Chefs call all the activity that takes place during service “the dance.” And now that I’m closer to it than I ever have been before, I know exactly why. There’s a liveliness to the kitchen, constant movement that feels both primal and yet measured, like a frantic waltz. If I have enough time to study any one person, that’s exactly what it looks like. Vee, for example: how she will test the doneness of a piece of meat on the grill by pressing into it, flip the steaks that need it, take a half step to the right to check the broiler, pivot backward to double-check her ticket, half spin back to the grill. You could set her movements to music.
Chef is standing at the pass, expediting, adding sprigs of rosemary and drizzles of chipotle oil. She calls out a new order, and the entire line sets into choreographed motion. I think of being in class, not that long ago, how our teachers were rarely treated with this much deference.
Approaching Matt’s station to grab a hotel pan that’s just kind of sitting there, I call out, “Behind,” making sure Matt can hear me. I see him give a little nod and then turn back to the portion of veggies he’s sautéing.
I use a damp towel in case it’s still hot, but just as I lift it up, Matt takes a step back, his elbow coming down on my forearm. The pan slams against the counter with a clatter and then goes flying down at the ground. Browned bits of potatoes and rosemary splatter against the stainless-steel cupboards at our legs, which we both jump away from to avoid getting burned.
“Watch it, asshole!” Matt yells.
Taken aback, I’m frozen for a second. Heads turn in our direction. Chef and Elias are both at the pass, staring up at us.
“Chef, you watching this shit? I thought you told this guy to stay in the back washing dishes.”
“Goddamnit, Carlos,” Chef yells. “Didn’t you hear that whole fucking speech I gave today? You pick the busiest day of the year to start running into people?” I open my mouth to complain, to point out that look in Matt’s eyes. “Why the hell should I let you run around if this is how you handle it? Breaking pans and shit. You gonna pay for a new one?” Vee slides a plated half rack of ribs through the window, calls out the table number and returns to her station. Chef grabs it and continues to berate me while dusting the plate with curry powder. “Are you gonna get your shit together or are you gonna make me regret letting you set a single fucking toe in my kitchen?”
“Yes, Chef,” I mumble, kneeling down to pick up the pan, face reddening in shame and anger. I look up at Matt, who’s red-faced and muttering as he turns his attention back to his sauté pan. I wish I could toss this pan at him, wish he knew how much he might be undoing.
“It wasn’t Carlos’s fault, Chef,” Elias says. “I heard him call out ‘behind.’ This little shit just did that on purpose.”
There isn’t really a DJ-scratch moment, because the kitchen would fall apart if things ground to a halt. But there’s a definite sense that people are turning their attention back on the altercation. No one’s talking; there’s only the roar of the hood, food sizzling, the dull hum of the noise from the dining room.
I stand up, the pan warm in my hands.
“You don’t know shit,” Matt starts to say, but Chef shuts him up with a glare.
“Is that true?” she asks, looking at me.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me, especially Matt’s. I shift uncomfortably. “Maybe he didn’t hear me,” I say, finally.
“Because you didn’t say a word, you fucking amateur!” Matt yells.
Chef gives Elias a glance. “I heard it, Chef,” he says. “And I’m back here.” He shrugs and then passes a couple of plates over to the window to the server station, dinging the bell and calling out, “Table six.”
With that, everyone resumes their work, but I can tell their ears are still cocked to hear what Chef will say.
Matt starts to complain, but Chef shuts him up again by raising her hand. Even if it was a misunderstanding, he was such an unequivocal asshole that I’m happy to see Chef exert her power. She looks at me, the rage now gone from her eyes. “Get back to the sink,” she says simply, and that’s all the apology I get. Then she turns back to Matt. “You’re telling me he’s the amateur? You should know better, prick.” She doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just turns her attention to the food again, yelling, “No more bullshit, everyone. Get back to work.”
When the night is done, I push the door open and am greeted by a wave of fresh, warm air and a sky twinkling with stars.
“Okay, no more onions,” a voice says behind me. I spin around and see Chef leaning against the wall, having a cigarette. She’s got a leather jacket on, her hair up in a tight bun. She smokes slowly, and I get the feeling that she doesn’t really like people knowing she smokes. Her face is half-hidden in the shadows, and it makes her look like a villain in a noir film, like I’d be right to be scared of her. “Tomorrow, it’s omelets,” she says. “Bring the eggs.” She exhales and turns around to lock the door and then leaves without another word.
I swear I see the stars rearranging into Felix’s smug grin for a second and then my phone buzzes in my hand, distracting me. Lake? Me, Brandy and a few others are on the way now.
Hell yes, I respond.
I can’t picture a better way to celebrate the mini-promotion, and though it’s a beautiful night for a slow stroll, my strides are quick and purposeful. I check my phone and see an email from Mom, something forwarded from the University of Chicago, a bunch of question marks added into the subject line. It makes me laugh nervously, and I decide I can put that off until later.
Breaking through the clearing that leads to the stretch of beach Emma likes, I see a few plastic lounge chairs lined up. They’re set up in that bay where the bioluminescent plankton is brightest, and I can see their toes lighting up in the water. Before approaching, I take a moment to appreciate all of it. I can pick out Emma’s laugh in the voices, which are carrying over on a warm breeze, the same one that’s causing little ripples in the water and making it look like the stars reflected on the surface are dancing. Felix is so right. I’m young. I’m alive. I’m going to be okay. Look at this world. How could I not be okay?
I get closer to the group, the sound of my footsteps alerting them to my presence. They all say hi, Brandy enthusiastically, the two guys there, Paul and Reggie, less so, since we’ve never really talked. I wish this were Mexico, just for the excuse to lean into Emma and kiss her cheek hello, feel her skin on my lips. Instead I lay a hand on her shoulder, seat myself on the rocky shore by her feet.