12
Getting a push: When the order tickets are coming faster and the restaurant is getting busier, the kitchen is “getting a push.”
2015
Sometimes, Gale wasn’t even sure what day it was when he woke in the morning.
Was it Tuesday? Yes, because he cooked lunch service at Marco’s yesterday, dinner at Regina’s.
Right? Had to be right, because if it was Thursday, his other lunch service as sous, he’d wouldn’t have been at Regina’s the night prior; and he was never going to be able to forget the crate she set up for him, no matter how busy, how work-crazed.
Peanut butter, sweetbreads, brussels sprouts, and day-old glazed donuts.
Abysmal failure.
“I like the East Asian take on the dish,”
she told him.
“Your sauce is perfect.
The scallions you added from the pantry really kick it up.
But the brussels sprouts are underutilized, and if you don’t remove the membrane from the sweetbreads, they’re pretty inedible. Someone else would have to really fuck up for you to be safe.”
“I never made sweetbreads before.”
“Not even in culinary school?”
If he had, Gale didn’t remember.
Regina showed him how to properly remove the membrane, poach the glands in milk, before dusting them in flour—in this case, the pulverized insides of the glazed donuts—and giving them a quick but careful fry.
“There’s really no better way to cook them,”
she said.
“I’ve .
.
. uh . . . watched a few shows, just to get an idea of how it goes. I’m telling you, in a crate like this one? They’re not going to be looking for how creative you are with the protein, but how creatively you incorporate it with the other components.”
A slaw of shaved brussels sprouts, fennel bulb, and daikon dressed in a light mirin vinaigrette.
His peanut butter, soy, sesame dipping sauce with scallion garnish, plated impeccably; Gale had never seen, or tasted, anything so beautiful.
“The milk poach is kind of crucial,”
she’d told him, “to make sure they cook through when you fry them.
Soaking them in milk for a few hours would be even better.
Soften that offal taste a bit, but it’s obviously not doable during the competition.
As long as you poach and fry them to perfection, you’re good.”
That Regina turned humble fare into nutritious, tasty meals on a daily basis was established; that she was a true sorceress with food on a higher level was news that, after all, came as no real surprise to Gale.
She exuded culinary confidence.
Stopping off at the apartment between Regina’s and Marco’s, Gale froze at the sight of his dad’s yellow Baja parked out front.
He trotted the rest of the way down the street, a smile on his face that faded when he saw his dad through the windshield.
“What’s wrong? Is it Mom?”
Danny Carmichael was already out of the car, pulling Gale into a bear hug.
“Please.
Just tell me.”
“She’s okay,”
he said.
“But we had a scare.
I didn’t want to leave you a message, and you’re not answering your phone.”
Which most assuredly frightened Danny almost as much as whatever scare Lucy had recently given him.
“I’ve been doing back-to-back shifts,”
Gale told him.
“You want to come up? Tell me what’s going on?”
“Why don’t you just come with me, if you can.
If you have time.”
“I’ll make time.
Just, Dad, come on.
Don’t leave me hanging.”
“It seems she might have had a mild heart attack.”
Oh, shit, man.
“It seems?”
His voice cracked an octave too high.
“Okay, she did.
She’s in the hospital for observation, but they don’t think she’s going to need any of them stunts.”
“I think they’re called stents.”
“Yeah, them things.
Medication.
Better eating habits.
Exercise. You know she eats like shit.”
Don’t we all.
Gale was already calling the restaurant.
Marco would cover for him; he was a good guy.
There were still a couple of hours before Gale really had to be there.
He could go upstairs, get changed, go see his mother, and be in the kitchen before the real dinner hours kicked up.
Cold, man.
Real cold.
“Shut up, Sean.”
“What was that, son?”
Danny asked over his shoulder.
“Nothing.
Wait here.
I’m just going to change.”
“I’m fine, buddy.”
Lucy hugged Gale a little too hard.
“Really.
There’s no need for all this fuss.
It was a wake-up call, nothing more than that.”
“No work, three months.”
His dad wagged a finger.
“You heard the doc.”
“Yeah, well, the doc doesn’t have bills to pay.”
“Mom, don’t be insane.”
“Can you even imagine me sitting around doing nothing for three months?”
She waved them both off.
