North of Happy

by Adi Alsaid

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  Elias rubs his hand around his mouth, along his goatee. “Hope you’re not thinking of using packaged tortillas. We don’t even have them.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was gonna ask Lourdes if she could make them.”

  “Good call.” Elias reads through a couple more times and then hands back the sheet of paper. “Not bad at all, man.”

  At that moment, Chef steps outside. “Carlos. Were you gonna take the rest of the fucking day?”

  I stand up, scribble one last addition to the recipe. “Sorry. I’m ready.” I walk over to her, list held out. She stays there in the doorway, reading. I’m standing in the sun, she in the shade. Behind us, Elias types a message on his phone.

  Chef looks up from reading. “What’s this?” She’s pointing at where I just scribbled the word berry.

  I pull one out of my pocket, show her. She grabs it, examines it for a second. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. It grows here. In the woods.”

  She digs her fingernail into the skin, peels it open, smells it, peels farther so she can get a taste. Chewing, she gives me a weird look. I wonder if I should feel guilty, but before I can linger on the thought, Chef says, “Follow me.” I look over my shoulder before following her inside, see Elias raise his eyebrows at me.

  Inside, people are setting up. They’re looking over their lists, checking their supplies. Lourdes has atole going. I can smell it as soon as I step in. They’re sharpening knives, arguing over what music to play, talking about last night’s bar outing. Ah, to be in the midst of all of this.

  We enter the prep kitchen, where Lourdes is indeed ladling out atole into Styrofoam cups. Memo and Isaiah are sleepy-eyed, both leaning over to look at their mise. “How you doing on onions?” Isaiah says. Memo slides a deli container his way without answering. Matt’s in there too, leaning back against the wall, looking at his phone.

  “Alright,” Chef says, quietly to me. “This looks good. We just have to figure out where you can actually cook without pissing everyone off and fucking up the whole day.”

  I see Matt look up from his phone and can swear he’s tuning in, that he’s heard every word. I hope Chef tells him to fuck off again, to mind his own business. If he finds out she’s letting me cook a special, I can’t imagine he’ll keep my secret about Emma any longer. He’ll sabotage everything.

  To my dismay, Chef just calls out: “Carlos has a dish for us. Might go on today’s menu. Don’t let him get in the way, but I need you to give him a hand. He’ll tell you what he needs from you.”

  Everyone exchanges a glance. Isaiah leans in to take a closer look at his prep list, mutters a curse under his breath.

  I can taste the disappointment. If everyone’s busy, I’ll be screwed. The ingredients available will be different tomorrow. What if I can’t come up with something else that she likes? I’m so close now, and I don’t want it ruined by the off chance that someone has too much shit to do.

  “Just let him cook, Chef. He can use my station if he needs it.”

  I look up. I think I know who said that, but it can’t be right. It sounded like Matt.

  “You sure? You’re set for service?”

  “I’m set, Chef. Don’t need a burner at all. Just a counter for a board and a knife.” He stands up straight, sticking his hands in his pockets, his tattooed sleeves showing. “I’m all for testing the kid.”

  “Great,” Chef says, always happy when things run smoothly. She turns to me. “Just one portion right now. Don’t waste any of my food until I decide it’s good enough. Let me know when you’re done, and don’t take your sweet time.” She walks out the door while I’m still making eye contact with Matt, not sure what’s going on.

  Everyone looks away, the flurry of prep hour returns, flames sizzling and knives coming down on cutting boards.

  “Thanks, man,” I tell Matt, approaching his station. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He keeps his eyes on his phone, as if I’m still not worth his full attention. “You give me the creeps, man. But I see you working.” He gives the slightest of nods. “Do your thing.”

  The next hour is a blur. Lourdes helps out with the tortilla and gets a small saucepan full of veggie stock going for the cauliflower waiting to be pureed. Matt roasts a single red Scotch bonnet pepper for the basil tuna’s topper sauce, which I throw into a food processor with lemongrass and garlic. I scoop that into a ramekin and then push it aside until I’m ready to plate.

