The work itself doesn’t get any easier, but I learn little things that make the job go by faster. I buy comfortable shoes that are mostly rubber and won’t get soaked throughout my shift. I get a stack of shirts at a thrift store that I won’t mind staining. I learn to bring a change of clothes, so that I won’t smell like garbage if people are going out after shift, or if Emma and I take a walk to the lake, which happens once, early in the week.
It’s just the two of us. She shows me more secret passageways through the woods until the trees clear to reveal a large, moonlit meadow. We stop at the edge. Emma’s looking at me expectantly, and at first I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see. I see tall, unkempt grass surrounded by trees. Then, like my eyes are playing tricks on me, fluorescent green lights flash on and off in the field, some of them rising up like bubbles in a pot of boiling water, some shooting across and lighting up the ground below them.
“Whoa.”
“Pretty, right?” Emma says, turning her neck slowly from me to the meadow.
“I almost never see fireflies.”
“I did some research, and they’re not even supposed to exist west of Kansas. I have no idea why there’s so many of them here.”
We walk through the field together, and in the blinking green lights I see Emma’s hand inches from my own, I see the curves and dips of her face in profile and I wonder how it is that I can find the space between things beautiful.
Emma stops for a second and reaches into the waist-high grass, her hand disappearing in the dark. She pulls it back out to reveal a berry I have never seen before, not in the smorgasbord of rainbow-colored fruit at American grocery stores and definitely not anywhere in Mexico. It is the size of a child’s fist, and the skin is prickly, like a lychee’s.
“When I was a kid, if I was mad at my mom, I’d hide out here for the day, picking out berries,” Emma says. “I had no way of knowing if they were poisonous, but I’d feast on them anyway.” She digs her thumb into the skin to reveal a pulpy white interior. She takes a bite out of it and then hands it to me. It’s sweet and tangy and would be great in a vinaigrette, as a sauce, maybe along with some roasted duck. “I don’t even think anyone else knows about these, because I’ve never seen them anywhere else. I’m sure she’d put it on her menu if she found out about them, but I like keeping this one thing to myself.”
We grab them by the handful, take them with us down the hill toward the lake. Sitting on the shore, gentle waves lapping at our ankles, we peel the berries one by one. A day or two ago, I thought of Emma as pretty. Tonight, her profile outlined by a full moon, she looks beautiful to me. I wish I could drive the thought away, but there it is anyway. The water—or something else about these nights—really does feel like it can cure hopelessness.
*
Now it’s Sunday morning again, pre-brunch. I haven’t seen Emma the last couple of nights because of late shifts and the fact that she has other things to do, a life beyond me. I try to ignore a longing for her so intense and specific that it’s like a food craving that won’t go away. I try to forget it and focus on the kitchen, where I feel sane.
The workload has not piled up yet. Roberto is not even around, which means I have shown up earlier than asked for again. Station to station I go, checking to see how I can help, if anyone wants to talk, if anyone will talk. Lourdes arrives, and I rush to help her bring the vat of atole to her stovetop. Matt walks by and hits my ass with the flat end of a wooden spoon, which stings like hell and makes him laugh way more than it should.
A sudden yell rings out through the kitchen. No one’s playing music yet, and the hood always feels quieter at this time of day, like it, too, needs time to wake up, so the words are clear. “Fuck, Gus!” It’s Chef. Heads turn. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t do this right now.” There’s the sound of the office door slamming open. Gus walks down the corridor, past the prep kitchen. He’s got his leather knife roll tucked under his armpit. Lourdes keeps her head down, gets started zesting lemons. I can’t help but gawk. Memo and Isaiah set their knives down on their cutting boards too, twin cocked eyebrows. Chef comes storming after Gus. “At least give me two weeks. You owe me that much.”
I simultaneously want to stay out of it and follow every word that’s said, so when the prep cooks file out, pretend to go to the walk-in freezers to grab something so that they can listen in, I follow behind.
“Sorry, Chef. But it’s not my problem. The new place doesn’t open up for a few weeks, but they’re having some issues right now and the owner needs me there.” He grabs something else from his station and then heads over to the lockers. “I’ll see if Boris can finish out his two weeks, but I gotta go.”
“What the fuck. You’re taking Boris with you?”
It feels like everyone’s eyes meet at the same time, like we’re watching some soap opera and registering each other’s reactions live. Chef crosses her arms in front of her chest, uncannily similar to what Emma does when she’s broaching certain conversation topics that she’s shy about. “It’s the middle of summer, man. We’re slammed every day. Don’t you have any fucking loyalty? I can’t do this right now two cooks down. Give me time to find a replacement. That’s all I ask.”
Gus checks his phone. “I really gotta go.” He walks right past Chef, answers a phone call on his way out. There’s this terrifying moment where it feels like Chef’s gonna catch everyone staring and start throwing knives. But then everyone kind of has the same thought, and we scatter to our stations, knowing already that shit’s gonna be heavy today.
When I see that the kitchen is starting to come alive into that pre-service dance, I disappear behind my partition, ready to work my ass off. In some ways, the busiest times are the best. My mind is free to wander, but it doesn’t wander to the Night of the Perfect Taco, the question of Whether I’ll Always Be this Way.
Often it goes to new dishes, strange combinations of flavors. Lately, though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, much less Emma, I plan out dates. I don’t let my mind skip ahead to a predictably sexy ending but rather linger on the details of each step. Meeting her at her door, the exact way I’d greet her. A kiss on the cheek, my lips on her skin. A picnic on that hill she loves, fireflies illuminating our grilled cheese sandwiches (roasted vegetables inside, three artisanal cheeses, thyme butter).
Today, I grant us an early kiss in the fantasy, and goose bumps shoot down my arms even as the hot water and the scrubbing fibers grate my fingertips through the gloves down to unrecognizable smoothness. I didn’t know there could be such pleasure in just the imagining of someone’s company.
CHAPTER 12
MEXIMAC ’N’ CHEESE
2 cloves garlic
1 white onion
1 habanero pepper
200 grams bacon
1 cup grated Monterey Jack cheese
1 cup grated Manchego cheese
1 cup grated Chihuahua cheese
? cup dark beer
? cup buttermilk
500 grams macaroni noodles
METHOD: