Felix shrugs the thought away. “You’re fine. Trust me. You’re young. You’re alive. Give it time.”
“I’m fine? I’m talking to a fucking cloud,” I say. That nameless weight is creeping back in, and I want to run from it. “I miss you, man. I miss Mom and Dad. Sure, I’ve got Emma, but Chef could find out about that at any moment, and...” I trail off when I hear someone coming out onto the patio. It’s Matt, smacking a cigarette pack with the palm of his hand. He smirks at me when we make eye contact, and he lights his cigarette, still staring at me. I turn back to the view.
“You think I never had that?” Felix says, ignoring the fact that Matt almost certainly just saw me talking to myself. He climbs out of the sky, turns into a flesh-and-bone version of himself and takes a seat next to me. I keep my eyes on the horizon. I don’t want to deal with being insane right now; I’ve got other shit on my mind. “Happiness is not easy,” Felix says, and I think I know what’s coming next. The line sounds rehearsed, part of a larger speech that Felix probably tinkered with and repeated throughout his travels, pitching it at younger backpackers he’d run into at hostels, in bars. It still comes out sounding sincere. “But it’s possible.”
Felix scoots his chair into my line of sight, not letting me pout. “You’re going to be okay,” he says, smiling before he disappears.
CHAPTER 19
PIBIL EGGS BENEDICT
1 English muffin
2 slow-poached eggs
4 ounces pulled pork, cochinita pibil–style
A pinch of chopped cilantro
For the habanero Hollandaise:
2 habanero chilies, deveined
and seeded
3 egg yolks
1 tablespoon lemon juice
? teaspoon Dijon mustard
? cup butter
METHOD:
When I make my way back into the kitchen, the staff is gathering around Chef. She’s standing in the pass, waiting for everyone to show up. Sue’s at her side, ready to take notes. I slip in between Elias and Memo, playing it cool, like I didn’t just have a breakdown outside.
Once everyone’s around, mostly quiet thanks to the morning calm, Chef adopts a slightly militaristic stance. Anytime she speaks I’m sure she’s about to fire me, belittle me, make a spectacle of my inadequacies.
“Alright, guys, today’s gonna be a shit show. We’ve got more covers than we’ve had all summer.” She picks up a clipboard. “We’ve got a ten-top and a twelve-top coming in right as we open, so we’re gonna get our asses kicked from the get-go.”
There’s a few groans at this but a few high fives and whoops too. Elias leans toward Memo and whispers, “Listo?”
“Siempre, papi,” Memo says with a grin.
She looks down at her notes, and there’s a building excitement in the air. Someone in the back is sharpening a knife, the metallic clang of it reverberating through the murmurs in the crowd like a war drum. “You’re gonna need some energy if you’re pulling a double today, which is every single one of you, right?”
A few laughs and some more “Yes, Chef”s.
“So, Memo, why don’t you make a shitload of scrambled eggs for everyone? We should have some of those sausages from last week’s special left over so fry up whatever’s left of them. Roberto, Carlos, these guys are gonna be running through pans, and you know how many fucking glasses the brunch crowd uses up, so we need you guys on top of your game. Help them keep their stations clear when you can, and we’ll keep your beer glasses full when this is all done.”
Someone claps a hand to my shoulder, and I can’t help but get caught up in the rumble of excitement building up in the kitchen. My mind stops drifting to nameless worries, focuses on the present. Chef runs through the specials and then she dismisses us by saying, “Have fun out there,” and everyone flurries into motion. Burners flicker on, the hood starts to roar, knives come down on cutting boards, thumping like the beat of a war drum. What a world.
Just like that, all else fades, disappears to irrelevance. I collect some pans from the prep kitchen, depositing them at my sink and then running back out for more. I take out a few bags of trash, and I hear the whirr of the first order ticket coming out from the printers at each station. Chef’s voice calls out over all the chatter in the kitchen, “Ordering! Three veggie omelets, three pulled pork bennys, four special bennys...”
All the cooks respond with a well-coordinated, “Yes, Chef!” They make little comments to each other, coordinate their respective components so that everything hits the plate at the same time.
I heave the trash into the Dumpster outside and get back into the kitchen before the side door even shuts. I might not be holding a knife, I might be the lowest guy in the pecking order, I might always be out of my mind. But I’m a part of this kitchen now. I belong here. I don’t even pause to watch the first orders being cooked. I’ve got a job to do.
Every dirtied dish that comes my way I take pride in, as if it’s an onion that Chef has asked me to chop. This is the thing I’ve done more than any since I got to the island, probably, more than sleeping, more than cooking, and I’m good at it now. These struggles will lead elsewhere.
I run through a tray of coffee mugs and champagne flutes smudged with lipstick and the pulpy remainders of the fresh oranges used in the mimosas. Roberto and I communicate two or three words at a time, always in Spanish. “Sartenes primero?”
“Si.”
“Ve a ver,” Roberto says, our shorthand way to see if anyone needs help.
I glance through the stations, trying to spot anything that might need tending to. A plate that’s been set aside and might get in a cook’s way, a mug of coffee someone was sipping on and doesn’t have time to bring to the dish station. If two cooks are talking, I do not interrupt, knowing they might be trying to time their respective duties. If I do have to step into a station to remove a dish towel or clear out their trash for them, I announce myself in Kitchenese. “Behind,” I say. “Coming through, hot!” if I’m rounding a corner and carrying pans. Forget English, forget Spanish—this is the language I was born to speak.