  The steps, of course, are enjoyable. Seasoning the tuna and then searing the pieces, watching the flesh change colors like a magic trick. Cutting into the fish and seeing that beautiful almost-maroon in the center. Dipping a tasting spoon into the cauliflower puree and, even though I try to set the bar of expectations high for myself, being blown away by the flavor. Taking a single berry out of my pocket, rinsing it clean, using my gyuto to chop it into tiny cubes, its tangy aroma releasing into the kitchen.

  There’s something special about plating a dish for the first time. Making something in real life match what was in your mind’s eye. I use one of those long, rectangular platters with three separate compartments. The colors are almost exactly what I was envisioning. The darkness of the sesame crust and the ponzu in the first one, contrasted with the bright green cucumber beneath and the bright red sauce on top. The cauliflower-thyme puree in the middle dish, perfectly off-white and flecked with green, the orange Cajun exterior, the drizzle of lemon oil over all of it. And the taco. The perfect spice of the aioli, the cilantro smelling like home.

  It transports me to the Night of the Perfect Taco. Felix leaning in to take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. It was late, maybe the second-to-last stop. I felt drunk off the night, exhausted. Felix picked up a chunk of salsa-covered pineapple that had spilled and popped it into his mouth. “So, how’s this one rate?” I asked. “Perfect?”

  He didn’t answer right away, just looked around. Who knows where we were. Some hole in the wall, two tables and a counter, paint peeling mid-meal. Across the street there was a cantina, and we could hear a group of drunk dudes singing. “Not much is,” he’d said. Another smirk, one of the last I saw the real him make.

  I focus back on what I’m doing. I arrange the pieces of tuna exactly how I had pictured them and place a basil leaf, a sprig of thyme and a cilantro leaf respectively atop each piece of tuna. It looks perfect. Everything tastes perfect on its own when I try it, and I feel this surge of excitement when I think of how good it will be all together.

  There’s a small crowd gathered when I tell Chef I’m ready. They pretend they’re doing their own thing, but everyone focuses at least one sense on us. Isaiah is looking over his shoulder while he stirs something. Memo’s actually leaning toward us to try to hear better. I wish Emma were around to see this, and I quickly check the time on the wall clock to make sure I’m still fine to catch the ferry.

  Usually, no comment from Chef is a good thing. She can think of criticisms fairly easily. Compliments, not so much. She takes a bite of the basil tuna, making sure to get some of the sauce and the cucumber in the bite, dragging it across the ponzu reduction. She chews, nods, says nothing. A wipe of the mouth, a sip of water. Then she uses her fork to cut into the Cajun tuna, scooping the puree up this time and again dragging it through the lemon oil. Chew, nod, nothing. A wipe of the mouth, a sip of water. She looks closely at the taco and then grabs the tortilla and folds it. The lean-in is so familiar to me, I can’t help but think of Felix, replay every lean-in he made that night before it came to an end. I shake the memory from my head, bring myself back to the present.

  On the first bite of the taco, Chef closes her eyes. She chews, maybe slower than usual. Was that a sigh? Was that a fucking sigh?

  I hold my breath. Oxygen is actively leaving my lungs without my permission. Chef chews. Swa
llows. Sets the taco down on the plate. She looks like she’s going to speak, but she reaches for her water and her napkin. Oxygen doesn’t exist anymore in my world.

  “We’ve got a special,” Chef says without much fanfare. “Good job.” She reaches for the taco again, takes another bite. “You better have written down exactly how to fucking do this one, or I’ll never forgive you.”

  I smile. “Yes, Chef.”

  “Good.” She feels some aioli on the side of her mouth and uses her finger to lick it up. “Teach these guys how to make what I ate. A little more butter in the puree. Don’t overdo the spicy shit for the first guy.” She takes her last bite of taco and then shakes her head, and I swear I hear her go “mmm” as she walks away.

  Still plenty good on time, I spend the next hour before doors open teaching the guys on the line how to make the components. Not that I really have to teach them much. They all know how to read my recipe and execute each element better than I can, but these guys treat the creator of a dish with a certain reverence, taking no artistic liberties, though they’re fully qualified to make adjustments and infinitely more experienced than I am.

