I keep my eyes down, slurping at the broth and the hominy. Elias is leaning against the wall, smirking at me with his eyebrows raised.
“No? Who the hell else makes pozole here? It’s different than usual. Ginger, lemongrass. This is nice.”
I try to beg Elias not to do what he’s thinking of doing. The look on his face is such a Felix look that I’m afraid I’m hallucinating. Every time Felix was about to piss Dad off, he’d get that same smirk. For the first time, I wonder if Felix can inhabit the living. “Everyone was slammed, Chef. So I told the new guy to whip something up. Told me he could cook. I kind of agree.”
“The dishwasher,” Chef says, as if I’m nameless.
I imagine her firing me on the spot or maybe emptying the stockpot into the sink. I picture a finger pointed at the exit, maybe me even getting shoved out. Fuck, what if she actually stabs me?
She doesn’t visibly react, though. She serves herself a ladleful and sips at the broth thoughtfully. Her eyes are locked onto mine, and I’m pretty sure she’s killed someone like this, that the only reason the expression if looks could kill still exists is because not enough people have witnessed the fact that her looks can. Lourdes and Memo chat obliviously about their families while Chef finishes the bowl quietly.
She doesn’t take her eyes off me the entire time. Eight insane minutes of prolonged eye contact. My head might actually explode.
“Not enough balance here,” she says, finally. “It’s all spice.” She sets the bowl down on the counter and crosses her arms over her chest, still burning holes with her stare.
“Yes, Chef,” I whisper, though I’m not sure I say it audibly enough for her to hear. I want to turn my head away because I can’t ever remember being this uncomfortable, not even at Felix’s funeral when we were burying my brother, but I could see him dancing through the crowd. My stomach drops as I realize that I’ve disobeyed her orders, that she could easily send me packing back to Mexico.
“Come with me,” Chef says.
I walk through the kitchen already feeling nostalgic for it. Its roars of activity and noise, its unique language, Kitchenese in English and Spanish, its bursts of curse words and laughter. Flurries of food and fire.
In her office, Chef gestures for me to sit and then closes the door behind me. She sits down behind her desk, leaning back, hands folded over her stomach. Again, just a quiet stare. There’s a wall calendar covered in red-inked handwriting, a few Post-its. There’s a pen holder on the corner of the desk, a couple clipboards hanging up on the wall, not a trace of clutter. A wall clock ticks loudly.
Fuck, I don’t want to go back to Mexico.
“So,” she says, after an eternity. “You cook.”
I straighten out a little, clear my throat. I’m not sure what approach she’s taking here, but at least it isn’t instant berating. “Yes, Chef. I’m sorry, I know you told me not to, but...” I start to stammer an explanation, but she shuts me up with a raised hand.
“Culinary school?”
I shake my head. The way she asks, it makes it sound so obvious. Why didn’t I even think about that before?
She doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile.
Through the door, I can hear Sue, the kitchen manager, call out, “Six open menus!” Dinner’s starting up. I’m technically off the clock now, but I wish I’d signed up for another double. I want more time here, and I’m afraid all that will be undone when Chef says the words that cast me away.
“You have your own knife?”
I furrow my brow. If Emma were here, she’d probably joke about Chef wanting to stab me with it.
“No, Chef.”
“Go buy one.”
Chef Elise is still looking at me, and she hasn’t blinked in months. I nod. Finally, she swivels her chair away from me, turns to the computer. “You’re going to start coming in early. Bring a knife,” she says, clicking the mouse a few times. “You’re still a dishwasher, but you can take over staff meals, as long as you’re caught up.” She gives me a look while I try to contain my smile. “Don’t get all fucking giddy about it. No one wants that job.”
“Yes, Chef,” I say, though Felix has shown up behind me and is literally pulling the corners of my mouth up into a smile. I dip my head so that Chef won’t see. She clicks around on the computer a little more, while Felix does a little dance. I almost feel like joining in.
Then Chef looks back at me. “What are you waiting for, a hug good-bye? Go away. I’ll see you at six.”
I scramble to my feet. “Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef. Thank you.” I close the office door behind me, bringing Felix along. The empty hallway looks like it’s not lit up by fluorescent light bulbs, but by the Needle Eye sun, a constant golden-hour hue. I can’t resist it: I join my brother in a celebratory jig.
CHAPTER 16
CARROT CAKE
2 cups flour
3 large eggs
12 ounces grated carrots
2 cups sugar
? cup softened butter
? cup vegetable oil
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
? teaspoon ground allspice
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup chopped pecans
Pinch of salt
METHOD:
When I step outside the restaurant, I’ve got the whole evening ahead to myself. Usually, my free hours fill me with a nameless dread, a weight that presses down on me and brings me no joy.
But tonight the empty hours feel full of possibilities. I could explore the island by myself until Emma gets off the late shift (which she should be arriving for at any moment). I could cook us a seven-course meal. I could get on a ferry and go check out Seattle. I stand on the corner, where I can turn one way and see the ocean (sun still a few hours away from setting, sailboats floating on golden waters) and turn the other and see Main Street (tourists lining up for dinner, smiling families everywhere).
A block or so away from the restaurant there’s one of those superwhite-middle-class French-named stores that sells everything from melon ballers to fondue sets. Stuff I’ve only ever seen on cooking shows. I marvel at all the little kitchen gadgets that I would never be able to find in Mexico. An ice-cream maker. A vegetable spiralizer. A pepper corer. I know Felix would scoff at the opulence, but I still want every single ridiculous tool. I picture how I might use them. A cross between chiles rellenos and jalape?o poppers, maybe, using a corer and that deep fat fryer over there. I’d serve two on a plate, stuffed with corn, Oaxaca cheese and cilantro, arranged carefully over a sea of red salsa. If I made this dish, Felix could never have it. The realization threatens to stop my giddiness cold, so I step away before the thought can fully land.