to go. It might have been a provider’s mistake, or maybe people just aren’t ordering the tuna this week. An image pops into my head, the fish done three different ways, kind of like the salmon at the sushi place the other night but not quite. I lean over my sheet of paper, separate it into three columns.

  I look up, trying to decide what else the dish would need. Felix is still eating. He’s got his mouth full, and he tries to offer a suggestion but ends up choking on his words and spitting out little droplets of sauce all over me.

  “Gross.”

  Behind me, I hear the door from the restaurant open up. Elias comes out, and when I turn back Felix is gone. “Hey, man. What are you still doing here? I thought you were peacing out today.”

  I tell him about Chef’s challenge for the day. “Is that it?” Elias asks, motioning to the paper that I have been scribbling on all morning.

  I hand it over, mostly confidently. Elias nods as he reads, like it’s a song he can hear in his head. “Butter in the puree?”

  “Yeah, right?”

  Elias nods. Felix reappears, chewing on his nails, scrunching up his nose. “This guy to the rescue again?”

  I roll my eyes while Elias is still focused on the page.

  “Sounds pretty good, man. The taco needs something else. Some acid, maybe. The chimichurri’s good, but you need something that’ll make it pop.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking that,” I say. Just then I feel the weight in my pocket; the berries only Emma and I know about. That tang of theirs would be perfect. I wouldn’t have to do a thing to them, a couple of thin slices on top, or maybe chopped in with the tuna itself, along with the aioli, so that they’re in every bite.