The island feels like it’s just for me. The fog, the dawn-hued water, the leaves stirring gently. I cut through the woods, across Emma’s meadow. There are considerably fewer fireflies, either because of the time of day or the fading summer. I run my fingers over the tall grass, the dandelions grown wild. Mom still calls every couple days, worried, but she wouldn’t if she saw this, if she felt how peaceful and beautiful this place is. I try to take a picture on my phone, but something gets lost in the process. On the screen, it just looks like an empty field. I don’t even expect Felix to show, and he doesn’t.
Popping back out on the road that leads downtown, I check the time, put my hands in my pockets and slow my pace. At the bakery, Anne the nose-ringed barista throws in a cardamom roll free with my coffee. (“Just came out!” she says.) A jogger smiles at me as I go down the block; a line cook from the diner recognizes me from The Crown and waves. I feel like I’m starting to forget what life in Mexico City was like, what it was like to be me, lost and confused, haunted, missing.
I knock on the side door, sip my coffee while I wait for Chef, look beyond the patio at the majestic view. Once inside, I head for the usual station we’ve been using for our sessions, but Chef tells me to follow her instead. We go into her office, where she’s got music playing softly. A huge coffee mug sits steaming next to the computer. She takes a seat and looks at me over the rim of the mug as she takes a sip. As always, she looks slightly villainous, but today there’s something not quite as intimidating about her. Softer, like she can see the same things about the island.
“How familiar are you with our menu?” Chef asks.
I hesitate. “I’ve looked at it a lot,” I say. “And I ate here once before getting hired. I’ve got the descriptions pretty well memorized.”
She leans over, grabs a clipboard and hands it over to me. “Take this, and go sit with a menu for a while. We’re gonna run a line check in a bit, so I want you to know what goes in each dish.”
“Yes, Chef,” I say, probably too enthusiastically. I take a seat on the counter of my dishwashing station, the way Emma does sometimes, poring over the itemized list and then comparing it to the menu. It feels like a backstage pass to meet my favorite musicians, like Chef just handed me a recipe.
I read for who knows how long, like I’m studying for an exam. Then Chef comes by and says, “Don’t sit on my counters, asshole. You ready?”
I hop off and follow her to the line. She holds in her hand a box of tiny plastic spoons. “We’re going to taste everything,” she says. “One spoon per taste and then you throw it out. Every sauce, every oil, every little bit of mise doesn’t see a plate until we taste it. A dish can get screwed up way before it hits the pan, and a line check is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Barely containing how much I’m geeking out at this, I nod, try to look serious. Chef grabs a spoon, motions for me to do the same. We start at the garde manger station, where it’s mostly veggies, salad dressings, different infused oils.
The cilantro oil is great, the champagne vinaigrette incredible. There’s some pickled veggies that maybe have another day or two in them, so Chef tells me to make a note. We go down the line like that, tasting every little thing, double-checking amounts and dates and flavors. Almost all of it tastes unbelievable to me, but Chef yells at me when I think the red wine aioli is good. “Jesus, kid, grow a palate,” she says, tossing the deli container in the sink, where I will have to clean it soon. Aside from a few of her outbursts, she’s actually really good at explaining what everything should taste like, and why, and how it’ll balance with the other components of the dish it belongs in. For once, I do not have to guess at how a dish is made, don’t have to guess at how I might be able to recreate it. I don’t even think about what changes I would make, because that feels like blasphemy.
A little while later people start showing up for shift. Elias sees right away what’s going on and gives me one of those Felixesque beaming grins. Memo, Lourdes, Isaiah, Vee, Morris—they barely bat an eye. Matt comes in, and I find myself hopeful that the tide has turned, that he’s done being a dick.
But the first thing he says is “What the hell, Chef? You’re taking the dishwasher on line checks? What’s with the special treatment?”
Everyone goes quiet, shares looks like they know shit’s about to go down again. Chef, though, doesn’t even look up. She chuckles. “When you have your own kitchen, you can decide how to run it, Matt. Until then, just do your job and don’t worry about my choices.”
“No offense, Chef, but the kid’s been here for, like, a month. I’ve been here for over a year.”
“And that entitles you to what, Matt?” Chef says, tossing another tasting spoon into a nearby trash bin.
Matt seems taken aback. He stammers, looks around at the kitchen as if asking for support, but everyone’s minding their own business. “I’m just saying, Chef...” He trails off.
“No, Matt, you’re just whining.” She turns to me and says, “We need another ten pounds of bacon—write it down,” effectively ending the conversation. When I finish writing the note, she grabs the clipboard from me and then walks away.
Matt’s already turned his back, but I can tell he’s fuming. Every move he makes is angry, even tying on his apron and washing his hands at the sink. It feels like I’ve got a noose around my neck again. I’m terrified that this is all he needs to give it a nice solid yank, watch me choke.
I keep going out during my shift to the floor, making excuses so I can see if he’s still pissed, if I’m in danger of getting told on. At one point I see him walk out the side door with a cigarette in his hand, so I run over to Roberto and tell him I’m going to take a break. When I push open the door, Matt’s smoking with his back against the wall. He sees me and exhales with a groan, a puff of smoke escaping in my direction. “What do you want?”
I hesitate, not knowing exactly why I came here chasing after him. Then I think of Felix, his unabashed honesty.
“Look, Matt, I don’t know why you hate me. I don’t know what I did to you. If what you wanted was to see me suffering, trust me, I’ve had my share.” I take a deep breath. Everything that I’ve escaped is coming back with these words, the mere acknowledgment of suffering bringing it back. I close my eyes, trying to find the rest of what I wanted to say. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, so I won’t pretend to know that I’ve lost more. If you want to keep giving me shit about being a Fake-xican or whatever, I won’t complain. But please don’t tell Chef about me and Emma. Don’t take this away from me.”
He takes a slow drag from his cigarette. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or not. He holds his breath for so long that I feel like whole meals were cooked during the span. A whole new set of customers were seated during his breath.
Finally, he exhales, no Felix in the smoke. “I don’t hate anybody, man.” He tucks one of his tattooed arms beneath the other, ashes the cigarette onto the ground. Little gray specks of ash saunter away in the breeze before they even hit the ground, as if the island is carrying them away. “You’re a weird dude,” he says, shaking his head. Then he stubs his cigarette out and walks back inside.
CHAPTER 26
MOM’S SPAGHETTI BOLOGNESE
6 stewed tomatoes