Hatched (14 page)

“Thanks—,” Russ started to say. But John was gone, drifting, as it were, towards the broiling station where he was arrested by the sight of a smear on the otherwise pristine stainless-steel handle that opened the convection oven. He turned back, with the glare of a commanding officer and the sneer of a soldier defined by the horrors of victor.

“Jessica, they are coming tonight, Jessica, a group of them, for inspection. Get Russ to wipe down the steel before we get going.”

This was a demotion, quick and dirty. No chopping, no cutting, not even any replenishing in the walk-in, just wiping down. Russ looked perplexed and walked back past Nicky, who was in deep reflection over the gravies, and towards Nate, who had lined up at least three hundred green beans into a long, green structure resembling, in a disturbing, green color, a parade of inchworms or a stairway back to the Garden of Eden.

What’s the difference between the garden and the nest? The garden was designed for perfection, and then became the stage for unexpected expulsion, whereas the nest was conceived specifically for expulsion.

Chapter 11

“We have ways of making you talk!” pronounced Nate as Russ approached the prep table. Russ, worn down by his little chat with John, was traumatized into total submission, and, displaying no outward emotion to compete with his inward, emotional coagulation, he just stared at Nate, conveying nothing other than still, blank horror. Nate stood tall above the beans, and the whole scene conveyed an impression that they must be quivering inside. As Russ stared forward, as though preparing for an execution, Nate leered over the green line and produced, in his left hand, a knife sharpener, and in his right, a huge chef’s knife. Russ was so sensitized to the emotions of this horrifying place that he could feel the cold blade upon his own neck, the squeeze of Nate’s hand upon his tender testicles. His eyes widened.

Nate adroitly ran the blade of the knife over the sharpener, side to side, a dozen times, and then laid both down before him. He looked up towards the white, rounded ceiling of Fabergé Restaurant, clasped his hands in mock prayer, then seized the knife, and in two swoops chopped the ends from the two sides of the beans. He then took from his apron strings the towel that John forced everyone to carry with them at all times and wiped his brow before gently dotting his eyes. And finally, he took Russ into his arms in a warm embrace.

“It’s over. Now we can but pray for their souls.” He bowed his head, and then, using the chef’s knife to help amass them, began to lay the beans down in a six pan. “May you rest in pieces,” he solemnly declared.

“Coming through, watch out, it’s hot, hot, hot! Excuse me!” Nick was squeezing past Nate and Russ in a great hurry, carrying a sack of flour. “Hot, hmmm, stop it now, I gotta run! My testes are ablaze!”

Ever since Nick and his wife started trying to have children, time came to be marked by crosses on a tear-covered calendar. They were being foiled, it seemed, by the heat of the hot plates and stove, which conspired, at the level of genitals, to heat the reproductive organs to a temperature unfit for reproduction. Nicky’s sperm flowed into his wife’s fallopian tubes like egg whites from some filthy Manhattan diner, surrounded by the much-feared Saran Wrap of overcooking.

There is an understanding in professional kitchens that casual sexual encounters can usually occur without condoms, and few of the female chefs used contraceptives if their partners worked alongside of them in the kitchens. At first, Nicky’s verbal frustration about his impotence had led to joking about his condition, and then, as guffaws turned to concern, he began to receive regular vacations, thanks to Doris’s intervention. But nothing worked. Over time, the jokes in Fabergé Restaurant’s Yolk had turned to sadness, and then, mercifully, back to jokes again.

“He would be a great father,” Jessica had once declared to Nate.

Nate, having himself dreamed of paternity and a life with her, hadn’t replied. But it was a shared sentiment in the kitchen that this professional tragedy, which led to overheated sperms and eggs, was a pitfall of the job, and a strange allegory for the coagulated yolk. For a long time, servers speculated that Nicky’s quest would be successfully resolved, just as they believed that at some point Jessica and Nate would come together, as it were. But those who worked in the kitchen knew better, and in hushed voices they all spoke about the power of that blue flame, and, in regards to Nate and Jessica, about the equally destructive stresses of working together in close proximity. The Yolk, they knew, was a place of creation and life, but also of a vitalistic force that is heated by merciless flames to submission.

