He keeps his eyes on his phone, as if I’m still not worth his full attention. “You give me the creeps, man. But I see you working.” He gives the slightest of nods. “Do your thing.”
The next hour is a blur. Lourdes helps out with the tortilla and gets a small saucepan full of veggie stock going for the cauliflower waiting to be pureed. Matt roasts a single red Scotch bonnet pepper for the basil tuna’s topper sauce, which I throw into a food processor with lemongrass and garlic. I scoop that into a ramekin and then push it aside until I’m ready to plate.
The steps, of course, are enjoyable. Seasoning the tuna and then searing the pieces, watching the flesh change colors like a magic trick. Cutting into the fish and seeing that beautiful almost-maroon in the center. Dipping a tasting spoon into the cauliflower puree and, even though I try to set the bar of expectations high for myself, being blown away by the flavor. Taking a single berry out of my pocket, rinsing it clean, using my gyuto to chop it into tiny cubes, its tangy aroma releasing into the kitchen.
There’s something special about plating a dish for the first time. Making something in real life match what was in your mind’s eye. I use one of those long, rectangular platters with three separate compartments. The colors are almost exactly what I was envisioning. The darkness of the sesame crust and the ponzu in the first one, contrasted with the bright green cucumber beneath and the bright red sauce on top. The cauliflower-thyme puree in the middle dish, perfectly off-white and flecked with green, the orange Cajun exterior, the drizzle of lemon oil over all of it. And the taco. The perfect spice of the aioli, the cilantro smelling like home.
It transports me to the Night of the Perfect Taco. Felix leaning in to take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. It was late, maybe the second-to-last stop. I felt drunk off the night, exhausted. Felix picked up a chunk of salsa-covered pineapple that had spilled and popped it into his mouth. “So, how’s this one rate?” I asked. “Perfect?”
He didn’t answer right away, just looked around. Who knows where we were. Some hole in the wall, two tables and a counter, paint peeling mid-meal. Across the street there was a cantina, and we could hear a group of drunk dudes singing. “Not much is,” he’d said. Another smirk, one of the last I saw the real him make.
I focus back on what I’m doing. I arrange the pieces of tuna exactly how I had pictured them and place a basil leaf, a sprig of thyme and a cilantro leaf respectively atop each piece of tuna. It looks perfect. Everything tastes perfect on its own when I try it, and I feel this surge of excitement when I think of how good it will be all together.
There’s a small crowd gathered when I tell Chef I’m ready. They pretend they’re doing their own thing, but everyone focuses at least one sense on us. Isaiah is looking over his shoulder while he stirs something. Memo’s actually leaning toward us to try to hear better. I wish Emma were around to see this, and I quickly check the time on the wall clock to make sure I’m still fine to catch the ferry.
Usually, no comment from Chef is a good thing. She can think of criticisms fairly easily. Compliments, not so much. She takes a bite of the basil tuna, making sure to get some of the sauce and the cucumber in the bite, dragging it across the ponzu reduction. She chews, nods, says nothing. A wipe of the mouth, a sip of water. Then she uses her fork to cut into the Cajun tuna, scooping the puree up this time and again dragging it through the lemon oil. Chew, nod, nothing. A wipe of the mouth, a sip of water. She looks closely at the taco and then grabs the tortilla and folds it. The lean-in is so familiar to me, I can’t help but think of Felix, replay every lean-in he made that night before it came to an end. I shake the memory from my head, bring myself back to the present.
On the first bite of the taco, Chef closes her eyes. She chews, maybe slower than usual. Was that a sigh? Was that a fucking sigh?
I hold my breath. Oxygen is actively leaving my lungs without my permission. Chef chews. Swallows. Sets the taco down on the plate. She looks like she’s going to speak, but she reaches for her water and her napkin. Oxygen doesn’t exist anymore in my world.
“We’ve got a special,” Chef says without much fanfare. “Good job.” She reaches for the taco again, takes another bite. “You better have written down exactly how to fucking do this one, or I’ll never forgive you.”
I smile. “Yes, Chef.”
“Good.” She feels some aioli on the side of her mouth and uses her finger to lick it up. “Teach these guys how to make what I ate. A little more butter in the puree. Don’t overdo the spicy shit for the first guy.” She takes her last bite of taco and then shakes her head, and I swear I hear her go “mmm” as she walks away.
Still plenty good on time, I spend the next hour before doors open teaching the guys on the line how to make the components. Not that I really have to teach them much. They all know how to read my recipe and execute each element better than I can, but these guys treat the creator of a dish with a certain reverence, taking no artistic liberties, though they’re fully qualified to make adjustments and infinitely more experienced than I am.
It’s not a bad feeling.
Then doors open, and the waitstaff is starting to offer my dish as one of the day’s specials. I’m not technically on the clock and don’t need to wash dishes, but I hang around with my apron on, helping out in any little way I can. I don’t want to step away, don’t want to miss any of this.
I find the exact spot where I can stand out of the way but still in plain view of the line, watching my dish come together over and over again. I watch Chef call out from the pass, “Order fire, two tuna specials, table seven.”
Lunch service stretches into dinner. I’m glued to my spot in between the sink and the wall. Elias comes around laughing, saying, “You’re still here?” And I check the time and see I’m still fine. Since I’m not in a rush, I offer to peel the berries. I watch the stash I brought with me—stroke of luck—dwindle.
I watch Vee butcher the tuna down to nothing. I set the garnish, drizzle the sauce. I know time is running late, but I also see the portions disappear, and in their wake my future at Provecho sets its roots. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life, and I want to see this through. I know I’m cutting it close, but at seven o’clock the dish gets eighty-sixed. Elias and Memo give me fist bumps as I hang up my apron. I think Chef almost smiles.