Instead, what I do is stand there in the middle of the walk-in, looking at the produce, studying the clipboard, suddenly impervious to the cold. I check the time. I wasn’t expecting to be here long today, but there are hours to go before I have to meet up with Emma and take the ferry into Seattle. Plenty of time to just think up a dish and explain it to Chef, maybe even cook up an example the way I’m envisioning. Emma’s probably still sleeping. I put my phone on a nearby shelf to see what’s hiding in the back.
I find a scrap of paper, write a bunch of notes to myself about the ingredients, leave the walk-in. I spend about an hour on the patio, tapping a pen against the table, urging brilliance from myself.
I’m surprised but relieved to look up and see Felix at the table, eating a plateful of chilaquiles, tendrils of steam rising from the dish as he scoops forkfuls into his mouth. I was starting to worry that we weren’t going to get a chance to say good-bye. “How about some of these?” he says.
I give him a look. “Please.”
“Okay, chilaquiles with, like, foie gras and a mango demi-glace and truffle shavings?”
“You’re just throwing as many Food Network words out there as you can.”
He chuckles to himself and takes another bite, following it up by running a piece of bread through the sauce on the plate. “What about some tacos? We never found the perfect al pastor. You could make that.”
The suggestion stirs a thought. I hold up a finger, though asking for quiet has never worked with Felix, dead or alive.
There’s a big hunk of prime ahi tuna that has barely been touched and needs to go. It might have been a provider’s mistake, or maybe people just aren’t ordering the tuna this week. An image pops into my head, the fish done three different ways, kind of like the salmon at the sushi place the other night but not quite. I lean over my sheet of paper, separate it into three columns.
I look up, trying to decide what else the dish would need. Felix is still eating. He’s got his mouth full, and he tries to offer a suggestion but ends up choking on his words and spitting out little droplets of sauce all over me.
“Gross.”
Behind me, I hear the door from the restaurant open up. Elias comes out, and when I turn back Felix is gone. “Hey, man. What are you still doing here? I thought you were peacing out today.”
I tell him about Chef’s challenge for the day. “Is that it?” Elias asks, motioning to the paper that I have been scribbling on all morning.
I hand it over, mostly confidently. Elias nods as he reads, like it’s a song he can hear in his head. “Butter in the puree?”
“Yeah, right?”
Elias nods. Felix reappears, chewing on his nails, scrunching up his nose. “This guy to the rescue again?”
I roll my eyes while Elias is still focused on the page.
“Sounds pretty good, man. The taco needs something else. Some acid, maybe. The chimichurri’s good, but you need something that’ll make it pop.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that,” I say. Just then I feel the weight in my pocket; the berries only Emma and I know about. That tang of theirs would be perfect. I wouldn’t have to do a thing to them, a couple of thin slices on top, or maybe chopped in with the tuna itself, along with the aioli, so that they’re in every bite.
“Anything else you can think of?”
Elias rubs his hand around his mouth, along his goatee. “Hope you’re not thinking of using packaged tortillas. We don’t even have them.”
“Yeah, I know. I was gonna ask Lourdes if she could make them.”
“Good call.” Elias reads through a couple more times and then hands back the sheet of paper. “Not bad at all, man.”
At that moment, Chef steps outside. “Carlos. Were you gonna take the rest of the fucking day?”
I stand up, scribble one last addition to the recipe. “Sorry. I’m ready.” I walk over to her, list held out. She stays there in the doorway, reading. I’m standing in the sun, she in the shade. Behind us, Elias types a message on his phone.
Chef looks up from reading. “What’s this?” She’s pointing at where I just scribbled the word berry.
I pull one out of my pocket, show her. She grabs it, examines it for a second. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure. It grows here. In the woods.”
She digs her fingernail into the skin, peels it open, smells it, peels farther so she can get a taste. Chewing, she gives me a weird look. I wonder if I should feel guilty, but before I can linger on the thought, Chef says, “Follow me.” I look over my shoulder before following her inside, see Elias raise his eyebrows at me.
Inside, people are setting up. They’re looking over their lists, checking their supplies. Lourdes has atole going. I can smell it as soon as I step in. They’re sharpening knives, arguing over what music to play, talking about last night’s bar outing. Ah, to be in the midst of all of this.
We enter the prep kitchen, where Lourdes is indeed ladling out atole into Styrofoam cups. Memo and Isaiah are sleepy-eyed, both leaning over to look at their mise. “How you doing on onions?” Isaiah says. Memo slides a deli container his way without answering. Matt’s in there too, leaning back against the wall, looking at his phone.
“Alright,” Chef says, quietly to me. “This looks good. We just have to figure out where you can actually cook without pissing everyone off and fucking up the whole day.”
I see Matt look up from his phone and can swear he’s tuning in, that he’s heard every word. I hope Chef tells him to fuck off again, to mind his own business. If he finds out she’s letting me cook a special, I can’t imagine he’ll keep my secret about Emma any longer. He’ll sabotage everything.
To my dismay, Chef just calls out: “Carlos has a dish for us. Might go on today’s menu. Don’t let him get in the way, but I need you to give him a hand. He’ll tell you what he needs from you.”
Everyone exchanges a glance. Isaiah leans in to take a closer look at his prep list, mutters a curse under his breath.
I can taste the disappointment. If everyone’s busy, I’ll be screwed. The ingredients available will be different tomorrow. What if I can’t come up with something else that she likes? I’m so close now, and I don’t want it ruined by the off chance that someone has too much shit to do.
“Just let him cook, Chef. He can use my station if he needs it.”
I look up. I think I know who said that, but it can’t be right. It sounded like Matt.
“You sure? You’re set for service?”
“I’m set, Chef. Don’t need a burner at all. Just a counter for a board and a knife.” He stands up straight, sticking his hands in his pockets, his tattooed sleeves showing. “I’m all for testing the kid.”
“Great,” Chef says, always happy when things run smoothly. She turns to me. “Just one portion right now. Don’t waste any of my food until I decide it’s good enough. Let me know when you’re done, and don’t take your sweet time.” She walks out the door while I’m still making eye contact with Matt, not sure what’s going on.
Everyone looks away, the flurry of prep hour returns, flames sizzling and knives coming down on cutting boards.
“Thanks, man,” I tell Matt, approaching his station. “You didn’t have to do that.”