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Weston’s head snaps in his direction. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
Enzo holds his hands up. “Whoa, brother. Calm down.”
Weston leans away from Enzo like he’s got something contagious. “Dude, we are nothing like the Kardashians. And anyway, you don’t watch them, do you?”
Enzo looks at me for backup. But he has to get himself out of this one.
“I, well, um, no. But my nonna does, and sometimes when I’m visiting, she’ll have it on in the background. She loves those girls.”
We’re silent for a moment as Weston and I look at each other. Then, in a burst of laughter, he slaps his thigh. “Dude! You watch the Kardashians. I knew it!”
We continue giving Enzo shit until he’s well and truly sorry he ever mentioned anything about them or his beloved grandma.
I crack open another Bud and lean back in the booth to look around.
Fuck me.
I never thought I’d have a restaurant, never mind one as successful as EastSide. Doing what I love with a great team? It doesn’t get any better.
What a long way I’ve come.
I got into cooking out of necessity. After my parents’ divorce, my mother had to go back to work, leaving me on my own. If I wanted to eat, I had to make something.
It was that simple.
Picture me, a twelve-year-old boy, home alone at dinner time, scouring the internet for something easy to make for dinner because I was tired of cereal and milk. I graduated to hotdogs, then spaghetti, and not long after that, I was on my way. I’d take frozen food out of the freezer before I left for school in the morning so it would be thawed in time for my return. By the time I was thirteen, I could roast a chicken. Of course, I destroyed the kitchen in the process, something my mother was not happy about.
I made the mistake of telling the kids at school about my cooking acumen, only to end up being calledhousewife. That got me into a few fights. I learned how to cook and fight at the same time. I still cook but haven’t kicked anyone’s ass in a while.
The food I make these days is, of course, more sophisticated, but every now and then I roast a chicken the same simple way I did when I was a kid. It’s just as delicious.
I’ve never told the guys any of this. It’s stupid, I know. Self-sufficiency for a kid is good, but those weren’t my happiest days. When I think back, it’s sad I was home alone, fending for myself. My friends’ mothers were putting on great spreads for the whole family to enjoy around the dinner table. Everyone else had a mom to feed them, but for me, it was the other way around.
7
OWEN
Next morning,the day’s deliveries arrive, and instead of standing there like a useless asshole, I help the driver, a pimply kid from the Bronx, unload the truck. I need the exercise, anyway.
Meanwhile, Weston stands there in his starched khakis and button-down shirt, his hair slicked back like a preppy Ralph Lauren model, checking off the delivery against our order.
He looks over the crates of meat, fish, and vegetables. “Where’s the cultured butter?”
The kid stops in the middle of passing me a box and gives Weston a blank look. “Uh, what?”
Yeah, I’m sure this kid knows what cultured butter is. Hell, I only recently heard of it for the first time and I’m in the damn business.
I give Weston a look to let it go. “We’ll get Enzo to make some for us. We have plenty of time.”
I pile the boxes and crates onto a hand truck as the kid drives away, but before I go back inside with Weston, I spot our neighbor, from the pet store, breaking down some boxes in the alley. There’s no way she doesn’t know we’re right here, and yet she doesn’t look over or acknowledge us. It’s a shame. She’s a good-looking girl. Guess we guys are not her type.
Weston follows me to the kitchen. I pass everything off to one of the staff, wipe my hands on a towel, and check my jeans and shirt to make sure they’re still relatively clean. I hate getting dirty before the day’s even started.
“Hey, do you have a minute?” Weston asks, tapping on his iPad where he stores every last detail of the business.
I nod, and he waves over Enzo, who doesn’t look happy at the extra task he now has, of making the special butter. I get it. The man’s got a shitload of things to do. But it’s these little details that make EastSide what it is. Sure, we could use regular butter and maybe our guests wouldn’t know, butwewould. We’re not in this to beregular. Even though it means we’re committed to a fuckload of work.
“What’s up, Wes?” he asks, wiping his hands on his chef’s jacket. He goes through several a day. I know, because Weston complains about the laundry bill.
