13
Knead: To work dough into a soft, uniform, and malleable texture by pressing, folding, and stretching it with the heel of your hand.
2015
Going to the fresh markets was risky, but Regina couldn’t put together tough enough crates for Gale with stuff from the box stores.
She needed out-of-the-ordinary.
Proteins.
Veg. Weirdo grains that weren’t in fashion when she was a young chef. Stuff she was first to introduce to the “classic”
world she’d come up in.
The world she changed.
That changed her.
Though that wasn’t necessarily true.
The culinary world was a tough one; it demanded stamina of all kinds.
Life as a never-wanted foster kid gave Regina an abundance of it.
But there’d always been something there, that same something she sensed in people like Gale only needing a shove in the wrong direction to start the chain reaction she and so many others succumbed to. The stumble that became a fall, that became a crash often fatal. Regina had survived it; she’d need a spreadsheet to calculate those who hadn’t.
Eleven o’clock was usually a safe time to shop the markets.
The chefs and shoppers who meant business had already come and gone.
Regina browsed the produce vendors, found bitter melon and forbidden black rice.
Farther along, she picked up a bottle of orange blossom syrup. None of which were particularly strange. Gale had proven he could put together just about anything she threw at him, but protein, if unfamiliar, messed him up more often than not. Those sweetbreads were a fail, but not as bad as the trotters and the geoduck, not to mention the expensive escamol he’d completely destroyed; there were very few ways one could prepare ant eggs and still keep their integrity.
In an unfamiliar corner of the market, where only those who spoke an East Asian language could shop without an interpreter, Regina found what looked like caramels left too long at the bottom of some granny’s purse.
乾貝
She took the package from the rack, sniffed.
She held it up to the woman eyeing her from behind a table.
“Gānbèi,”
the woman said, then, slower, “Conpoy.
XO sauce?”
Ah.
It definitely wasn’t dried shrimp, so, “Scallops?”
The woman nodded, held up five fingers.
Not even a quarter of an ounce, if Regina guessed correctly.
She dug into her wallet for a five.
Already, her own brain was concocting what she would do with the ingredients screaming East Asian. She’d go another route, make a chowder, New England creamy, not the Rhode Island kind. She would use the orange blossom syrup to pickle the bitter melon, grind the black rice into flour, coat the pickled melon and fry it nice and crispy to use as garnish floating atop the savory chowder. That punch of sour with the sweetness of the scallops already floated phantom-like in her mouth.
She bought another bag of the dried, fermented scallops, went back to the produce market to purchase another bitter melon, her brain buzzing.
It was Wednesday; Gale would be working the dinner shift at Marco’s.
Regina’s culinary vision would become real tonight, after the kitchen was closed.
Tomorrow, she’d set the same crate for Gale, who would fall into her creativity trap by going Asian, she was certain. Then she would take out her chowder and show him how the game was—
“Pardon me, could I grab some of those scallions?”
Regina startled.
The man standing slightly behind her smiled.
Pow! Right in the kisser.
She knew that crooked smile. Those lips. The ever-present stubble of facial hair. His curls were whiter, less abundant, but she knew them too. Turning quickly away, she moved aside. “Sure. Sorry.”
In her periphery—because she certainly couldn’t scurry away without drawing attention to herself—she watched Marco pick through the scallions, meticulous as she remembered him, rather than grabbing bunches for his prep cooks to sort through.
“Nice and fresh,”
he said, holding up a beautiful bulb.
“Pete’s got the best produce, am I right?”
“Yeah, right.”
Regina paid for her bitter melon, beating a less hasty retreat.
“Nice talking to you,”
Marco called after her.
Regina waved over her shoulder but didn’t turn back.
Damn, damn, damn.
Maybe that was sarcasm she heard in his voice, not recognition. He didn’t call her back, or by her name. Either of her names. She hadn’t seen the man in years. She was older, fatter, and crankier. Maybe he hadn’t recognized her.
And maybe she wasn’t Queenie B.
“It’s good.”
Regina poked her fork through the fried rice dish.
