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I pointed toward the door. “Sorry, Chef,” I said. “I’m friends with Ethan Nash.”
Name-dropping—trying to save myself. I wasn’t proud.
“Do you spy on all your friends while they eat?”
“No, Chef.”
He inspected another plate, still not turning around. “So stop spying on this one,” he said.
I didn’t have an opportunity to talk to Chef Z again until the end of my shift. Twelve thirty A.M., the restaurant nearly empty.
He came over to my station, already in a huff, and asked for a report. I was ready to make up for the earlier mishap. I’d procured from the garbage a small plate of the least popular item, which was still fairly popular, but which had been left fairly regularly on people’s plates. Braised fennel. Z had served it alongside a ginger-infused cod. People didn’t leave even a piece of the flaky fish on their plates—its gentle yellow sauce admirable—though their fennel was apparently less enticing.
Chef Z called out to Douglas. “Get me a fresh dish of it,” he said.
Douglas ran over with a small bowl of the fennel, piping hot, the butter seeping out of its skin.
Z started to lift a forkful to his mouth. Then he turned to me instead. “You taste it,” he said.
It felt like an opportunity to redeem myself. I took a bite eagerly, already thinking of something smart to say so Z would know he could trust my palate. I would tell him that the fennel was the ideal texture—hardy and light—and how the aromatics were lovely, the anise highlighted by the garlic.
These were words of praise I was familiar with. I had offered a similar review on my show, regaling in a fresh fennel dish (my fennel sausage and eggs were a particular hit) hot out of my own phony oven. Now I would recycle them for Z.
But something was off. The fennel was sour and wrong in my mouth.
I tried to hide the reaction, but he saw it. Disgust. I thought I was going to be fired right there. Fennel sticking to my tongue as I tried desperately not to throw up.
But Z walked away, not saying anything.
I caught Douglas’s eyes, trying to decipher if I was fired.
“That’s the closest thing to praise you’re ever going to get,” he said.
31
The fennel episode led to several nights in a row where Z sought out my opinion—where it felt, for a moment, like I was falling into the rhythm of the restaurant. But how many times did I need to relearn the same lesson?
At this moment in time, there was no rhythm for me to find.
On Friday morning, I woke up to Rain moving fast around the kitchen, pulling Sammy by the arms. Sammy was laughing.
“Mom! I can’t go that quick.”
I looked up at them from the couch, rubbed my eyes. “What’s going on?” I said.
“We’re playing hooky from camp,” Sammy said.
“But you love it there,” I said.
“Sorry, did I ask your permission?” Rain asked, annoyed.
Sammy looked back and forth between us, and I saw it. She was going to defend me. Rain must have seen it too, because she pulled back.
“I’m not going into work today or to see Thomas,” Rain said. “I need a day. We’re going to the park.”
That was great news. There would be no driving Sammy to and from camp. Maybe I’d get to work early and get some points during pre-service.
“Come with us!” Sammy said.
