My dad answers that Jason has the right to be a pussy, equal society, modern era, etc., and asks Zack if he stirred the chili.
At 10:00 a.m., the doors to the market are unlocked. Customers file in.The weekend regulars are already seated. They have snuck in through the maintenance door. Some of them got here before me. Half of them were here yesterday when we opened at nine.
The Store has been in the Lower East Side for ten years. Credit should forever go to my sister for finding it a new home planet.
The Store is not the same, but neither is New York. Neither are we. My father is 74. Some days he is on. It is difficult to keep up, and everything he cooks is light-years beyond my ability. Other days he sits in his chair talking to customers and gets up to cook only when he has to.
And when he has to, it is a shit show.
Not the food. My father is the shit show.
Physically turning from the cutting board to the griddle is a challenge. He’ll forget ingredients—title ingredients, like the cashews in Patsy’s Cashew Chicken.
If I reach behind him to get bread, he will explode because I’ve broken his concentration and now he can’t remember what he’s put in the dish.
Worse than the explosion is the whimper.
The shit show whimper is the sound of my dad holding back tears, praying that the Ten Condiments sandwich will not topple over. It is a sound that could make stones cry.
The safest, kindest thing to do is stand off to the side and not cook—be there if he needs anything. This is what Zack does. But Zack has a gift for being chill.
I have no such gift. It is a special kind of torture for me.
When the rhythm is good, and my father doesn’t have to pee, the three of us cooking together is the best. I live for it. I’d die for it. I arrange my life around it.
Luke, the waiter, pokes his head in the kitchen and says, “Some asshole wants the eggs scrambled on their Blisters. I wouldn’t ask, but you always do it for Michelle.”
“It’s fine. I’ll do it,” Zack says.
I put down three corn tortillas for the Blisters and turn up the left side of the griddle because “BPFT—B” is also on the check.
“BPFT—B” is Banana Pecan Brown Sugar Bread Pudding French Toast.
“Be on guard. I really fucked with the menu,” my father shouts from his chair at the center of the dining area. This is my father’s mantra.
I crack three eggs in a bowl and add some cream and vanilla.
“If you get kids’ pancakes, I need to get up,” my dad adds.
“You don’t want to know,” Zack says to me, making scrambled eggs.
Zack has become the captain of The Store. He is the rock that cleans the grease trap and broils the brisket.
I am not a rock. I am a tiny pebble that likes to cook very fast and only on weekends.
A buzzer goes off.
Cubed ciabatta soaked in French toast batter blankets the front of the griddle. I embed it with bananas, pecans, and sprinkle brown sugar on top.
The buzzer is still buzzing.
I flip the BPFT—B over with a giant spatula.
To the right of the griddle is the steam table. It is where we keep stocks (veggie, chicken, beef) and a few base ingredients like marinara sauce or chili that my dad and Zack cook each morning. The flame needs to be turned on and off every half hour so the bases don’t burn or fall below temperature.
I turn the steam table off and reset the timer for another half hour.
The buzzing stops.
Zack is going to an amusement park with his girlfriend tomorrow. She has never been. He is thinking of buying them a special ticket that lets you bypass all the lines, but there are different levels and he can’t decide if he should get the “Executive” or the “VIP.”
I ladle black beans and ranchero from the steam table into a metal bowl with spinach, rice, and sliced jalape?o. This slurry is for the inside of Zack’s Blisters.
Zack takes the tortillas off the griddle and lines a sizzle tray with them, pours the rice slurry down, tops it with the scrambles and some cheddar cheese. Then puts the whole thing into the broiler till it blisters. The dish is normally made with sunny eggs, and the trick is to make sure the yolks don’t get hard.
I flip my BPFT—B over. The brown sugar has melted into trophy polish for the bits of pecans and chunks of bread.
“Nice,” Zack says, ringing the bell for Luke to pick up his Blisters.
Zack has gotten a lot of sleep. I can tell this because he will not shut up. It is sweet how excited he is for Jasmine to have her mind blown by the Kingda Ka. I totally agree. She is gorgeous; he is a lucky guy. Wow: two years you guys have been together. Yeah, I’d love for her to be in the family.
I drip molten brown sugar on the underside of my wrist. Zack asks if I need the burn cream, with an inflection of, “Are you a pussy?” I am not.
“Luke, this goes to the same place,” I say, and push my BPFT—B through the pickup window.
My brother drinking till 3:00 a.m. the night before work sounds irresponsible and depressing, but when it actually happens it is great. He is less cocky and doesn't have the energy to tell me facts about the Mets and baby animals.
“I got huevos,” my brother says. There are lots of items on the check, but only two are up for debate. The other is a country scramble with blue cheese. “Okay, I got the CS7. You got bacon and English muff,” I say, and put down an order of pancakes. It makes more sense for me to take the huevos, but: (1) His huevos are better than mine, and (2) He HATES blue cheese.
Zack doesn’t like to talk about my dad dying, but he has told me that blue cheese will be off the menu before the body is cold.
It is 10:10 and someone just ordered “Soup A” for breakfast.
“Dad, you’re gonna have to get up,” Zack shouts.
“Now? What is it?” my dad answers.
“No, one check away, African Green Curry.”
“You can come in now,” I shout, and flip my pancakes.
“Let’s just finish this check first,” Zack says, lifting the lid to his huevos. I give him marinara, beans, collards, and chicken stock.
My dad comes in the kitchen. I shoot Zack a sorry face, because he was right about finishing the check. But I’m not sorry; my dad got up fast. That is a good sign.
“Bok choy, broccoli, snow peas, cabbage,” my dad says, taking my spot in front of the griddle.
Zack calls to the dishwasher for bok choy and broccoli from the walk-in. I reach behind my dad and plate my pancakes. Zack shakes his head.
My father heats up a pan with olive oil. “Using the griddle, okay?” I say, and throw down corn tortillas.
I put the last one down right as my dad turns to scoop his chopped onions, cabbage, bok choy, and any other green vegetables we have on hand in the pan.
Zack flips my country scramble eggs and I add the blue cheese. The dishwasher gives me a tortilla holder that I fill and put in the pickup window. Zack rings the bell as he plates his huevos.
“Did you do the bacon?” I ask Zack, and send the CS7.
“Thai curry,” my dad says, adding a big ladle of veggie stock to the browned vegetables. Zack dips down in the fridge, and hands him a jar.