He’d shredded the scallops—a detail she was surprised he thought of—and soaked them, reserving the liquid that he reduced before using as part of his XO sauce, another surprise.
Though he worked in an Italian kitchen, Gale had a definite flair and affinity for East Asian cuisine, and where Regina had known he would go.
Another fail, in her book.
“It’s good, but?” he asked.
“Don’t get me wrong,”
she answered.
“It’s a delicious plate of food.”
“But?”
“It’s safe.”
“Safe.”
“Yes.
The crate ingredients said Asian, so you went Asian.
Like all the other chefs would do too.
You need to be more creative if you want to win the rounds.”
“Creative is kind of dangerous in this competition.
They say they want creative, but if you get too crazy with it, they say you’re not being true to the ingredients.
Remember the ant eggs?”
“No way I’m forgetting the ant eggs.”
She nudged him.
“You have to know when to be creative with what.
Some things can only be done certain ways.”
“Like the escamol and the sweetbreads.”
“Exactly.
But you can be creative while still staying true to the ingredients.”
Regina lifted the lid from her chowder, warming on the stove—never the microwave—while he cooked.
She ladled a bowl, set a bit of the fried, bitter melon—that wasn’t crispy anymore, but he’d get the gist—on top.
Watching him spoon it into his mouth, Regina couldn’t keep the smile from her lips.
“Oh, wow.”
Gale ate more.
“Wow.
This is amazing.
How did your brain go in this direction?”
“It’s a process.”
She winked.
“The point is, though, you need to stop grabbing the first idea in your head, and reach for the second, or the third.”
“There’s not much time to think.”
“I know.
But you’re more creative than you give yourself credit for.
This crate was meant to trip you up by being so Asian-forward.
You came up with a delicious plate of food, but what if the other three contestants all went in that same direction? What’s going to make yours stand out?”
Gale was scraping the last of the chowder into his mouth.
“Going New England comfort food instead.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll try harder with the next crate.”
How many more crates would there be, with filming due to start and market shopping now off the table?
“By the way,”
Gale said, rinsing the bowl and spoon, “my mom wants to come help out again.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be resting?”
“Resting is going to give her another heart attack.”
He turned off the water, set the bowl and spoon onto the drying rack.
“She gave it a good month.
I honestly don’t see her taking the three her doctor told her she needed.
If she doesn’t do something soon, she’ll end up back at the store. Then she’ll be taking shifts for co-workers. At least, here, we can keep an eye on her.”
We.
Regina suppressed the smile this time.
“You’re a good son.”
“I wasn’t always.”
“That’s in the past,”
she told him.
“Sure, I can use an extra pair of hands.
Whenever she has time, I’ll find simple tasks for her to do.”
“Awesome.
I’ll let her know.”
Regina finished wiping down counters, storing the various bits and pieces left to dry.
Gale cleaned his mess, scraped together what was left of the fried rice that, while expected, was truly delicious.
Regina grimaced at her reflection in the window over the sink; she should have given him a little more praise.
Always what he did wrong. Rarely what he did right. Old habits died harder than old love.
“Leave some out for me,”
she told him.
“I haven’t eaten yet.”
Gale wore his pride openly.
Innocently.
He filled a clean bowl for her.
“It’s an honor,”
he said.
“Except when you’re judging my stuff, I never see you eat.”
“I eat.”
Regina patted her hips.
“Believe me.”
“Psssh.
You’re perfect.”
Regina howled, too surprised to tone it down from Queenie B exuberant to Regina reticent.
“You have a killer smile,”
Gale told her.
“Anyone ever tell you that?”
Millions.
In fan mail.
In endorsement requests.
In the power of dollars spent on Queenie B–embossed merchandise. How had this kid, who’d been watching cooking shows since he was a teen, not recognized her yet? Maybe because his love of cooking coincided with her vanishing from the culinary world. No scandal. No big farewell. Just a vanishing everyone who was anyone had seemed happy to see happen.
Regina took the bowl of food from him.
Still warm, if not hot.
“There’s more chowder if you want some,”
she said.
“Help yourself.”