There was now that strange lull in the evening, the calm before the proverbial storm of fried, broiled, beaten, stirred, and whipped eggs. Russ was put to work polishing the endless stainless steel of the kitchen in preparation for what would then become a night of pot scrubbing and the caressing of stainless steel.

John stood by the dishwashing station, prepared for a night of steaming, rinsing, and piling-up dishes.

Jessica gravitated towards the sauté station, prepared for whatever may come up.

Johnny arranged the rows of raw meat and fish and lobster, carefully handling each with his fingers.

Nate stood and admired his handiwork before bringing the slew of vegetables he had prepped for the evening into the walk-in, where he’d probably stop for a quick whippet from the new case of whipped cream containers.

And then, ritualistically, the servers began to appear, a half hour or so before the opening of the restaurant’s main “crack,” as the front door was affectionately called.

The walk-in door, heavy and solid, opened and closed frequently through the shift, particularly as the kitchen staff sought solace or whippets or a snack to escape the heat and the noise.

Nate emerged from the walk-in, silent and serious, surveying the Yolk. This was where he wanted to be, in the very seat of class-consciousness. He flourished in this elite world of expensive cuts of meat, fresh fish and lobster, expensive beluga caviar, whipped cream, and, of course, eggs, some of the most exotic and expensive eggs from some of the rarest creatures on the planet, not to mention, as in the case of the ant eggs, some of the most prolific. Each of these gourmet dishes was served on expensive, French flatware and accompanied by Italian crystal glasses filled with obscenely overpriced wines, beers, and liquors. Most of the clients came to Fabergé Restaurant expecting to spend at least $300 per person, and many in fact exceeded $1,000 per person on a single meal.

This conspicuous consumption was taking place in the United States, so some of the meals weren’t even long affairs, but were rather, like the sex that might follow, in which the quantity spent to procure the favor could be likened to the value of the favor itself. Hence the array of wealthy people, men and women, who came to Fabergé Restaurant with partners who were clearly not their legal spouses, but rather, same sexed or not, guilty pleasures, guiltily brought to this haven of champagne and caviar, for the timid, crocodile eggs carefully placed in a pool of ant larvae, for the more experimented or curious. These wealthy people, or at least those with enough wealth to bring them in for one of these meals, were all served by employees who couldn’t make enough in a week to pay for the exorbitance of a meal that they themselves knew how to prepare.

Nate was in his element here, because expensive restaurants are institutions where class can lead to class consciousness, or class warfare. The disparity of wealth, even in the kitchen itself, can be dramatic, particularly between highly trained chefs and unskilled workers. Furthermore, unlike miners or factory workers, those who toil in the service industry rub shoulders, often literally, with the upper classes that they serve. They can thus become astute observers or, in the case of people like Nate, curious investigators into the very bases of social relations.

Nate undid the strings holding his chef’s apron and then did them up again, tighter, and moved like a professional athlete, or perhaps a union organizer, towards the fray. His form of hobnobbing was akin to readying himself for a fight, and he, as always, was ready for prolonged combat.

Jude stayed away, probably because he didn’t have enough money to have had any real choice in the matter. There was enough to keep me amused, though, as I watched the Yolk from the perch from which I observe what unfolds in Fabergé Restaurant. It was a busy shift, and somewhat more somber than others, perhaps because John was even more convinced that, as usual, an inspector was fated to enter the premises that evening.

I don’t think that an inspector would dare enter Fabergé Restaurant, unless tempted by its tastes, because everyone, it seemed, knew that there was no point in looking for filth as long as John-the-Owner was the owner. Moreover, I wouldn’t want to be the ones charged with inspecting John’s Fabergé Restaurant, because there’s no telling what he’d do if he found out. Maybe he’d cut them open, as he did the lobsters, and then look for eggs to extract. If I were able, I know that I would most certainly extract other eggs from myself. Perhaps the Fabergé egg replicas that adorn my innards already achieve this purpose?

