“Then there’s no use for you here.”
Z turned and walked back over to the line, started checking on the next course’s dishes.
Taylor leaned in toward me, tidying his station. “Why did you get us into that?” he said.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” I said.
He shook his head. “Well, you meant to do something,” he said.
He dropped the tomatoes into the trash.
“He does this every few nights. Threatens his regular staff with someone new, makes them work a little harder for their job. But there is no way he’s actually giving you my job.”
His station was spotless, ready for the next rush of dinner returns.
“I was just promoted to trash too,” he said.
“That’s something you get promoted to?”
“It’s not my strength. But if you want to cook for him eventually . . .”
“Trash is the path?”
He nodded. “Trash is the path.”
“So, the idea is that you’re writing down what people don’t eat?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask way too many questions?”
“Yes, they have. And I totally understand if you don’t want to answer them, considering that I’m now the competition.”
He smiled, my honesty having warmed him. Imagine that!
“Noting for Chef what is left behind helps him ascertain whether it’s presentation that isn’t working or the item itself, so he can adjust accordingly. It’s pretty important. At least as far as he is concerned.”
“Weird. They haven’t done this at the other places I’ve worked.”
“They don’t do most of what Z does anywhere else,” Taylor said. “He’s fastidious.”
Taylor nodded, proud to work there. And I started to feel conflicted that he was trying to help me out, even though I was trying to take his job.
I suddenly wanted to do something else.
“So maybe we can figure out a way to convince him he needs two people to do it,” I said.
He laughed. “No, it’s you or me.”
“I was suggesting an alternative.”
“No offense,” he said. “But the alternative is that you’re ending your little regime at 28 right when it’s getting started.”
The thing about working in a restaurant kitchen, even under intense pressure, is that it gets really quiet, really quickly. The only sound is the noises of the kitchen, its own life-form, stainless-steel pots and fire and bubbling water, finding their rhythm together. Especially a restaurant like 28. The waiters and line cooks move like a machine. I didn’t know how I’d do on trash, but I realized it was a good thing my career as a waiter here had been short-lived, or I would have been fired before the night was out. The rapid movements, the heavy plates lining arms. Getting hit by Z on one side and the snooty guests on the other.
Staying in my small trash workstation, surrounded by garbage pails, was certainly preferable. Yes, even considering the garbage pails. And I found myself watching intently, trying to keep up, trying to learn. I watched the plates come back from service, making mental notes as to what people were eating well. And what they weren’t touching.
Some of it wasn’t surprising. There wasn’t a stray noodle from Z’s homemade cacio e pepe—rich and peppery, covered in cheese. And Taylor had been right: The leftover tomatoes were an anomaly. Besides those stray tomatoes Z had sulked about, every plate of strawberry pizza returned to us clean.
In fact, over the course of the evening, the only unpopular dish was the vegetarian tagine.
It was midnight before Chef Z came over.
“What’s the word, Taylor?” Z asked.
“The tagine’s sauce,” he said.
“What in the sauce, specifically?”
I looked down into the thick sauce, uncertain how he expected Taylor to answer that, when I realized what the answer was.
“I would say the preserved lemon, Chef,” Taylor said.
“Would you?”
“Often, there were several chunks left in the bottom of the dish.”
Chef opened up the trash bag and peered inside. Then he looked at me. “Is that right?”
I paused. I needed this job. I needed the proximity to Z for my plan to go as needed. Then I looked at Taylor. It seemed like if I gave a different answer than he had, he’d be out of a job. Or would he? Was that too easy for the game Chef Z was playing here?
“Preserved lemons, Chef.”
It wasn’t that I’d developed a conscience. It was that it suddenly occurred to me that there was a smarter way to go.
Z looked surprised that I backed up Taylor. As for Taylor, he looked downright shocked.
“Okay,” Z said.
“But I don’t think the lemon is the problem,” I said.
“And what is the problem?”
“The dried cherries. They’re close to the lemons in consistency. And once people have the sweet, they’re probably less interested in the savory.”
Chef Z moved incredibly close to me, whispered in my ear. “Did I ask you to evaluate my dish?” he said.
“No, Chef.”
“So do not offer it then, especially when you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. Though I could see it. He was just a little bit insulted. Which, for a narcissist, was a step away from impressed.
Z looked between us. “So which of you is staying?”
It wasn’t a question. “I’d say we both should,” I said.
“Not possible.”
“Except the issue with the food that is thrown out is twofold, Chef. Taylor accurately noted everything that didn’t leave the plate, but there is another important aspect—the other elements in the dish that were preferred. That has to be taken into account in considering what they chose to consume and what they chose not to consume. That’s really a two-person job.”
He looked down at his watch. “That was almost ninety seconds that I’m never getting back.”
I nodded, a subtle apology.
Chef kept his eyes on me. “Taylor, walk away.”
“What?” Taylor said.
“Walk away.”
“Chef, Sammy will tell you . . .”
“Who is Sammy?”
I raised my hand.
“Stupid name.” He shook his head. “Is that what your parents named you, or did you shorten it all by yourself?”
I looked around the kitchen, wondering who would react to the lie, who knew my real name. Everyone continued working, cleaning up their stations, closing down for the night. If anyone was interested in outing me, they were going to do it when they hadn’t been on their feet for fourteen hours already and were dreaming of getting into their beds, confrontation free.
Z turned away from me, looked Taylor up and down.
“Taylor, why are you still standing here?”
Taylor walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with Z.
“So, Sammy. This is your entire job, trash. You look at what people left on their plate. And write it down. Then you throw it out. Is that understood?”
I nodded, trying to contain my joy. “I won’t let you down, Chef,” I said.
“Of course you will,” he said.
Then he walked away.
24