Gale sucked in a deep, unintentional but automatic, breath the moment he stepped out the back door.
Regina’s herb garden bloomed as fragrant as it was wild.
Mint and rosemary, three kinds of basil, thyme, sage, oregano.
Regina also grew tomatoes, peppers of all kinds, cucumbers, summer squash, zucchini, and green beans. Considering there were box-store-size cans of tomatoes and containers of dried herbs in the pantry, and frozen veg in the walk-in, he wasn’t sure what she did with all of it. There was way too much for her to use herself; the fresh produce they used in the kitchen was delivered in crates, straight from the market.
Walking home, Gale’s brain swished over and through all the other things he could have created from the crate ingredients Regina had set for him.
Of course he’d gone for the first, the most obvious.
He had to break this habit or doom himself to going out of the Cut! competition for lacking in creativity.
That would be the worst. Bad plating? Okay, it was always a rush to that finish. Undercooked this, overcooked that, all overlookable if the creativity was there. And killer. It had to be superkiller.
You can do it, man.
I know you can.
“I do too,”
Gale responded without thinking, and he knew it was true.
Not only had his skills improved with Regina’s coaching, but his confidence had, too.
Thursday.
Gale was off from his paid job until dinner service Sunday.
Of course, he’d go to Regina’s, but she didn’t need him full days anymore.
Between the two of them, they did most of the prep work necessary for several services more efficiently than she’d been able to do with her unskilled volunteers. Troy was still missing. Some days, Gale even forgot to wonder about him. Until Gladys the Burger Queen showed up. Alone. She barely spoke to Gale, but he’d overheard her complaining about Troy’s continued absence to Regina, as if he were hired help, not some guy helping her out when he could. He wanted to ask Regina about it, but they were getting along really well. She hardly ever crabbed at him anymore. He didn’t want to jinx it.
Trotting up the steps of his building, Gale called his mother.
“Gale? Is something wrong?”
He let himself into the apartment.
“Wrong? No, why?”
“Because you’re calling, not texting.”
She chuckled.
It shook a little.
You got to let it slide.
“I’m fine.
Everything is fine.
I just figured it was easier to call and tell you Regina would love to have your help if you still want to do it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.
Did you think she’d say no?”
“You did too.
Don’t lie.
It’s the only reason you agreed to ask her.”
“Okay, yeah, I did.
I think she likes you.”
“Does that mean she doesn’t like many people?”
“Oh, Regina loves everyone,”
he said.
“It’s why she does what she does, I guess.
She’d have to, right? She just doesn’t, you know, warm up to most people.
She even holds me at arm’s length, and I know she likes me. I’ve only seen her smile a few times, but today, she actually laughed. I couldn’t believe it. It was like she was someone else completely.”
“There’s a story there, buddy.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Did she say when?”
“Not really.
Come with me when I go next time and see.”
Lucy would pick him up tomorrow at eleven.
Breakfast was easy, and mostly prepped.
Dropping his backpack, kicking off his shoes, Gale was grateful for his mostly clean apartment of friends.
He hadn’t seen Kyle in a few days, their shifts at odds. Jimmy and Nando came and went. Good guys. They respected his space, his things, his quiet. That they were in the country illegally was a given. Always a low profile. No trouble. No unwanted attention. Gale was pretty sure they’d still be good, respectful, low-profile guys anyway. They weren’t permanent fixtures in his life, though. Not like Kyle. And . . .
We should watch a few episodes.
Keep sharp.
“The only ones left are the superold ones,”
Gale said.
“Everything’s changed since then.
They’re dated.”
Everything comes back on trend.
It goes from dated to vintage to new.
You know that, man. Jeez.
“I guess.”
Gale poured the leftovers of Regina’s chowder into a bowl, set it in the kind of slimy microwave, then took it out again and poured it into a pan.
Good call, man.
He heated slowly—on the stove the super had finally fixed—so the creamy broth wouldn’t separate.
Stirring, stirring.
The aroma wafted on steam rising.