Chapter 12

When Tina saw Steve, she sensed the arrival of a kindred spirit. He was tall, clean, and not just clean-shaven, but clean—everywhere. He was impeccably dressed, silent, observant, ponderous, introverted, and serene. He looked like a murderer.

Tina decided right then and there that she wanted to be murdered. Tina wanted to be murdered by him.

Steve stood at the entranceway, ignoring the activity around him and staring obliquely into the dining room. He looked to be casing the place, and Tina was almost tempted to cross the dividing line between the dining room and the kitchen, something that only occurred in extreme situations, to tell John that the inspector had arrived. She stared at him, taking in his entire being, and knew that her impulse to call John had come from some other place. Inspectors didn’t wear designer clothing, and this man was wearing a Hermes shirt, and, yes, a matching tie from this year’s collection, under a Gucci black-suede parka.

Tina did not shop at such places, but without checking the labels on her own impeccable clothing one might think that she did, because she kept up with fashion trends in her spare time. When she did shop, she didn’t just go for knockoffs, she studied catalogues to understand the spirit of designer work, so that she was able to find in mid-range department stores clothing that, on her frame, looked like it came from expensive boutiques. As a consequence, she could spot recent clothing lines from expensive brands from a mile away, a skill that sometimes served her well in Fabergé Restaurant.

Tonight, her knowledge served her well. She approached this man with caution. “Good evening, sir, may I show you to your table?” She had no idea if he had a table, if he’d made a reservation, or if he knew that on a Thursday night he should. But it didn’t matter, she was going to seat him, and if this meant that she had to eject the wealthy client from Tucson, Arizona, who had read the flattering write-up by a schmoozing journalist who had wanted a free meal at Fabergé Restaurant and got one in exchange for writing for the American Airlines in-flight magazine.

“Some fat hick wouldn’t be able to taste the quality of Fabergé Restaurant’s food anyway,” she thought to herself, “and he probably only comes to New York occasionally, so his being kicked out wouldn’t change anything on the bookkeeping side.” She scanned the dining room for a candidate to her uncharacteristic impulsivity. There was in fact no need, several tables were unoccupied, and the reservation list had gaping holes that evening. She symbolically lifted the golden rod of flowing ink to inscribe his name into her sacred book. She looked into his eyes, and he uttered, simply, “Steve.”

“Steve,” she wrote.

Steve looked right at Tina as she undertook this task, without evident motion. “I am waiting for someone else as well. Two people, actually, but the second will arrive later.” Silence.

Tina looked up into Steve’s black eyes, took in the smell of warm animal from his black coat, and lowered her gaze. She then looked up at him again, right into the very depth of his still features.

“Would you care to wait at the bar, sir? Or would you just like a table?”

“I don’t have reservations,” he replied, matter-of-factly, and then, as though as an afterthought, added: “But I prefer to eat at the bar. I assume the menu is available for patrons of the bar?”

Patrons of the bar
. She was going to remember that. John would appreciate patrons of the bar much more than, say, some down-home expression spontaneously uttered by a rich rancher from Tucson, Arizona.

“Of course. Please choose your place, I will prepare it for you and your guest.” She hesitated. “One guest now, and then one more you say?”

“Yes,” he answered, without looking her way. “We are two. And then three.”

“Sounds like a pronouncement of great import,” she thought.

“Follow me, sir,” she said, and gently implored by drawing her gaze into his face. She wondered who he had invited, and put symbolic money on it being another man. He was quite gorgeous, tall, big, and sleek, with jet-black hair and perfect skin. She knew Japan, but had never been to other countries in Southeast Asia. He was especially hard to place, because he was so tall, so solidly built, and, moreover, because he sported an American accent. “Half breed?” she asked herself. “Certainly, but from where? China, that was certain, but then, well, his skin was dark. Vietnam? Korea?” But he was very big, and he looked dangerous. “Mongolia?”

She was in a state of frantic inner monologue, even as she was calmly seating him at the place where Jude had been seated with Ted in the late afternoon hours. When she realized what she’d done, she almost suggested he move to another table. Why? And then it struck her that somehow this was an ideal choice, and so smiled inwardly and then again wondered about the connection that would inadvertently bring those meetings, distant in time, together in space.