“Would you rather be done with the kitchen?” Felix grabs another handful of pebbles, throws them one at a time. It’s almost a song when they land, and Felix smiles, not necessarily at me, just at the world he no longer inhabits.
I don’t bother responding to the question, which is clearly a trap. The phrase can’t have your cake and eat it too pops into my mind, and I wonder why the fuck everyone thinks it makes sense. How do you have cake without eating it? I’d blame my lack of understanding on being foreign, but there’s no quirk of language or culture here. It’s a stupid saying.
Burying my head in my hands, I feel like shouting. I can’t believe there’s parents around that still do this kind of shit. Why does the world not want me to be better already?
Felix is tossing more and more pebbles into the lake, trying to get a melody right. “Cielito Lindo,” the song which starts off advising people to sing and not cry.
“So, what,” I say, looking up, “I just give her up? Just like that? When things are going so well?”
Felix pauses for a bit, turning around to look at me. The scruff on his face is the same length it was that day, and the light in his eyes has never really gone away. He bounces another handful of pebbles in his hand, thinking.
“I know it’s hard to turn away from something that brings you joy. And in most scenarios, I wouldn’t tell you to. You know that. I’d be pushing you toward whatever makes you happy whether you liked it or not.” I feel a text message buzz in my pocket. “You didn’t come here to meet a girl,” Felix says, shrugging. He turns back and times out the pebble throws so that a few seconds later the song comes floating toward them. “If Chef says you can’t have both, whatever her reasons are, you have to make a decision.”
I look in the direction of Provecho. Emma’s probably sitting on the bench in front waiting for my response before she decides which direction to go. I would rather be frozen in indecision, just stay up on this hill and pretend everything’s okay. Even if Felix is still around and nothing all that much has changed.
I try to picture what I would do if I left the kitchen to stay with Emma. How long until I ran out of money from my one measly paycheck, until I’d be forced to call my dad, come back home with my tail tucked between my legs? What will choosing Emma matter then?
I pull my phone out of my pocket, read the message I knew was from Emma. I’m off! What’re you up to?
I have to take a deep breath. I’m feeling queasy and just want to throw the phone into the lake too.
Kind of exhausted. Rain check?
I hate myself for sending it, but I have no idea what else I could possibly say. Felix joins me back on the rock, putting an arm around me. We sit there for a while, not saying much, just staring out quietly at the island below.
If I get fired from the kitchen, I have to go home.
But without Emma, is this place worth sticking around for? Even now, the view of the island doesn’t compare with my memory of when I was here with her. It’s beautiful, sure. But it’s lacking something, as if the colors are muted. The lighting isn’t what I know this place is capable of.
I get a text message wishing me sweet dreams, and the colors mute a little more.
CHAPTER 17
CUBAN LECHóN ASADO
50-pound pig
5 heads of garlic
4 cups orange juice
2 cups lime juice
1 cup sherry
? cup pineapple juice
4 tablespoons oregano
3 teaspoons ground cumin
6 bay leaves
2 tablespoons black peppercorns
2 tablespoons kosher salt
5 tablespoons olive oil
METHOD:
Morning comes, and I have not managed to push Emma out of my thoughts. The sun’s barely coming up when I arrive at the side door to meet with Chef. It’s a mostly clear day, which causes the dawn to paint the sky instead of clouds.
I hold my gyuto at my side, flat against my leg. I knock twice, hard. Chef appears in a moment, moves aside wordlessly. I hate her for taking Emma away from me and have half a mind to throw a fit. But a) I’m not exactly the throwing-fits type, and b) Felix reads my thoughts and makes an announcement over the kitchen speakers: “You’re about to get private lessons from an incredible chef. You sure you want to throw that away?”
Swallowing my anger, I follow her into one of the walk-ins, where Sue is counting tomatoes while holding a clipboard. “You got this for a few minutes?” Chef says, and Sue nods. Then Chef reaches for a white onion, and heads back out to the prep kitchen. She sets the onion down on the counter.
“Do you know how to chop an onion?”
I feel my eyebrows furrow. “Yes, Chef. Of course.”
“Show me.”
I hesitate but then think to myself, Clearly this is a test. I pull my new knife out from its plastic sheath, set it on a cutting board next to the onion. I wish I didn’t have to use it for the first time under these circumstances. It feels so right in my hand, like it was designed specifically for my grip. But Chef’s got her diamond-cutting gaze on me and I’m trying hard not to throw the onion across the room at her.
I step over to the sink, wash my hands thoroughly. A wave of insecurity hits me, as if every time I cut an onion in the past I was doing it wrong, Chef knows this, and this is all just a way to mock me. She’s just standing there, staring, arms folded. I take a deep breath, try to adopt a Felixesque ease. I’m standing in Chef Elise’s kitchen, about to receive her tutelage. I should be thankful.
It’s all muscle memory, really. I remember the day Felix taught me how to do this. I was thirteen; he was a couple months away from leaving home. Mom hovered behind us, trying to convince Felix that I was too young to hold a blade. He’d laughed mirthfully, as if Mom was a kid who’d said something na?ve and ridiculous. I cut the onion in half, peel off the skin, keep the root intact. Nine or ten slits vertically, making sure the knife’s tip doesn’t go all the way to the other end. Then I turn the onion swiftly and start making horizontal cuts, using my off hand to move the onion toward the blade and curling my fingers away to avoid mishaps, using my knuckles to keep the knife straight.
The smell of the onion threatens to tear me up, but in a matter of seconds the first half is in a neat pile at the edge of the cutting board. I repeat the steps well before my eyes start to sting. Every little piece of onion is even like it’s supposed to be. I run my finger along the blade to free a few pieces, but aside from that nothing is off the cutting board, not an ounce of onion was wasted.
I grab a clean dishrag, wipe my knife clean and set it down. I turn back to look at Chef, defiant, proud.
But she’s no longer standing beside me. Confused, I call out, “Chef?”