21. Sylvia
SYLVIA
T he fan boy turns up on Saturday morning.
I don’t notice him right away and then when I do, I nearly jump out of my skin.
He’s tall and thin, such dark hair and fair skin that he could be one of the undead.
He has his face pressed to the glass door of the café, eyes wide as he scans the interior.
His eyes, in fact, are the only part of him that’s moving.
It’s almost like he appeared out of nowhere, beamed down or transported through time and space.
“Not open,” I say and point to my watch.
He drops to his knees and holds his hands together before himself, like he’s praying in church.
I turn to Merrie, but she’s chopping with furious concentration.
Against my better judgement, I unlock the door. “We don’t open until noon.”
He nods solemnly, his gaze sliding past me to Merrie. His eyes light. “Is that her ?” he whispers. “Is that Meredith MacRae? The actual Meredith MacRae?”
“Yes. Do you know her? ”
“Oh no, I’ve only admired her from afar.
” He rises from his knees and I see that he has a small backpack with him.
He’s wearing jeans and high-tops, a denim jacket and a striped shirt.
He also may be the tallest kid I’ve ever seen.
He takes a breath, a deep one, then exhales.
There’s something almost reverential about the move and I realize he must be able to smell the gratin.
He notices the menu board and turns to read it so intently that he might be memorizing it.
“Um, we’re not open,” I say again. “You have to go.”
“I need a job,” he says, spinning to face me.
“I want a job, and it has to be here. I came from Toronto as soon as I heard about the café.” He nods solemnly.
“I took the bus to Havelock, then hitched a ride. I had to walk the last bit because the guy was going to a farm, but that’s okay because I’m here now and I never want to leave. ”
I try not to think about the kind of people Sierra could be meeting on the bus each week.
“Well, I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring right now.”
“You must need help! I saw how busy you are. I follow Rafe online and I saw the food.” He pulls out his phone, which is new and large.
Sure enough, he has hundreds of pictures of what looks like Merrie’s cooking.
“It looks fantastic and I have to work here. I have to learn from the greatest chef of our time.”
I think he must be joking, but he seems to be completely serious.
“Someone talking about me?” Merrie asks, then comes clicking across the floor.
“Ms. MacRae!” he breathes, clearly incredulous to be in the presence of the high goddess.
I would exchange a smile with Merrie but she’s eating this up with a spoon.
She smiles at him and if she was wearing a ring, she might offer her hand for him to kiss it.
“I need a job,” he says earnestly. “Working here is the only job I want. I need to learn from you. I’ll do anything! ”
“I told him we’re not hiring.”
“And we’re not,” Merrie concludes. “We have to establish our cash flow first.”
I look at her in wonder, because I’m sure Merrie has never used the words ‘cash flow’ in a sentence before.
“I’ll work for free!” he cries, then takes off his backpack.
He drops it to the floor and rummages in it, presenting Merrie with a number of papers.
“I graduated from George Brown’s Centre for Hospitality and Culinary Arts and I worked in prep at…
” He starts naming restaurants, none of which are dives or chains.
Merrie takes his documentation and solemnly surveys it. “You worked at Hana Yori Dango?”
That was a Japanese restaurant that impressed the heck out of Merrie back in the day.
Dumplings Before Flowers, translated, and a bit of a joke since every dish was garnished with edible flowers.
Even the dumplings. The food was delicious and beautifully presented, but it lasted only a couple of years.
That’s a good run for a trendy hotspot in Toronto and a part of me respects that the owner cashed out while just starting to slide from the top, instead of sadly lingering on for a few more years.
I doubt this kid could have offered another credential Merrie would find as compelling and I feel the tide turn in his favour.
“Yes! And then I spent three years in Montreal.” Again, there’s a list of restaurants, many of which I’ve heard of.
“Did Anton teach you how to make ketchup from scratch?” Merrie asks and he falls silent, blinking in confusion.
“Anton thinks ketchup is a violation of all that is holy and should be abolished from the modern kitchen.” He’s clearly quoting Anton, who must be one of the chefs at a mentioned restaurant in Montreal .
Merrie smiles and I know he’s passed a test.
“He could have guessed that,” I note. “All chefs hate ketchup.”
“Anton hates it with the fury of a thousand suns.” The kid nods. Merrie beckons to him and he follows her in wonder. “Come. Show me what you can do.”