He poured it back into the bowl and tipped it to his mouth. Rather than getting funky with every heat-up, the chowder took on depths of flavor Gale hadn’t noticed before. The woman was a genius.
Grabbing the laptop, Gale took it and his chowder to his room.
He clicked his way to earlier episodes Sean insisted would be relevant again.
They were not.
Still dated. Cut!, in its infancy, hadn’t hit its groove. The judges weren’t the same, though the host was. And he’d eerily not aged at all. Still, it was good to see how the contest evolved, yet stayed exactly the same.
The crates are way tougher now.
“Yeah.
These seem kind of tame.”
You should look up some of these judges.
Bet they were big-time, in their day.
“Big-time then isn’t the same as big-time now.
No Gordons or Giadas.”
You still have a crush on her, you big nerd!
“Giada De Laurentiis is a goddess.”
Well, I think you’re wrong.
Chefs before the Food Network were just as influential.
It’s the culinary world that expanded into mainstream, not the quality of chefs coming out of it.
“I never said anything about quality.
I just said they weren’t as big, as in famous.
Name four celebrity chefs before two thousand who aren’t Wolfgang Puck.”
Easy.
Julia Child, Emeril Lagasse, Jacques Pépin, Jeff Smith—
“Who the hell is Jeff Smith?”
You disappoint me, man! The afterimage burned brighter.
The Frugal Gourmet? We watched it on PBS, after school.
You had your mom tape it.
“Oh, right.
Damn.
I guess I didn’t remember his real name.
But he wasn’t a celebrity chef like Gordon Ramsay is.”
Even Wolfgang has competition with Ramsay.
The ones who came first are the greatest greats even he looks up to, man! Get to know who they are, not just the ones on the current top ten list.
It’ll make you a better chef.
“It won’t help me win Cut!,”
Gale told him.
“But you have a point.
I’ll do it, after the—”
A knock, and the door cracked open.
Kyle’s voice, “You alone?”
Gale pulled the door open with his foot.
“What’s up?”
Kyle stepped inside, flopped onto Gale’s bed.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
Thanks, man.
That’s real cold.
“I was watching old videos on the computer.
You need it?”
“Nah.
I’m wiped.
I haven’t seen you in days.
I heard you talking, thought I’d say hi.”
Kyle turned the laptop so he could see.
“Research for your big break into culinary stardom?”
“Funny.”
Gale turned it back.
“Kind of.
Regina’s crates are great, but watching other contestants at it is really helpful too.
One thing I’ve learned—never make bread pudding in the dessert round. Everyone makes bread pudding.”
“Heard.”
Kyle snickered, fingers pushing through his hair.
“I’m so envious.”
“Fill out an application.
You’ll get—”
“I did.”
He shrugged.
“Nothing.
Now the site says they’re not taking applications at this time.
Bad timing.”
“So try again when it opens up.”
“Whatever.”
Kyle pushed off the bed, stretched so big his hairy belly peeked out from between shirt and pants.
“I’m taking a shower, and getting to bed.
See you tomorrow, or something.”
“Yeah, okay.
See you tomorrow.”
Kyle left without closing the door.
Gale pushed it shut with his foot.
On the screen, the paused video waited.
If Kyle was just getting home, it had to be after midnight. Lucy was picking him up at eleven. If Gale went to bed now, he could get a good eight hours and still have time to do laundry, maybe even clean out the fridge, before his mother got there.
Gale took his bowl to the sink, washed it, washed the pan, set them into the drying rack.
Opening the fridge, the familiar tune of beer bottles clinking sang.
The glands in the back of his jaw, under his tongue, watered.
A beer would taste so, so good. Just one. He could do that, couldn’t he? It wasn’t like alcohol had ever been a problem. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d gotten fall-down drunk. High school stupidity. A college kegger or two.
Slippery slope, man.
Don’t do it.
“I wasn’t going to.”
Yeah. Okay.
Closing the door, he ignored the beer-bottle song.
The specter was shaking his shaggy head.
Gale shut down the laptop.
Slipping it under his bed, he listened to the sounds of running water, Kyle singing, and Sean humming along, until he fell asleep.