“We feed them, yes. So simple. We take care of them, yeah? So basic. Service,” Chef said, giving the word its French pronunciation. He reached for his knife kit, gearing himself for service like a knight preparing for a tourney. “Everything is for the guest. This is our calling. To be a chef, you mustloveto cook. You must live to cook, yeah?”
“Yes, Chef.”
I couldn’t match his dedication to service. The way he poured out himself in every dish, on every plate, night after night, for every diner who came to his table... That wasn’t me. But I admired it—I admired him—so much. His integrity as a chef was one of the things that had drawn me to his kitchen, one of the reasons I liked talking about food, writing about food, sharing some of his enthusiasm, his passion.
Not that I could tell him that. My blog was an anonymous insider’s view of the city’s food scene. Confessing I was a food writer would putme on the other side of a professional divide. A critic, not a cook. No longer one of Us, but one of Them.
“Look, I know it’s not the same,” I said. “But my sister’s in North Carolina dealing with everything herself, and she’s got kids, twins, two and a half years old. And there are a ton of people invited for Thanksgiving dinner. I guess I thought...” That he would take my part against his sous, his second? I must have been out of my mind. “I thought if I went home, I could at least help cook.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
“You gave Frank the weekend off when his sons came to visit,” I said. “And Constanza... When her sitter quit, you let her bring Tina into work for almost a week.”
“Where in North Carolina?”
“Um. Bunyan.” Which nobody in New York had ever heard of. “It’s on the Cape Fear River. Near Fort Bragg? My dad was stationed there.”
“Yes, I know. I also have family there,” Chef said.
“Your dad, right?” I felt a prickle of hope. We were both military brats. Would that make a difference? Would he let me go?
“My sons. Bryan and Alec.”
“Oh.” His bio hadn’t mentioned children.
“They live with their mother. She’s a support officer with the 82nd Airborne.”
Or an ex-wife, either.
“It’s not easy for families,” I ventured. “Military life, I mean.”
“Neither is restaurant life,” Chef said.
Right.“You must live to cook,”he’d said. No wonder he was divorced.
A shadow appeared in the doorway. Ray, with the reservation book.
“Thanks.” Chef took the book and flipped it open, scanning the day’s entries.
I stood there, ignored. Dismissed?
“TheTimesis coming at nine,” he said to Ray. “Move the ten-top to table twelve. VIPs in Jackie’s station.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“And call Aaron, see if he wants to work Thanksgiving. March, here, is out.”
“Out?” Ray repeated.
I held my breath.Out?
“On vacation,” Chef clarified. “Aaron can cover her shifts.”
Ray’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Yes, Chef.”
“Thank you,” I said after Ray left the office.
“You’ll be back for Saturday service.”