It turns out he has a smock in his bag. In moments, his dark hair is tied back, his hands are washed up to the elbows, and he’s suited up.
He lifts the knife Merrie has offered with respect.
He tests the weight of it and names the brand.
They talk briefly about different kinds of steel, he peers at the sharpened edge, then he dices the onion on the cutting board with record speed.
I’m impressed. Merrie isn’t.
“A little smaller,” she says, giving him another onion.
He’s good and he’s fast.
“Thin rings,” she specifies with the next onion and her wish is obeyed.
She looks around, hands on her hips, then makes her offer.
“Ninety-day trial, minimum wage, we all share tips. You do prep as specified by me. You clean up and I mean clean . You do trash and you schlep whenever and whatever I decree.” He nods with enthusiasm, clearly a keen negotiator.
“We’re open Wednesday to Saturday and you can crash in that room at the back until you find a place.
You never ever go up those stairs and you never let anyone into the building without my permission. ”
He looks happy enough to burst. “Yes, Chef. Yes!”
“What’s your name?”
“Colin. Colin Watson.”
“Okay, Colin, welcome aboard.”
He scampers to the back like a kid at Christmas.
“What are you doing?” I ask Merrie. “We don’t have any money to hire. ”
“I never thought I’d complain about being so busy, but it’s tough to keep up with the prep. I’m working long days, but they can’t be long enough. He might be a godsend.”
“You have to pay him better than minimum wage, Merrie. It’s not fair otherwise.”
“Let’s get the month’s receipts in first, then give him a good surprise.”
“When did you become so fiscally responsible?”
“When I decided to listen to my partner. She’s very wise in these matters, you know.”
There’s no time to reply because Colin appears from the back. He’s changed, even to kitchen clogs, and looks as giddy as a contestant who has won the lottery. “We’ll check at the end of dinner service to see if he’s still this happy,” I murmur, knowing that Merrie can be a tyrant.
Merrie just smiles then starts giving instructions. She’s a good teacher when she has the chance, and even I enjoy listening to her as she explains to Colin not only what he needs to do but why.
There’s a line when we open at four and things heat up in a hurry. Colin is bouncing around the kitchen with incredible speed, and already learning to anticipate Merrie. He barely even notices Sierra when she arrives for work, his attention is so fixed on Merrie.
Apparently, she’s the new center of his universe.
I explain Colin’s presence to Sierra, she shrugs and we get to work.
She’s answering the phone now and checking reservations, which makes sense since she’s doing a lot of the seating.
I need to serve all the alcohol so she’s been hostessing, but she’s also delivering food to tables when I can’t be in two places at once.
It works, though, and we have a good rhythm together.
“Mike’s coming,” Sierra announces some time later when she comes to pick up a trio of salads from the kitchen. “In forty-five minutes, he says.”
I’m proud of myself for not dropping the two bowls of soup I have balanced on my left hand.
I even think I’ve hidden my reaction until I catch Merrie’s raised eyebrow.
“Really?” I say, as if disinterested. I haven’t seen or heard from Mike all week, with the exception of a text message sharing our appointment with Daphne Bradshaw next Wednesday.
“Some kind of kinky date,” Sierra says, peering at the salads. “Which one has the mustard vinaigrette? They look the same.”
“No, they don’t look the same,” Merrie says. “You can see the balsamic on these two because it’s darker.”
“Oh, right.” Sierra loads up the plates, balancing one on her forearm in her latest trick.
“Kinky date?” I remind her and Merrie smirks before she turns back to the grill. Colin is oblivious to us in his determination to please Merrie.
“Table for three,” Sierra says, then sticks out her tongue. “If it’s two women, that’s just gross.”
“But not two men?”
She smiles at me and I wonder just what kind of books she’s been reading at night, her phone glowing under the covers.
“Table seven will be clear by then,” I call after her then heft the appetizers for table fourteen.
“Best table in the house,” Merrie muses. “How strange and unusual a choice.”
“He likes to sit with his back to the wall,” I reply, then realize after I’ve turned away that even that shows too much interest .
I ignore Merrie’s chuckle because that’s the best possible choice at this time.
I will not be happy that Mike is coming for dinner – not until I know what kind of kinky date it is.
Who am I kidding? I’m thrilled that Mike is coming for dinner.
Just knowing that I’ll see him again soon is enough to put a bounce in my step.