Thisis more like a restaurant than a mess hall, with white cloths on the tables and more art installation-type lights drifting down from the ceiling. One wall is lined with towering hydro-planters filled with a variety of green and purple herbs, with water trickling gently through them.
The thick, savory scent in here is nothing like pre-packaged mac and cheese or grease from fries soaking into a folded whitebasket. Instead, I can practicallytastethe layers of flavor in here, and it makes my mouth water.
Across the way, the other wall is sheer glass, revealing a rooftop garden with a greenhouse in the center. The rest of the space is a patio area arranged around open-air plants, and Ember employees, all impeccably dressed and styled, lounge casually, eating dishes that look straight out of a magazine.
Beyond the diners are more incredible views of the city. From here, I can easily see through to the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. Birds swoop low over the water, which shimmers in the afternoon sun.
Even with the spectacular view, I can’t stop myself from staring at the various plates—large, shining, and containing the kind of food that’s precisely prepared, like in a fancy restaurant.
I see a dish topped with micro-greens, delicate little flowers, and a bright green sauce. Perfect cubes of beef, pink in the center, paired with precisely circular slices of bright radishes that contrast both color and shape. Another person cuts an Ahi tuna steak, and yet another has what can only be some sort of Borscht, bright purple soup that floods into a lowered spoon.
It hits me, suddenly, that Ididforget breakfast. And I’m absolutely starving.
And Julian has tugged me over to what must be the line for food.
“Wait a minute. I don’t know what’s on the menu,” I whisper, looking around frantically for the non-existent board above the little window into the kitchen. Or maybe there’s an app?
Perhaps Julian has a menu for me to look at, but if the options are Ahi tuna steaks—or any of the other stuff I saw people eating—it’s not like I’m going to be able to afford it, anyway. Not today, and certainly not daily for the duration of my employment here.
“They can make whatever you want.” Julian waves his hand nonchalantly again, before stepping up to the window, resting his chin on his fist. “And it’s all free to employees.”
“Julian,” the guy behind the window says jovially when he sees him propped there. “What can we do for you?”
“Good morning, Boris. I’ll have the Rocoto Relleno,” he says, the words rolling off his tongue smoothly.
The chef—Boris, apparently—laughs, the sound loud and booming, echoing off the chrome appliances around him and through the little opening in the wall. “Again?”
“It was so good last time. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” Julian’s voice is liquid, and he leans against the window, eyes sparkling.
I’ve only just met him, but I get the sense that he’s just charismatic and sounds like he’s flirting with anyone he talks to. The chef grins, punches Julian’s order into a computer screen, and shifts his attention to me, a wide, expectant smile on his face. “And for you?”
“Uh,” I panic, looking up again for a menu that doesn’t exist. “How about a… hamburger?”
The chef presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows. “A hamburger? Any… special requests for that? Flavors you’re looking for?”
“No,” I hurry to say, feeling the weight of stares on my back, a little ball of anxiety swirling in my chest. “I’ll eat whatever you make.”
“Coming right up,” he says.
Then Julian leads me to a table by the window, pours water into little crystal glasses, and sits me down.
“Okay,” he says, glancing between me and the kitchen window. “We’ll work on that later. For now, what the hell are you wearing, girl? What was Aunt Ruby thinking, letting you walk out like that? Cominghere?”
I blink, glance down at my dress, and flush all over again. “I didn’t run it by her. Guess maybe I should have.”
“She knows what it’s like here,” Julian says, rolling his eyes. “You’re going to have to get a new wardrobe, or the culture freaks might stuff you in a dumpster outside.”
At my horrified expression, he says, “Not really,” before rising to fetch our food, which is, apparently, ready.
Mine is the best burger I’ve ever had. It doesn’t taste quite like beef—maybe it’s bison, or elk, or something else? There’s a fresh cabbage slaw topping it, slightly sweet, and pickled red onions that pop against the hot, rich patty.
“Looks good,” Julian says, before digging into his own meal, which looks like some sort of peppers with meat and cheese. Through his bite, only half covering his mouth, he says, “But seriously, you can’t ever come dressed in mass fashion again. I’m shocked you gothiredin that dress. I’m shocked they let youin the buildingwearing that. Who interviewed you?”
Julian shows the appropriate amount of surprise and disbelief when I admit, “Dane Rourke.”
“Holyshit,” he hisses, glancing around. Returning his intense honey eyes to mine, he says, “Okay, Old Navy, apparently you’re doing something right, because Rourke clearly liked the look of you.”
I choke on a bite of my burger and hack into a napkin for a full minute before wheezing, “No, no, they’re just desperate for an assistant.”
