When I told Max to pay it forward, it seems like he took it very seriously. I can’t complain about a man like that in my life.
31
MAX
When I came in here to check on the restaurant, I wasn’t sure what I would find. They have a few servers, a hostess, and what looks to be two people in the kitchen. With so many people in line outside, I knew I had to pitch in and help, at least somewhat.
Now, do I cook much? Not really, but I do know my way around a kitchen and how to chop vegetables, which is the job I took over from Marco, the owner. He’s the main cook and thought he could handle all this on his own, which is showing a type of confidence I haven’t seen in a while. To be able to feed a dining room of over one hundred with only two people in the kitchen seems insane to me. Of course, this is a test-run, but I don’t know if he’s going to hire anyone else right now.
The good thing is, now he’ll have a reason to hire more help. With The Season only a few days away, maybe that will be a boost to his business, and he’ll find some willing employees.
I finish cutting onions and then turn to Marco. “What can I do next?”
He looks at me like having help is the last thing he wants but knows he needs it if he wants this restaurant to succeed,especially today, when so many people are experiencing it for the first time.
“Can I get some carrots chopped? I want them julienned and no bigger than a fingernail.”
I nod, not sure what the best method for doing that is, but I’ll do what I can. It takes some time, and while he doesn’t look overly proud of the work I’ve done, he accepts the bowl and adds them to the sauté pan.
When he asks me to fill the flour containers, I breathe with a sigh of relief. A blister is forming on my index finger, and giving it a rest will help. The sous chef digs out cups of flour to make the pasta, and I’m surprised they work on it from scratch. That’s bold, but it’s going to be some of the best pasta these people have ever had.
“Where did you learn to cook like this, Marco?” I ask, pouring in another bag of flour. A puff of dust flies up and I cough, turning to avoid tainting the flour.
“From my mother, back in my home country,” he says with a sniff, working between the various pots and pans on the stove.
“What brought you here?” I ask, curious.
“I wanted to open a restaurant in America, one that would be loved. To introduce real Italian food to the people here. Not the abomination that is the chain restaurants.”
It takes serious work to keep a straight face, but I manage. “There’s nothing better than taking pride in your work.”
“What do you do?” he asks, which surprises me. Obviously, we’ve forged an unlikely acquaintance. He waves for me to keep working while I talk, and I smile, liking this guy even more. He reminds me of Europe, of the customs and the people.
“I work for a large company,” I say, keeping to my vague story.
“But your accent,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he glances at me.
I open my mouth and don’t know what to say. “I thought I’dgotten rid of it long ago,” I say with a laugh. “I’ve spent a lot of time in America and worked hard to sound like I’m from here.” I’ve worked to make my German accent almost nonexistent, but leave it to someone from the country next door to still pick it out.
Marco gives me a hint of a smile. “No, sir. I can still hear a bit of it.”
“I’m from Munich, but I’ve lived in New York for the past few years.”
He considers my answer before turning back to stirring several things on the stove.
“Why Penrose Beach?” I ask. This is a new restaurant and from the looks of things, this man could cook with the best from some of the finest cities in the world.
“The rent was just right. And a donation helped get things rolling.”
Once I hear the word donation, my brain immediately clicks to Aiden. The man may be my best friend, but he’s full of surprises and a great person to model my life after.
I’ve been so caught up in my business, that I’ve had blinders on. But Aiden uses his money to help give people a breath of fresh air when they don’t have much hope.
“Be like Aiden” should be my new motto.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I say, brushing my hands off over the garbage can.
The door from the dining room opens, and Avery comes in, a bright smile on her face. When she sees me, she grins. “It looks like you got attacked by the flour, huh?”
