“It does,” Ben says, between mouthfuls. “God, sorry to like, inhale this—I was hungrier than I thought?—”
“Nah, go ahead, eat,” Pete says. He sounds pleased. In this, he’s the same as every chef Ben’s ever known, even his mother, even himself, to the extent that he is one: To the true cook, the cook who feels the call somewhere deep in their heart, there is no better feeling than seeing a satisfied eater at your table.
Ben does as he’s told, and, as he finishes the sandwich, watches with interest as Pete,while eating his own sandwich,tests the potatoes for doneness, drains them into a colander using only one hand, and then transfers them all into the skillet with the onions and peppers. He seasons again, with a variety of spices as well as salt and pepper this time, and after a few minutes of sizzling, he throws the pastrami chunks in there, too.
“I hope that’s not for me,” Ben says, after he’s polished off about half of the sandwich. “Not that it doesn’t look good, but this is definitely a solid breakfast.”
“Nah,” Pete says again, easily. He’s relaxed now, in his element; it’s hard to reconcile with the Pete from the video, who stood in this very same space looking as out of his element as Ben might at, say, any professional sporting event. “Mondays are usually a late day for the test cooks; some of them party pretty hard on Sunday nights. They’ll start rolling in soon, and it’ll be a better day for everyone if they all eat something.”
“Oh,” Ben says, blinking. “That’s…nice of you.”
“Maybe I’m a nice person,” Pete says. His eyes are dancing again. “Or maybe I work with a bunch of lunatics, and this is self-interest, because I don’t want to get stabbed with a meat thermometer. Who can say?”
This wrings a genuine laugh from Ben. Then, as he watches Pete flip beautifully browned potatoes in three perfect, even sheets, he says, “Wow. So it really is the cameras, huh?”
“Yep,” Pete says, and though his voice sounds cheerful, as it should with a stomach full of good, hearty food, the light falls away from his eyes. “The minute I can feel one on me, it all goes haywire, even though—listen, you spent much time in restaurants?”
“Some,” Ben says, and shrugs. “I worked at one in college, and I grew up in my parents’.”
“No kidding?” Pete looks startled. “What kind of place?”
“Oh, old-school Italian,” Ben says, waving a hand. “My dad met my mom on a backpacking trip through Italy and brought her back to the States with him, so. In theory Mom handles the cooking and Dad handles the books—it’s her name on the door and everything—but the reality is Dad’s a more consistent cook than she is and she’s better at math, so really she’s the boss and he’s the sous.” Pete is staring at him now like perhaps he’s abruptly grown the world’s largest and most obtrusive pimple; it’s all Ben can do not to pat at his own face as he snaps, “What? Do I have chile paste on my chin or something?”
“Nnno,” Pete says slowly, and then seems to shake himself, and says, “Sorry, sorry. I grew up in a restaurant, too. My mom met my dad on a mission trip to Guatemala in the eighties, not that she stayed religious, in the end. She brought my dad back to Jersey with her, andtheystarted a restaurant, whereIgrew up.”
“You’re kidding,” Ben says; it’s his turn to stare like a gobsmacked fish.
Pete shakes his head. “I’m really not. That’s where I learned to cook; I just kept doing it the older I got. It sounds like your parents stayed together, though?”
“Yeah,” Ben says, with a little shrug. “They’re all in on the ‘for better or worse,’ I think.”
“Mine split,” Pete says, and sighs. “When I was eleven. Mom went back to school; she’s an art therapist in Queens now. Dad still runs the restaurant in Jersey—they’re pretty famous these days, which is cool for him, but when I was a kid—oh, never mind.” He pauses, and then, stirring the hash although as far as Ben can tell it doesn’t need it, adds, “Anyway, so long as I’m not in front of a camera, even if I’m talking to a big crowd, I’m totally chill. But the minute you hit record…” He shudders.
Ben has…more questions. But before he can ask them, the person who made a brief, slouching appearance before walks through the door again, followed by several others. Suddenly, Ben is surrounded by a group of people complaining about their hangovers, and passing each other utensils, and sticking their forks right into Pete’s skillet while he laughs, “Hold it, hold it, you animals! There’s enough for all of you—plates, for the love of God, let’s try to maintain standards. Get that fork away from my cast-iron, Jaelyn!”
It’s a lot to take in, and though somewhere in the middle of it there is a rattled-off series of introductions, it happens simultaneously with so much cross-chatter that Ben doesn’t catch any of it. He begins to feel rather acutely that he is out ofplace in this bright, beautiful office, with these people who have worn into each other’s ways so thoroughly that even an outsider like him can see how well they move together. It reminds Ben, oddly, of walking in night after night a few minutes too late for Trattoria Luciana’s family meal, everyone smiling and laughing at some joke that, somehow, they could never quite explain to him.
But after all of the test cooks, if they are all test cooks, have had some breakfast, Jaelyn says, “Hey, Pete! You talked to Rick and upstairs and everything, right? You know we’re shooting today? I’ve got my stuff; I’ll get set up.”
Pete blanches, mutters, “Great,” and immediately turns away and starts a loud conversation with the person nearest to him, whose name Ben did not manage to catch.
To Ben, Jaelyn says, “You’re the edit guy, right? Cool work. Anything you want me to change?”
Ben’s mouth says, “I want his knife block in the shot. The whole thing, please, not just half,” before his brain can advise temperance and diplomacy in his response to this new work colleague.
“Oh,” Jaelyn says, blinking. “That’s—yeah, all right. I can move it over.”
“And,” Ben says, because he’s on a roll now, and perhaps because this has already been such a surreal morning that he’s not entirely convinced it all really happened, “I don’t want any cuts. Just—roll. Whatever happens, ’til you’re done.”
Jaelyn’s mouth drops open a little. After a second, she says, “Dude, are yousure? It’ll be like, so many hours of footage. It took usfiveto get the two and a half I sent you last time.”
Ben swallows hard, but: “I don’t care. And don’t tell him you’re doing this, either; just stop cutting, and especially stopsayingcut. He’s worse after every cut, did you notice that? At thebeginning of that footage, there were moments where he almost seemed human; by the end…not so much.”
“Huh,” Jaelyn says. She gives Ben a long look, and then shrugs and says, “You know what? I’ll try it. Thanks.” To Pete, she calls, “No escaping me, Peter! I’m setting up! T-minus five minutes!”
Pete turns away from his conversation and, to Ben’s surprise, meets his eyes. There’s a pleading expression in them, one that looks caught, trapped; that’s a clear enough message, isn’t it? Having Ben here for what’s about to come must be the last thing Pete would want—Ben misjudged him, that angry night with the edit footage. He’s not a lazy, uncommonly lucky person to whom everything is handed; it turns out he’s generous, and perceptive, and unexpectedly kind, and looks out for his people. And Ben is a stranger to him, basically, and one who has insulted him roundly and profoundly to a seemingly ever-growing audience of millions of people.
Pete wants Ben to go, and it’s the least Ben can do. He makes his excuses, gathers his things, and is out the door in the next five minutes, telling himself as he recycles his own orange juice bottle on the way out that it’s the right choice.
