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Staying in my small trash workstation, surrounded by garbage pails, was certainly preferable. Yes, even considering the garbage pails. And I found myself watching intently, trying to keep up, trying to learn. I watched the plates come back from service, making mental notes as to what people were eating well. And what they weren’t touching.
Some of it wasn’t surprising. There wasn’t a stray noodle from Z’s homemade cacio e pepe—rich and peppery, covered in cheese. And Taylor had been right: The leftover tomatoes were an anomaly. Besides those stray tomatoes Z had sulked about, every plate of strawberry pizza returned to us clean.
In fact, over the course of the evening, the only unpopular dish was the vegetarian tagine.
It was midnight before Chef Z came over.
“What’s the word, Taylor?” Z asked.
“The tagine’s sauce,” he said.
“What in the sauce, specifically?”
I looked down into the thick sauce, uncertain how he expected Taylor to answer that, when I realized what the answer was.
“I would say the preserved lemon, Chef,” Taylor said.
“Would you?”
“Often, there were several chunks left in the bottom of the dish.”
Chef opened up the trash bag and peered inside. Then he looked at me. “Is that right?”
I paused. I needed this job. I needed the proximity to Z for my plan to go as needed. Then I looked at Taylor. It seemed like if I gave a different answer than he had, he’d be out of a job. Or would he? Was that too easy for the game Chef Z was playing here?
“Preserved lemons, Chef.”
It wasn’t that I’d developed a conscience. It was that it suddenly occurred to me that there was a smarter way to go.
Z looked surprised that I backed up Taylor. As for Taylor, he looked downright shocked.
“Okay,” Z said.
“But I don’t think the lemon is the problem,” I said.
“And what is the problem?”
“The dried cherries. They’re close to the lemons in consistency. And once people have the sweet, they’re probably less interested in the savory.”
Chef Z moved incredibly close to me, whispered in my ear. “Did I ask you to evaluate my dish?” he said.
“No, Chef.”
“So do not offer it then, especially when you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. Though I could see it. He was just a little bit insulted. Which, for a narcissist, was a step away from impressed.
Z looked between us. “So which of you is staying?”
It wasn’t a question. “I’d say we both should,” I said.
“Not possible.”
“Except the issue with the food that is thrown out is twofold, Chef. Taylor accurately noted everything that didn’t leave the plate, but there is another important aspect—the other elements in the dish that were preferred. That has to be taken into account in considering what they chose to consume and what they chose not to consume. That’s really a two-person job.”
He looked down at his watch. “That was almost ninety seconds that I’m never getting back.”
I nodded, a subtle apology.
Chef kept his eyes on me. “Taylor, walk away.”