“I’d for sure have a real heart attack.”
“Dad, don’t let her—”
“Since when does your father let me do anything? Now hush and tell me about you.
I haven’t seen you since our breakfast date.”
An entire month.
Just about.
Time didn’t exist for Gale.
He loved both the paid and volunteer jobs. What he learned from Regina—and her crazy crates—on a daily basis was invaluable.
“Well, I guess I do have some news.”
“Tell, tell.”
His mother looked so drawn, dark rings around her eyes.
At least, this time, it wasn’t his fault.
“Remember that cooking competition show I used to watch with Sean and Kyle?”
“You watched a million of them.”
“Cut! The one with the crazy crates of ingredients you have to turn into something edible?”
“Oh, right.
I remember. Go on.”
“I applied .
.
.
well, I filled out the application and chickened out, then Kyle . . .”
He laughed.
“Never mind.
Long story short, I got in.
I’m going to be on television. Ten grand if I win.”
“Ten thousand?”
Danny grasped his arm.
“For one day?”
“Yup.
If I win. But—”
“Oh, Gale!”
Lucy’s cheeks pinked a little.
“That’s wonderful! When?”
“The taping is in a few weeks.
I don’t know when it’ll air.”
“So,”
his father said, “do they make you wait for the show to air? Or give you the money right off?”
Classic Mr.
Carmichael.
Gale spent an hour with his parents, telling them about work, about Regina’s, how much he learned from her, and that it was being able to tackle her insane crates that gave him the courage to go through with the competition.
His mother still hadn’t mentioned the soup kitchen to his dad; Danny took it in stride, even if he looked—momentarily—ready to pop when Gale confessed how he’d first found the place.
Lucy seemed fine, really.
It was kind of a relief to know she’d be on medication, have to start taking care of herself.
A doctor would monitor everything, make sure she was doing what she was supposed to.
Scary, yes, but better to know than not to know.
“Don’t you have to work?”
Lucy asked, looking at the time on her husband’s phone.
“It’s Tuesday.”
“I got someone to cover—”
“Don’t be an idiot!”
Lucy slapped him upside the head.
Gently.
“Go.
I’m fine. Create! When I’m out of here, we’re coming in to the restaurant for a meal cooked by our chef son.”
“I’ll get you the best table in the house.”
He kissed her cheek.
Lucy held him close.
“And tell Regina I’ll have some time to spare in the next few months, if she wants an extra pair of hands.”
“I will,”
Gale said.
Against his better judgment.
Not only did his mom need to rest, but Regina’s was his domain, and he was a little surprised to realize how closely he guarded it.
Only slightly less so than he guarded his mother.
Marco made a fuss about him coming in.
“It’s the best part of being salaried,”
he said, expressive hands in the air.
“Time off with pay!”
Gale didn’t want time off.
He wanted to cook and cook and plate and serve and cook some more.
Sean rarely talked to him while he was busy, saving their conversations for quieter, more vulnerable moments.
Fewer quieter moments meant fewer conversations that reminded Gale he was alive and Sean was not.
“I know, but she’s the one who made me come in, so . . .”
“You sure?”
Marco was already heading for the pass.
“My sister had one of those mild incarcerations a few years back.
She says she’s still too weak to do shit she doesn’t want to do.”
“I think you mean mild infarction,”
Gale told him.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
Marco waved him off.
“I was trying to be funny.
Lighten the mood.”
He wasn’t trying to be funny.
“Really.
It’s all good.
I got this.”
Tuesdays were pretty slow, as a rule; this Tuesday, their last diners left at eight forty-five.
The kitchen was cleaned and prepped for the next day before ten o’clock rolled around.
Gale wasn’t ready to go home.
And he was hungry.
Marco had put, of all things, a fried sweetbread appetizer on the special menu.
Probably not a coincidence, but a crap ton of lamb pancreas at the meat supplier.
The sweetbreads had already been prepped and soaked in milk when he got in.
There were still some of today’s left. Alone in the kitchen—Marco, as always, at the bar—Gale poached and fried some up in a light rice flour and cornstarch coating. Instead of the tomato-based sauce Marco served them with, Gale dipped into his boss’s secret stash of peanut butter and made the dipping sauce he’d put together at Regina’s. Plating the sweetbreads up on a bed of mesclun greens, he added the finely chopped scallion garnish and a squeeze of lime.
