30. Chapter Thirty
Chapter 30
Risto
A month after hosting the tasting menu, I was still flying high in my morning shower. We’d begun conceptualizing the new restaurant, and after many conversations, the investors had won Ruben over to the upscale Puerto Rican positioning. My mind swirled with concepts and flavors, and Jose and Freddie were warming to the idea of getting me out of their hair.
As for my hair, I had cropped it close in anticipation of the two days of photoshoots Brock scheduled. He wanted to beef up my social presence and book media interviews. All that took planning—and pictures. Yesterday, they focused on candid shots of me cooking in the kitchen, then sprinkled in staged scenes, both inside and outside the restaurant.
The lighting crew, photographers, and makeup artist encouraged me along as I posed. The attention made me glow like a bride, and visions of my Leslie in a wedding gown had me sparkling all day. They all said the images were amazing.
I was toweling off in the bathroom when Leslie walked my cell phone into me. “Brock. He called eight times in five minutes, so I answered. Thought it might be important.”
“Thanks.” I took the phone, and she closed the door as she exited.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Um. I have something to discuss with you. Mind if I stop by?” Brock asked.
“Sure, but can’t we talk at the shoot in an hour?”
“There may not be one today. That’s what we need to talk about. Mind coming down to let me in?”
He was here?
“I’ll be right down.” I hung up, dazed.
Why would Brock show up at my house unannounced, threatening to cancel? Had the pictures come out worse than they said?
Mild panic took hold as I envisioned him triggering our 30-day “out” clause. The restaurant group would follow, causing my dream to vanish like the hot shower mist swirling around my damp head.
I finished drying myself, then tossed on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt to dash downstairs. Leslie had already let him in and was pouring him a mug of tea, the little paper tag fluttering helplessly from the string.
I could relate.
“Ah, here’s our man,” Brock said, walking over to shake hands like the pro he was.
Ruben’s words flashed to mind.
Be careful. He’s slippery.
He hadn’t been yet, but this unannounced visit had my sirens blaring.
“Is there somewhere we can speak? Privately?”
Leslie jingled her keys. “You two stay. I’m heading out for my walk with Dot and Pepper.”
She pecked me on the lips and left through the back sliding door.
I still hadn’t spoken. Scared anything I’d say would burst my fantasy. Like an eager home buyer, I’d mentally moved into my Manhattan restaurant, picked furniture, hung drapes, and unpacked my clothes. That’s how real it felt. But something told me Brock was about to make my dream evaporate. I wanted to cling to it for dear life, but curiosity got the best of me.
“What couldn’t wait an hour?”
Brock set his laptop on the kitchen counter and flipped it open. “The photographer sent me yesterday’s proofs, and there was something not sitting right with me about how you appeared in the shots.”
“Don’t tell me. I had food stains.” My chest lightened.
It’s about the photos. Whatever it was, it could be fixed.
He tapped through screens and loaded one filled with pictures. “Tell me what you see.”
The lighting was fantastic, and I looked both focused and determined. I’d never seen myself cook but recognized the expression Jose teased me about. Steely intensity, like nothing was more important than getting the dish right. Any of these would make perfect promotional materials.
“These are great. But it sounds like you disagree?”
He sighed his frustration, tapped on one picture, enlarging it until only my torso showed and the remainder cropped off the screen. “I know that you removed the clause about weight, but fuck, Risto. My eye goes right to those rolls. What do you think the rest of the world will see? Their eyes will zoom right there, and we’ll be finished.”
Brock pressed the digital image so hard his fingertip turned white. Beneath it, two rolls of fat that I’d never noticed protruded from my waist, perfectly highlighted where my black chef’s coat contoured around my body.
Brock decapitated my picture, reducing me to faceless parts. All of them big. All of them fat, but none had ever defined me. I’d always been proud of who I was and felt at home in my skin. My parents and grandparents had encouraged me to live life to the fullest. What’s more, I was well respected in our community, had built a successful business, and now had investors throwing themselves at me. My cooking was what mattered. Who cared what I looked like?
My vision blurred with the headless man on screen.
“Chef, the cold truth is that diners want to enjoy their food without an in-your-face reminder that eating makes them fat. It’s a killjoy.” Brock shifted his hand to gently squeeze my shoulder. “Having you slim will liberate people to dine freely. Don’t you want your guests to have the best dining experience possible? This is going to help. Trust me.”
His expression was so earnest.
Could he be right?
Did people view me as a repulsive fat man?
I’d never cared what others thought of me, but I’d hired Brock to make the masses love me and flock to my restaurants and appearances. We’d already started talking about a cookbook. But that all depended on fans being drawn to me. Up until now, my joyful spirit, delicious food, and giving nature won praise all around. My appearance never factored into the equation. But according to Brock, I was just shy of repulsive.
“I’ve never been thin. No one in my family is thin. I’m a chef because I love food and love sharing that enjoyment with others. It’s central to who I am.”
