7
Blanch: To briefly plunge into boiling water, then into iced water to halt the cooking process.
2015
Working late nights gave good reason for sleeping until noon.
At least, it was the reason Gale gave.
Getting up at ten o’clock would give him a solid eight hours.
And then there were those nights he didn’t work, when he still slept until noon.
Bad habit.
But his sponsor used to say routine was a good thing, and bed at two, up at noon was Gale’s routine.
You do you, man.
“I fucking hate that expression.”
“Huh?”
Kyle kept his eyes on the road.
Driving in New Haven was treacherous.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.
Wrist hurts.”
It did.
A little.
“I’m starving.”
“Me too.
I’m trying to limit my meals at Regina’s.”
Gale shifted in his seat, adjusted the always-locking-up seat belt.
“Why? How often do you go?”
“Once a day, tops.”
“Once a day? Really?”
“That too many?”
“Depends on how broke you are.”
No response. “Kyle?”
“Pretty broke, dude.”
“Why?”
Kyle glanced his way.
“Cut pay.
Gogi caved to the waitstaff.
They only tip us out fifteen percent now. And you know some of them are never honest about it all anyway.”
No one at Marco’s did that, thank goodness.
Gale had worked in places, though .
. . “Damn.”
“I get it.
We all work for the tips.
Sure as shit isn’t worth working for minimum.”
Kyle grinned, slightly lopsided.
Maybe a little cynically.
“We can’t all have sweet gigs in high end like you.”
Culinary school wasn’t guaranteed success in their world, but it did open up access to better jobs.
Gale and Sean had tried to convince Kyle of that, back when they were roommates watching Top Chef and Hell’s Kitchen, boys with dreams of culinary stardom.
“I barely make enough to get by,”
Gale said.
“But you do get by.
With one four-shift job a week.
You can go to Regina’s because you want to, not because you have to.”
“I did have to.”
“For two weeks.”
Not even.
Gale liked the soup kitchen.
The food was good, and he liked the people there.
Regina.
Troy.
The strange old lady who wore the Burger King crown like a Sunday church hat.
He still couldn’t get his dad’s voice out of his head.
That disappointed voice wondering why they spent all that money on culinary school if his son depended upon charity to eat.
He has a point, man.
Soup.
In a soup kitchen.
Not original, but delicious.
Regina was also handing out sandwiches by the trayful, standing at the door of the kitchen looking harried and worn-out. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon.
“You think she’s alone today?”
Gale asked Kyle.
“Don’t know,”
he answered despite the mouthful he chewed.
“That old guy usually helps her.”
“Troy. Yeah.”
Gale tried to get a peek into the kitchen.
“I don’t think he showed up.”
He pushed away from the table.
“Come on.
Let’s go see.”
Kyle followed, slightly flustered and a little behind.
Regina was indeed alone.
“You need some help with that?”
Gale asked.
“I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can, but an extra set of hands would probably be better.”
She frowned but said, “I’ll pay twenty bucks after service.
That work for you?”
“Free food and twenty bucks.”
Kyle rubbed his hands together.
“Works for me.”
Regina’s eyes narrowed.
She handed the tray to Kyle.
To Gale she said, “You, come with me.”
Regina’s kitchen was nothing Gale would have anticipated, didn’t know he’d anticipated anything at all, but the reality was not this.
State-of-the-art everything from the industrial Wolf ovens to the Matfer Bourgeat pots and pans.
Not even Marco’s had such nice stuff to work with.
“Close your mouth.
You’ll catch a fly.”
Gale shut his mouth so fast, his teeth clacked.
“Sorry.
Nice kitchen.”
“Rich benefactor with a guilty conscience.”
Regina grunted.
“You buy good, you buy once.
Service is nearly finished, but if you could grill a few cheese sandwiches, that’d be a huge help.
I have to get started on dinner.”
Something Gale knew from experience should have been done yesterday.
At least, this morning.
He put together cheese sandwiches, grilled them to golden, gooey perfection on the flat top, and handed them to Kyle, who passed them to those still lingering in the dining room.
Then Gale got right to work beside Regina chopping veg, butchering chicken into pieces, peeling potatoes.
He sautéed the mirepoix in a giant pot, added the chicken pieces and the bouquet garni Regina handed him.
“Stir in a little chicken base too,”
she told him.
“Just go easy on the salt.”
When Kyle finished busing the dining room, he jumped in to help with dinner prep.
Somehow, they all worked together as if they always had, and Gale never even worked with Kyle before.
In the lull after lunch and before dinner service began, they sat together eating what was left of the vegetable soup.
“Troy’s not exactly dependable.”
Regina dipped a heel of stale bread in her soup.
“But when he says he’ll be here, he usually shows up.
It’s been a few days now.”
She was silent a moment, chewing absently, then, “I could use the help tonight, if you’re available.”
Gale and Kyle spoke over each other.
“I’ll stay.”
“Sorry, working.”
“It’s Saturday night, dude,”
Kyle said.
“Your first in two weeks.”