Looks pretty damn good, man.
It did.
And the meal tasted amazing, too.
Better, if he did say so himself, than what Regina made earlier.
Probably because of that long soak in milk.
“What you got there, Gale?”
He didn’t jump, even if he startled.
Marco rarely entered the kitchen once it was clean and closed for the night.
Gale finished chewing, swallowed.
“I did up a couple of the leftover sweetbreads.”
“Yeah? Doesn’t look like mine.”
“I .
.
.
uh . . . thought I’d try something, you know, different.”
Smooth, man.
Real smooth.
“What’s this?”
Marco lifted the dipping sauce to his nose, stuck a pinkie in and tasted.
“Not bad.
Sesame sauce?”
“Kind of.
Peanut butter, soy, and sesame.”
“Mind if I . . . ?”
“Oh, sure.”
Gale shrugged.
“I mean, it’s your stuff.”
Marco dipped a fried sweetbread in the sauce, took a bite.
Gale was gratified to hear the crunch.
“That’s damn good.
Could use a little heat.”
“I thought so too,”
Gale told him.
“We only had jarred cherry peppers.
I didn’t think that would go as well.
The vinegar, you know?”
“Yeah.
But maybe some Thai chilies or something.”
Marco took another bite.
“You come up with this yourself?”
“Pretty much.
I .
.
. uh . . .”
Gale’s stomach lurched.
“I guess I should tell you, I’m going to be on one of those cooking competition shows.
Do you watch Cut!?”
“A postman doesn’t go for a walk on Sunday, son.
But I’m familiar.”
“Well, a friend has been putting weirdo crates together for me, for practice, because that’s how the show works.
I prepared the sweetbreads all wrong, but the dipping sauce is mine.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to do it?”
“I didn’t exactly ask her,”
Gale told him.
“She just .
.
. took it upon herself.”
“Chef friend?”
“Kind of.
Regina runs a soup kitchen.
I’ve been volunteering some of my off time.
I’ve learned a lot from her.”
“Yeah, huh?”
Marco’s eyebrow quirked.
“Like how to clean sweetbreads.”
“Yup.”
“From a soup kitchen cook.”
Gale laughed.
“I know.
Sounds strange.”
Marco shook his head.
If he had more to say about it, he decided against it, instead clapping Gale’s shoulder.
“A cooking show, huh? That’ll be good advertising for the restaurant.”
“If I win, I guess.”
“Even if you lose.
No publicity is bad publicity.”
He stepped into the walk-in, checked the container of sweetbreads soaking in milk for tomorrow’s service.
“What do you think? Switch it up for tomorrow? Do yours, see how it goes.”
Dude!
“It’s not .
.
. Italian.”
Marco waved him off.
“We do sesame tuna tartare.
No one bats an eye.
It’s okay. It’s good. This’ll pair well with the swordfish special. Tweak it to make it work. Yeah?”
“Uh, sure.
No problem.”
“Write me a list.
I’ll get what you need at the market tomorrow morning.”
More peanut butter.
The Thai chilies.
Limes.
Scallions. The rest was all there, stocked in the pantry and fridge. Gale gave Marco the list, left the amounts up to him, thinking how funny it was that Marco’s ego survived changing his own menu’s recipes while Frances would have screamed bloody murder. Which she would do on Thursday, if Marco kept Gale’s sweetbreads on the menu rather than hers, which weren’t hers at all but Marco’s.
Fucked-up, huh?
Gale didn’t answer.
He’d tried it before.
Ignoring him.
He sometimes thought Sean’s voice in his head was his own guilty conscience. Like when he was happy and had no right to be. Not while Sean was dead and he was not. Or when he was sad, because Sean died and he hadn’t. Or when he was playing video games with Kyle, because Sean couldn’t, even though Sean was sitting right there with them, a haggard afterimage and a voice.
The only time he never showed up was while Gale was elbows deep in a service, whether at Regina’s or Marco’s.
Even Sean respected the uninterruptableness of a chef immersed.
“Totally,”
Gale said at last.
“Don’t let my ego ever get that big, okay?”
Don’t worry.
Sean chuckled. I won’t.