“You’re about to become a famous chef, opening a new restaurant in Manhattan. Your photos will be everywhere. Is this how you want to appear to the world?”
My offense boiled over. “I don’t get where this is coming from. You’re the one who pursued me. You knew who you were getting.”
Brock sighed as if I was an idiot. Shooting me a sideways glance, he slid his computer in front of him and opened a file of “Before and After” pictures of his chef clients. “Chef Chow lost 80 pounds. He went from a guest panelist to having his own show. Chef Morgan transformed from a plump girl next door to a fiery vixen on magazine covers. She has cookware and is about to get a talk show. Chef Tanzanini is the top-rated host on the Culinary Network. He’s every damn place you look, but not till after he lost those 45 pounds.”
I’d always pitied Chef Tanzanini. Skeletal since he dropped the weight, his perpetually pissed off expression was downright creepy. Yes, he was uber famous. But the dude looked miserable at being forced to be around food. A joyless wisp of his former self, he seemed better off in his “Before” picture.
“I’m not a twiggy, bony guy. Yet you signed on anyway.” I hated the pleading tone of my voice. Like I was already giving in.
“Chef Risto, we have an opportunity here. I want to help you become the biggest thing going, but that requires you being smaller. Lose 30 to 40 pounds and commit to some back and ab exercises. Trust me. You’ll be amazed by how much better and leaner you’ll look in these photos. Until then, we’ll use what we have. They can be cropped and airbrushed to perfection. But that won’t work during live appearances. Or on television. Do this for me, and I promise the results will speak for themselves.”
He slid a paper in front of me. “This is the diet Chef Chow used and the exercise regimen used by Chef Tanzanini. Try it for a month and see how it goes.”
He rose to leave.
“What about today’s shoot?” I asked, already emotionally flattened.
He shouldered his backpack and strolled to the front door. “I canceled it. Yesterday.”
Brock dipped his head in faux reverence and was gone.
Stunned, I stared after Brock as though he was going to pop back in and yell, April Fools! But I was the only fool in sight. He never intended to have today’s shoot. He saw me on camera yesterday and was repulsed.
I let that sink in.
I returned to the bathroom and stood before the mirror. Honestly, I never thought much about my appearance before. People liked me. I liked me. Leslie said my ass was perfect. What was the point of fretting over my weight?
Instead of taking in my entire reflection as usual, I focused on the parts troubling Brock. I had wide shoulders and powerful arms, not chiseled and defined, but capable of lifting hundred-pound cases of meat, canned goods, and fruit like they were child’s play. I spun around, glancing over my shoulder. My shirt pinched where the rolls met, sloping down to a flatter bottom and thick legs. The ones that never failed me despite working 18-hour days, most of those spent standing.
My stomach rumbled, so I made my way back to the kitchen. And Brock’s new sheet. His breakfast dictated one egg, boiled or poached, one slice of whole-grain toast, black coffee, and three glasses of water. There’d be an apple for snack at 10:45 a.m. Then a lunch of fish over a bed of greens, drizzled with lemon and a splash of olive oil, salt, and pepper. Dinner comprised a few ounces of lean protein and some vegetables, followed by a nightcap of tea.
That was it.
No daily variety.
The same meal every day.
No wonder Chef Tanzanini lived in agony.
This was how Leslie starved herself.
Now Brock insisted I do the same? I knew this was trash from the get-go. Yet I asked to ride on the celebrity train. That decision had consequences.
I held the sheet detailing my bleak future.
How could I eat this way after supporting Leslie in her recovery? What kind of message would that send her?
A bad one.
If I did this, she mustn’t know. She was making amazing progress. In two months, her body had transformed, filling in and rounding out after following the doctor’s eating plan. Her care team didn’t focus on weight, but they were pleased by the steady weekly gains. Her skin glowed. She had more energy, and she was happier than I’d ever seen her. And not for nothing, her breasts had never been more spectacular.
It smacked of disloyalty and ignorance to follow Brock’s demands, given all Leslie had been through.
Then my agent’s words came rushing back.
I can’t see anything else but your rolls of flab. What do you think the rest of the world will see?
Fuck me.
Could I really do this? Avoid the foods that made life worth living?
You wanted to be famous.
Yeah, but at what cost?
It’s only a month. Suck it up.
I sighed in defeat.
It might not be hard to keep it a secret. Leslie and I rarely ate together as it was. I fixed her breakfast, then headed out, eating most of my meals at the restaurant. I’d just convince people I ate at the other location and sneak my meager meal when no one was looking. Aside from hating myself, and disappointing my grandparents, a diet was workable.
Yes. I’d humor Brock for the sake of the damn pictures, so he’d leave me alone. Starve for a while, then be done with it.
I rounded the kitchen island to the refrigerator, and for the first time in memory, I dreaded cooking. Without taking a bite, I knew my new breakfast was barely better than not eating at all.