*
They never end, these pots and pans and dishes. The end of lunch service just means my heavy work is beginning, and the exhaustion is the most physically trying thing I’ve ever experienced. Felix talks me through it, the most helpful he’s been since he died. Stories from his travels, little words of encouragement. I also find that if I let my mind wander to Emma, it makes the repetitive motions a little easier to bear. I revisit that glance she gave me, the way she looked splashing through the lake, how she laid her hand on mine.
At some point in the late afternoon, that guy Elias pokes his head in and says, “Staff meal.”
The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn’t order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it’s some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today’s scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day.
What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There’s another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias’s lead and grab a plate. I’m shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with condiments. I’m starving too, but it’s crazy to me that Chef Elise’s food is at their fingertips and everyone’s just letting it sit there.
There’s a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can’t even tell what’s in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it’s cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. “Do your thing.” It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalape?os, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.
I eat hungrily, quietly, feeling the day throughout my body. I look around the kitchen, wondering at what point they’ll start thinking it’s weird I showed up out of nowhere. But no one’s looking at me. A few of the guys are trash-talking each other’s favorite American football teams. They gossip about why the old dishwasher Richie didn’t show. Just beyond the pass, by the window that leads to the dining room, a few of the servers hang around, shooting the shit, mostly keeping to themselves.
A dozen conversations all happening without me. Felix is at my side eating a burger like mine, just without the jalape?os. I look over at him as he chews nonchalantly, hungrily, licking his fingers every few bites to catch the juices that drip out. I’m almost happy he’s here, that I’m not in this situation completely alone. Except now I’m trying not to act crazy in front of a whole new group of people.
Once I’ve inhaled my burger, I look for Emma again, but she’s on her break. Then dinner approaches and I’m banished back to the sink.
When the dishes finally stop coming my way, I’m practically falling asleep on my feet. I have no idea what time it is. Aside from bedtime. Everyone in the kitchen looks the way I feel. Except instead of wanting to head off to bed, all the cooks are talking about where they’re gonna get drinks. They’re comparing how their nights went, laughing, tossing towels at each other as they soap down their stations. They untie their aprons, unbutton their coats, roll up their personal knives into leather carriers.
“No refires today, motherfuckers,” Vee says in her southern accent, raising a meaty fist in the air. “Who’s coming to The Crown to celebrate how awesome I am?”
Memo laughs, says he’s in. “That bartender has been giving me the look for weeks now.”
“Alright, panty-dropper,” Boris says.
“Don’t shit talk Memo,” Chef says, appearing from her office. “This little dude is deceptively charming. Has to be, to make up for that face of his.”
Everyone laughs, but I barely have the energy to listen. Then Chef is at my side, pulling me back toward my station, away from everyone. I’m terrified that she’s going to make me wash more dishes. Instead, she just barks at me: “Listen, if you can’t keep up, don’t bother coming in.”
The words nearly break me. Which is a little weird because I’m not even supposed to be here. This place doesn’t mean a thing to me. I want to grab the dish towel that’s hanging on a nearby hook and toss it in her face, tell her to fuck off, just go back home. This is the hardest I’ve worked in my life, and if this is the thanks I get, maybe it’s better to make it my last day on the island.
Then one of the stains on the towels, perfectly resembling Felix’s mouth, tells me: “Stay. This was just the beginning.”
I want to ask him why I should even try. But I don’t say anything, and it’s not entirely because of the whole not-talking-to-myself-in-front-of-other-people thing. I meet her steadfast gaze, nod. I swallow what I really want to say. “I will do better, Chef.”
She gives me a long look, and I wonder if she’s just going to tell me not to bother, that I clearly don’t belong here. Instead, she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. She hands it to me.
Provecho–Back of house application.
“Fill that out, give it to Sue tomorrow morning. She’s the kitchen manager.” Another cold stare. I think I literally feel my skin crawling, trying to hide from her. Shit, and I thought Dad had intense looks. “You better not make me regret that,” she says, pointing at the application. Then she turns and leaves.
I look down at the page. It’s just paper, a few blank lines for me to fill out.
But it feels like so much more than that.
CHAPTER 9
ESCAMOLE QUESADILLAS
1 package flour tortillas
250 grams Oaxaca cheese
50 grams escamoles
1 teaspoon butter
2 cloves garlic
Serve with salsa
METHOD:
I’ve never been more excited for the prospect of sleep. I leave Provecho via the service entrance, ready to collapse.