  It’s not a bad feeling.

  Then doors open, and the waitstaff is starting to offer my dish as one of the day’s specials. I’m not technically on the clock and don’t need to wash dishes, but I hang around with my apron on, helping out in any little way I can. I don’t want to step away, don’t want to miss any of this.

  I find the exact spot where I can stand out of the way but still in plain view of the line, watching my dish come together over and over again. I watch Chef call out from the pass, “Order fire, two tuna specials, table seven.”

  Lunch service stretches into dinner. I’m glued to my spot in between the sink and the wall. Elias comes around laughing, saying, “You’re still here?” And I check the time and see I’m still fine. Since I’m not in a rush, I offer to peel the berries. I watch the stash I brought with me—stroke of luck—dwindle.

  I watch Vee butcher the tuna down to nothing. I set the garnish, drizzle the sauce. I know time is running late, but I also see the portions disappear, and in their wake my future at Provecho sets its roots. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life, and I want to see this through. I know I’m cutting it close, but at seven o’clock the dish gets eighty-sixed. Elias and Memo give me fist bumps as I hang up my apron. I think Chef almost smiles.

  I run into the walk-in, where I now realize I left my cell phone at the start of the day. Emma called exactly once, twenty minutes ago. It dawns on me that our ferry leaves in ten minutes. I say a quick good-bye to anyone who can hear me shout it out, and I bolt out the back door. It’s beautiful out. The sky is golden. Not just tinted by a golden sunset, but entirely golden, as if that’s a normal color for the sky. Not much is perfect in this world, but this isn’t far off.

  I sprint, thankful I brought a button-up shirt with me, trying to keep it free from wrinkles in my clutched hand. Things don’t go wrong here, so I have faith in the island’s ability to do whatever it wants to time in order to help me out.

  I’ve apparently forgotten that happiness is a knot easily untied. I arrive at the dock eleven minutes late, slipping into the shirt even though I’m about to sweat through it. I can see that there’s no one here anymore, and still I’m hanging onto some idiotic notion that this place does not adhere to the laws of nature. The ferry is fading into the horizon, steam billowing up and joining the golden sky. Stupidly, I look around the docks for her, phone pressed against my ear, saying “Fuck” every time it rings. It’s like burning a piece of food, this feeling. Like I know no matter what I do, the mistake is done; there’s no going back.

  I know without the shadow of a doubt that things are useless, calling Emma again is pointless, except maybe to say how much of an idiot I am. No answer. Maybe she’s already out of service range. Maybe she’s pissed at me right now. Maybe she always will be. I check the upcoming ferry schedule and realize with a sinking feeling in my stupid gut that there aren’t any more tonight.

  Night falls much faster than it has any right to. It gets dark in between phone calls, from one dial tone to the next. The stars are barely out. There are no clouds out to cover them up, but they’re hardly twinkling, as if they’re only showing up for a job they hate.

  I stand there a reasonably long time, calling her, texting her apologies. I consider swimming to catch up with the ferry. I consider swimming all the way to Seattle, faster than the boat, so that when Emma steps off she sees me and I can pretend I left too early. I call again. The night gets darker. I stare at the horizon, unable to do a damn thing about it.

  CHAPTER 28

  NOTHING

  METHOD:

  The worst night of my life was all sobs and sirens. This one is much quieter.

  It’s a slow dark walk through town back home, though halfway through I veer off into the woods. There’s nothing but the squish of my shoes on damp leaves, branches brushing against my clothes. My mind is desperate to find some explanation that doesn’t make me an asshole, coupled with the horrible feeling in my stomach (right above my stomach, actually, where shittiness is felt). I get too distracted and lose myself. I’m far off from any path that Emma might have showed me, pushing aside branches blindly. The moon should still be bright enough to see where I’m going, but it’s nowhere to be found. Even the fireflies are nowhere to be seen, perhaps prompted by my behavior to announce summer’s end.