“I’ll call Dai.
He’ll cover for me one more week.
He’ll be happy for the extra cash.”
“No,”
Regina told him.
“You take your shift.
Thanks for all your help.
It’s mostly done. I’ll manage service by myself, but if you could drop off a box to a shut-in for me, I’ll give you an extra ten.”
“Sure,”
Kyle said.
“No problem.”
Gale felt bad, but she’d refused his offer to stay, and Regina didn’t seem the kind to be argued with.
Rising, both young men cleared away dishes while she dug into her pockets for the crumbled bills.
Kyle pocketed his, plus the extra ten she’d promised.
“Here’s the address.”
She also handed him a slip of paper.
“I assume you know how to use the GPS on your phone.”
“Couldn’t get anywhere without it.”
Kyle grinned that grin of his, not so much stupid as silly.
It made Gale remember childhood, and how his friend always thought he could grin his way out of trouble.
He never could.
Sean, on the other hand . . .
Pressing the twenty back into Regina’s hand, Gale said, “I’m good.”
“Take it.”
“No, really. I—”
“I said, take it.”
Gale should have taken his earlier advice and not argued.
He stammered, “I work Monday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, but if you need help on Sunday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, let me know.”
“Why?”
Yeah. Why?
“Just thought I’d . . .”
Help out.
You’re doing something good.
You shouldn’t have to do it alone.
I need service hours for my Eagle Scout project. “It’s when I have time on my hands,”
he said at last.
“That’s not such a good thing for me.”
Regina leveled a glare.
Gale bore it without flinching. Much.
Scrubbing the tired from her face with both hands, she told him, “Leave me your number.”
“We better get going.”
Kyle hefted the produce box full of soup containers and sandwiches in his arms.
“I’m really sorry I can’t help tonight, Chef.”
Regina one-eyed him.
“Don’t call me chef.”
Kyle colored.
“Sorry.
I thought it was safer than calling you Regina.
I don’t know your last name or anything.”
“Regina is fine.”
Nodding, Kyle headed for the back entrance.
Habit, using the service door.
Gale followed him.
“See you, Regina.”
She threw a tired wave over her shoulder.
Gale was beat too, and now he had to go to Marco’s and put in a full shift.
With Frances.
She’s not that bad.
No.
She wasn’t.
Mostly annoying.
Sometimes frustrating.
Gale always thought it was how she ordered everyone around that set him off, but Regina was way worse, and he hadn’t cringed or rolled his eyes even once.
Dinner service was okay.
The boys had set Regina up well enough to be able to manage, and a few of her regulars pitched in to help serve.
Too bad she couldn’t call on them to fill Troy’s shoes.
Despite his rhythmic fall into a bottle, he was the only person she trusted in her kitchen.
To know where everything was.
To keep things the way she wanted them.
Not to steal from her.
She’d learned this the hard way; trust was a rare commodity in the always-on-the-edge world they all lived in.
But this Gale kid . . .
She knew one when she saw one.
A chef with potential.
It was in the way he moved, how he smelled food, touched it before doing whatever needed doing to it, as if each piece of chicken or cut of carrot had some quality that made it right or wrong for the dish in question.
She used to make chefs like him.
And break them.
The other young man, Kyle.
He’d do okay, but he didn’t have it.
Lucky for him, he didn’t have the other part Regina recognized in Gale—the slightly pinched look of someone always hanging on by their fingernails.
She saw it when Gale laughed, when he talked.
But not when he cooked, even when he was in the weeds.
An artist set free.
She remembered the feeling.
Queenie B did, anyway.
Cleaning up wasn’t too bad.
The two boys worked clean, well-trained.
Despite her rule about not caring too much, she couldn’t help worrying about Troy; this latest binge was lasting a long time.
Was he eating? Getting to his nebulizer appointments at the clinic? The man wheezed like an old car chugging its last.
He’d also disappeared for a while in 2012, but Troy had eventually come back to work; he just hadn’t been the same since Petunia died.
Neither of them had, really.
Exactly why caring too much was dangerous.
The taut line she treaded made selfish and survival synonymous.
Stepping out into her yard, taking deep, deep breaths, she blinked free of those thoughts, the hurt.
She spotted the Burger King crown over the cane fence that would buttress her peas in warmer months.
The Burger Queen held her court of one, talking animatedly to the chain-link fence.
“Good evening, Gladys.”
Regina spoke gently.
“What are you doing here? Didn’t those boys deliver your food to you?”
The old woman sniffed.
“I should fire that man.”
Troy, of course.
The Burger Queen labored under the delusion that Troy was her butler and driver, though, as far as Regina knew, Troy never owned a car.
“I’m sure he’s doing his best.
Can I give you a ride?”
“Thank you.
Much obliged.”
Regina offered her arm to the old woman, walked as slowly as her tiny steps required.
The state-assisted building both Gladys and Troy lived in was as ramshackle as the rest of the area, but there was running water, heat, and shelter from the elements.
It was more than many of Regina’s elderly patrons had.
