I bring out all the Tupperware I’ve brought from home. I set them next to the items Chef’s instructed me to use up, thinking. Waiting. There’s a bunch of basil that’s not quite wilting but not pretty enough to use fresh. Good for a sauce, probably, but I feel like doing something else.
I look over at all my potential supplies some more, wash my hands again, place the shrimp in a lowboy fridge. I run over to the pantry, grab some flour and—I don’t know what they’re called in English—flor de calabaza.
Still not quite sure what I’m going to do, I pick up my gyuto, unsheathe it, watch it catch the light. In the blade, I see my reflection, and a hint of yesterday morning’s thoughts come bubbling back, that excessive self-awareness that tells me that one day I too will die. I think of a postcard I got from Felix from Hong Kong a few months before he died, one that stands out because it had these dumplings on the image, and Felix actually described them. All his travels, he almost never wrote about the food.
Two red onions, chopped easily. Some portobello and shiitake mushrooms, the flor, meet the same fate, their resting place a large stainless-steel mixing bowl. Smash a few cloves of garlic with the flat side of my knife; mince them up. I grab a cast-iron pan from its hook in the prep area, squirt some sesame oil into it, slide the garlic from the cutting board into the pan before the fire’s lit. This I learned from Rosalba. Fill the kitchen with the scent of garlic before it can burn. Let the heat slowly draw out the garlic’s taste. Felix could pick out from the smell alone when the garlic was about to burn.
I toss the entire mass of the basil into the blender and then cut some of the remaining ginger into chunks and throw them in too. A little soy sauce, a little sriracha, a few oranges’ worth of fresh-squeezed juice. While the blender transforms the pieces into a wholly greater whole, I turn off the flame on the mushroom/flor concoction. I grab a tasting spoon and take a bite and then run over to the dishwashing station to chuck the spoon into the sink in celebration of the flavors.
The dough has to rest, the broth is at a simmer, the basil mixture tastes like I Belong in the Kitchen. Every piece of equipment I’m no longer using is in the sink waiting to be cleaned, and the surface around my work area is spotless.
Felix is a genius for leading me here, for making sure I stay.
Feeling like I’m in the midst of the kitchen dance, I use a mortar and pestle to crush some Thai chilies along with some garlic. Then I slide them into a deli container with a few tablespoons of olive oil, and fiddle around with a smoke gun I found at the bar, trapping the concoction under plastic wrap. I can’t believe this is a profession. That people fiddle around with food, perfect the art of it, and it’s a job. That you can provide the joy of a meal to someone else and earn a living. Not the kind of living my parents think is necessary, maybe. But I can’t believe I ever considered doing anything else, at Dad’s insistence or otherwise.
When there’s eight dumplings for every person working the early shift, I finally stop. I look around, only now becoming aware of the fact that the kitchen’s almost full. Matt’s using a mandolin to slice cucumbers into paper-thin strips, for once not scowling at me. Memo catches my eye and gives me a little head nod. Everyone else is focused on their work, stirring, chopping, tasting. They may have been doing this for much, much longer than I have. They may not have grown up with maids or with two passports. The schools they attended probably weren’t surrounded by bodyguards. But right now, I feel closer to them than to anyone I grew up with. I am a part of their world.
I check my texts, getting the feeling that Emma might have passed by without me noticing, but there’s only a hi how are you from Mom. Cooking , I respond.
I disappear back behind my partition. It is so much more satisfying to clean pans that I am responsible for dirtying. Even the ones that come in afterward feel easier because of the sheer fact that I have cooked today. Elias shows up around eleven. “What did your crazy ass come up with for us today?” he asks.
“Flor de calabaza, shrimp and mushroom gyoza in an orange-basil broth,” I say.
“You are out of your fucking mind,” Elias laughs. It’s a pretty accurate comment, I realize, which should make me panic that maybe Elias has noticed something, maybe Matt told him about seeing me talking to myself, my ill-advised confession. I have been talking to Felix too loudly, interacting with inanimate objects or nothingness. But this time, for now, it’s a compliment, not a diagnosis, and I swell with pride.
Elias doesn’t have to tell me to put the music on to let everyone know food’s ready. And when I do it this time, I feel no nervousness, no doubt about the food I’m presenting. I don’t even wonder if I’ve gone wrong anywhere. If I have, the struggle will lead to a climb.
I plate a bowl for myself. A mini ladleful of broth, eight dumplings, garnished with the green onions and the smoked chili oil. The dish looks beautiful, worthy of the TV shows Felix and I used to watch.
I might be deluded. I might be good at this or I might be fooling myself—it’s hard to tell. In this moment, I don’t particularly care which it is. My coworkers serve themselves, slurp at the broth, add more chili oil. Elias is loudest with his compliments. Chef has no discernible human emotions, so she doesn’t react. I catch Matt going back for seconds, serving himself quickly and pulling away as if he doesn’t want to be seen.
I feel like I’ve finally arrived. Whatever life was supposed to have been waiting for me after graduation, whatever has been lost since the Night of the Perfect Taco, I know this is where I belong.
CHAPTER 23
THE PERFECT OMELET
3 eggs
Way more butter than you think
A touch of cream
Salt and pepper, added in the pan
METHOD:
On my fourteenth day of training, Chef actually makes it halfway through the omelet before she decides it’s not up to her unspecified standards and pushes the plate away. I’m still repeating Elias’s words to myself, that she’s pushing me hard because she believes in me. But I wish she would just give up on this stupid lesson, let me move on, really teach me things.
That night, Emma and I meet up at two in the morning. Everyone else goes out to The Crown, but it’s the first chance we have to sneak away. We’re swimming again. I’ve never loved the act so much. The feel of jumping in, how gravity falls away from my limbs. Everything is light. Emma’s a terrific swimmer, so graceful in the water that at times there is barely a radiant ripple in her wake. “I’ve always had this dream of swimming from here to Seattle,” she says as we tread water. “I really think I could do it.”
“You should,” I say. “Were you on a swim team at school?”