  Nothing looks familiar. I can’t find the meadow or the hill with the view. I can’t even find the lake. The thrill of the day in the kitchen is buried deep beneath shame and regret and a general mix of emotional awfulness. I’m not sure what time it is when I get back home, since I call Emma so many times that my phone dies along the way.

  I flop onto my bed, knowing sleep won’t come easy. The sun rises almost instantly, the world decreeing that I do not deserve to rest. Emma hasn’t responded, except for in the millions of imagined conversations I’ve had while lying down. My alarm rings, pulling me out of bed. I feel half-dead, like I’m disappearing again.

  All throughout the twenty-minute walk to the restaurant, my brain continues to point out how much I’ve screwed up. How Emma might be a forgiving person but definitely not when it comes to playing second fiddle to the kitchen. The betrayal, my mind tells me, started with the berry. As soon as I picked it up, I was telling the universe I care more about food than about her. And I want to argue but a) my brain is right, and b) my brain is one of those assholes who won’t even listen to arguments.

  Felix doesn’t show his face either (any version of it), which is a damn shame because I could use some of his platitudes right about now. Something about second chances or losing track of time, the distractions of a dream coming true.

  Even as I’m thinking this, I know what Felix would say, the real version of him. He’d say that I didn’t need to stick around in the kitchen the entire shift in order to stroke my own ego. I could have had my little moment and then left on time. Felix would have said all this calmly, softly, the way difficult-to-hear-but-wise things are always said.

  I want to yell at my brain to shut up. On Main Street, everyone is having another summer day, taking their little jogging trips, getting breakfast before another day at the beach. They look like they’re basking in the sun already, even though the sun has barely risen and fog is smothering the light before it can really reach the people on Needle Eye Island. I grab my phone, desperately hoping all of this will be resolved with a miracle. I was confused about the day or something. Emma will text and say, Oops, phone died. Still on for our date tomorrow? Or maybe: No big deal. Had a pretty good time with my dad anyway. How was your day?

  But there’s nothing there, no relief, which means I’ll be thinking about all of this on a loop all morning. Emma’s working today, I know, and I should at least be able to sneak away
long enough to apologize in person.

  I knock on the back entrance to Provecho. Sue opens the door and tells me that she and Chef are taking inventory and to go wait in the office. I take a seat and my stomach shoots out of my gut and starts pacing around the room, muttering to itself. God, what an awful feeling to have fucked up this badly.

  Chef has me wallowing in it for what feels like an hour, just sitting there with no distractions except for the wall calendar sprawled with notes that I can’t read from where I am. If only I’d left an hour earlier yesterday. Hell, twenty minutes earlier. If only I’d been a decent person, appreciated the luck granted to me.

  The wall clock ticks as loudly as humanly possible, just rubbing every passing second in my face, both the ones I wasted last night and the ones I’m forced to sit through right now. Why the hell can’t time be reversed, mistakes unmade?

  Finally, Chef comes in, heading straight for her chair behind the desk. It’s (undeserved) relief to no longer be alone with my thoughts, to merely have another person’s presence in the room.

  Chef sits down, not wearing her whites. She’s got a stray streak of black ink on the back of her hand, the pen it probably came from tucked behind her ear. She sits quietly for a while, looking at me longer and more inquisitively than she usually does. There’s something in that look that feels off. Almost like sadness or pity, instead of the usual disappointment-tinted impatience. Am I that transparent?

  She sighs, and I’m momentarily thankful that I’ve got something other than Emma to think about. Then she says, “First things first, that dish last night was great. Incredible, actually.” She pauses to pull the pen from behind her ear and twirl it between her fingers like a drumstick. “For someone with no experience, especially. There wasn’t anything crazy hard to make, technique-wise, but the creativity is...well, frankly, enviable. Lots of people would give up their technique for your ability to think up dishes. The techniques you’ll pick up with experience. I have no doubt you will, ’cause you work hard. You’ve proven that much.” The clock’s ticking seems to have been turned down a few notches, volume-wise.