Helping Gladys climb into her Durango, Regina asked again if she’d gotten the food Kyle and Gale were supposed to deliver.
“Nice boys.”
Gladys sniffed in that imperious way.
“The shaggy one even put it in the refrigerator for me.”
“Then why are you here?”
Regina asked.
“How did you get here?”
“I .
.
.
was . . .”
Another sniff.
“I am fully capable of going for a walk on my own, young lady.”
“Of course you are.
Forgive me.”
Another consequence of Troy’s benders; no one looked after Gladys.
Rather, she allowed no one else to.
Regina tucked that away.
There was nothing she could really do, short of reporting the situation to whoever reported dotty old women roaming about dangerous neighborhoods.
Then it would be a state nursing home, understaffed and overcrowded.
Gladys was better off where she was.
She drove Gladys home, helped her to her apartment, and even warmed up soup for her before she left her in front of the grainy television tuned in to some game show.
Hopefully, she’d stay put now.
Regina had to get back to the kitchen, finish up.
Thank goodness for Gale and Kyle’s help today; she was in pretty good shape.
But then there was tomorrow.
In her Durango, heat blasting, she took her phone and the slip of paper Gale had written his number on from her pocket.
If you really meant it I can use your help tomorrow.
Lunch or dinner lmk
Regina tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, headed back to the kitchen.
In her head, planning.
Breakfast was easy enough to see to on her own.
A pile of scrambled eggs, toast.
She could set up a slow cooker of oatmeal before she went to bed, like she’d done in the early days, and it’d be ready by the time the door opened.
Could be she was hoping for too much from this kid, but she had a good feeling, and Regina didn’t get those often enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Back at her kitchen, she set up the two massive slow cookers, grabbed the brown sugar and honey from the pantry, the frozen berries from the freezer, and set them on the counter.
Eggs, she always had dozens on hand.
Not from her own hens, but from the giant box store.
Regina hated to use subpar ingredients, but sometimes cost and convenience had to win out.
Money wasn’t the issue.
It only needed to seem so.
Serving simple but tasty, nutritious food kept her off the wider radar.
The locals kept Regina’s Kitchen for themselves, for the most part.
If she started cooking high end with organic, farm-raised and grain-fed products, word would spread.
She’d be found out.
And that was something she couldn’t let happen.
Then she was upstairs.
Home.
Exhausted.
Feeling pretty okay about things.
Another day down.
Another—with or without Troy—coming at her.
She’d done it all by herself before.
She’d acclimate to it again if she had to, and face it—she probably did.
Or would, sometime soon, because Troy wasn’t getting any younger or less of an alcoholic.
She wasn’t old, even if she felt it sometimes.
Most of the time.
This was what she’d signed up for when she’d chosen this balance, this form of atonement.
If Regina could take pride in anything about her life, it was that she never quit.
Washed, dressed for bed, Regina slipped between the sheets—Frette, Italian-made—and turned out the light.
Her phone on the nightstand lit up just as her heavy lids began their descent to slumber.
A text from Gale bisected Julian’s face on her lock screen—
I can do both.
See you abt ten.
Regina texted him a thumbs-up, trying not to grin too smugly for being right.
She cleared the screen, and there was Julian again, a picture she’d snatched off social media.
A grown man.
Standing with his father; she’d cropped Osvaldo out.
Not because she hated him or resented him; because she loved him.
She had when she was only barely someone—a chef with her own cooking show on public television.
He’d been a guest, her producer’s idea.
Handsome and sophisticated.
Foreign, with the name and accent to match, Osvaldo Balcazar had charmed everyone on the set, including her.
Especially her.
It had taken moments for them to fall in love, years for him to fall out of it.
Regina never had. Never would. She owed him that much for all she’d done.
In the photo on her cell phone, her son wore a chef’s coat, his smiling face driving home all she had done to him before he ever breathed his first breath.
The thin upper lip, flat face, small eyes.
The underdeveloped jaw she’d hoped beyond hope he would outgrow once he was a man.
But he hadn’t.
He’d outgrown none of it.
The behavioral issues.
His limitations.
Did Oz have him working in one of his restaurants? Or was it simply a photo op meant to prove the great Osvaldo Balcazar, sommelier and restaurateur, lived a shining, uncomplicated life since the vanishing of his wife, the infamous Queenie B?
She’d seen neither her son nor her ex-husband in years.
Not since Bova, their little house in the cliffs.
Italy.
Rome had ruined everything.
She had ruined everything.
Switching off the phone, Regina didn’t worry someone might try to reach her in the night.
Gale wouldn’t, that was for sure.
Anyone else who had her cell phone number—lawyers, accountants all overseeing her interests in an empire still bearing her name—wouldn’t call during the night.
No one knew how to find her.
She, who had once been in every home in America, on billboards and radio and even—a cameo—on the silver screen.
She, who couldn’t hide if she wanted to, was now so incognito, no one in her present had a clue who she was.
Had been.
If she had anything to say about it, no one ever would.