33. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter 33
Risto
T wo weeks into Brock’s diet was the worst time for me to prepare my new menu for Silas. Giddy, he’d ambushed Ruben at a cocktail party and insisted on an “off the record” sampling of what would become the centerpiece of Boricua New York.
When I last cooked these dishes, I fizzed with the joy and creativity of a child on Christmas morning. Today, I felt flat and angry. I’d snapped at Jose and Freddie without mercy, sending them fleeing out the door for their midday break. Intoxicating scents filled the kitchen in their place, forcing me to put on music so my guest wouldn’t hear the roar of my empty stomach.
Maybe the smooth jazz would take the edge off my mood before Silas arrived.
Lifting the lid off the saffron broth, I stirred, steamy visions emerging in my mind. First, I slurped the pot dry, then devoured the pasta bobbing merrily in the boiling water nearby. I returned to preparing a light salad. I had eaten a version of it earlier, with some pan-seared fish, the memories of it having to suffice, given that I’d already gone off-menu by skipping the lemon and having the vinaigrette dressing I’d made for Silas. I had to taste the dish. Even dishes I had prepared a thousand times had to be sampled, so the balance and seasoning landed just right. New menu items, all the more. My instincts and muscle memory for pouring and spicing had yet to take over. Jose did the honors during today’s lunch service, but it’d be hard for me to avoid these “unscheduled snacks” while working as an active chef.
Of course!
Now that I thought of it, Chase Patel, my culinary school classmate, had looked way leaner when I’d watched him on television. There might be a darker, hungrier reason behind his absence from the kitchen.
“Chef Zaldo?!” Silas called from the dining room.
“In here!” I answered.
A moment later, a cheery Silas entered, sporting a fresh tan. “Ahh! This kitchen smells like a dream!”
I swelled with pride.
Everything would be okay. As long as the food hit the spot, nobody cared if the chef was tired, or hungry, or pissed off, or stressed beyond measure. All that mattered was what was on the plate, or in the case of Silas’ first menu item, a small appetizer medley.
He sat at the side table I’d prepared for him, his eager palms scratching their approval as they rubbed together.
I plated his first course, an appetizer of three items, including the sea urchin dish with smoked salt. I proudly set it before him.
His brows furrowed, but he recovered and pressed a closemouthed smile before digging in.
Silas sampled from the dishes, finishing none, then reclined in his seat.
“I’m ready for the next course,” he said without making eye contact.
A dagger pierced my heart.
No moans of pleasure.
No acclaim.
Just “next course.”
I hurried back with my arroz con pollo raviolis in a saffron broth. This garnered a confused look before he dipped his spoon in.
His eyes closed behind his fogged lenses. Silas nodded as he went for another bite, then another.
I had him.
As with the appetizer, he sat back before finishing and gestured for me to clear.
What the hell was happening?
Dish after dish continued the same way until I served my last dessert and took a seat across from him.
“Thank you for sharing your new menu.” His voice was stiff and devoid of any enthusiasm. “Can I speak frankly?”
“Please. Yes,” I said.
“The food was tasty, without question. But I could have it at any restaurant in New York. It’s not special. It’s not unique. And, I fear, won’t lead to the success I’ve encouraged you to expect.”
I covered my mouth in shock. How could he reject a menu that had my investors leaping to their feet in a standing ovation? Steve called it a revelation and demanded we go with it, over Ruben’s protests.
Ruben. He’d been the one person at the table not wowed by the modern dishes. I’d overlooked his response, given how mesmerized he was by the overall experience. Given Silas’ reaction, my menu was obviously not the slam dunk win I’d expected.
I met his dejected stare. “What’s missing?”
He sat pensively, though he didn’t seem to be collecting his thoughts. It was more him deciding whether to reveal his true opinion.
Finally, he spoke. “Soul. It’s missing soul.”
I huffed a laugh. “You think this meal is soulless? Fantastic.”
“There’s skill, yes, but no joy. No identifiable culture. Nothing to trigger memories and love and experiences that we each bring to the dining experience. The flavors were delightful, and the technique, extraordinary. But I tasted the work when I wanted to enjoy the emotional essence of your usual menu.”
I hated that word. “Usual.” Foodies wouldn’t pack my tables for ordinary meals.
“My menu is good enough for small-town Pennsylvania. New York demands more. I don’t want to get lost in the shuffle. I didn’t need to go to culinary school to make my grandma’s food. She taught me that when I was ten.”
“Are you planning a gallery installation or a restaurant? Some of the best meals I’ve eaten around the world were modest ones prepared by self-taught cooks,” Silas said.
Cooks. There, he said it. I wasn’t a cook, I was a chef, and there was a huge difference. To me, and for the career I hoped to build. No one asked a cook to sit on a television panel or at a food festival. If I showed up in New York—the humble brown boy I’d been up to now—I’d get eaten alive. I wouldn’t open a new restaurant only to have my food called pedestrian. Not happening.
The menu might need work, but I wasn’t giving up yet. Not by a long shot.
“Thanks for stopping by today. I appreciate the feedback.” I rose, expecting Silas to stand. But he remained sitting, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t place.
It reminded me of my elementary school science teacher, Mr. McKinsey. I was a quiet kid, struggling with my lessons after my parents passed. He knew my dad worked in a restaurant, so my teacher taught me the chemistry behind cooking. How temperature impacted proteins and liquids. How it caramelized sugars and shrank some muscles tight and loosened others. I’d completely forgotten how much that man rekindled my fascination with food after my father died. I got the sense Silas was about to do the same.
“No one ever tells you no, do they?” he asked. “Says try again, go do better?”
I crossed my arms. Where was he going with this?
“Like most successful men, you have a chip on your shoulder. Probably afraid you don’t measure up as you are. That you need to prove something. But I didn’t fight for you to get on that Philadelphia Metro cover because I thought you lacked talent. This meal was very good for most chefs. It just wasn’t good enough for you because you were nowhere on the plate.”
“That whole menu was me!” I yelled. “Everything on it, I dreamed up in my head. Isn’t that what diners want?”
Silas stood. “No, my dear Chef Zaldo. They don’t want what’s in your head. They want what’s in theirs.”
He dropped his napkin on the table, bowed, and left.
An hour later, I sat slack-jawed next to the remnants of Silas’ half-eaten meal. What the hell did he mean by diners wanting what was in their own heads? How was I supposed to know what was in their heads when I couldn’t decipher what was in my own? It was ludicrous.
The backdoor hinges squeaked, and Jose walked into my disaster of a kitchen.
“Shit, mijo. What happened?”
“He hated it. Said it was food he could eat anywhere.”
Jose grabbed my abandoned knives and cooking utensils, dropped them into the wash basin, and began filling it with soapy water. “Not for nothing, but I told you that food was bullshit.”
My head jerked up. He had. But I didn’t listen.
“What would you change?”
“I’d drop all the gastronomy crap, be us. Be Boricua. People drive hours to get here and wait weeks for reservations. Yet you seem to think we’re not good enough as we are.”
That was where he was wrong. My restaurant rocked. I was simply tired of cooking other people’s food. Tasty dishes, yes. But anyone could find similar recipes on a Goya beans label. I wanted more, and I thought diners did too.
Speaking of more, my wristwatch vibrated, signaling it was snack time.
I strode into the walk-in fridge and grabbed a tangy Braeburn apple from a produce bin.
Tossing it in the air, I walked to the sink to rinse it next to where Jose washed my dirty dishes. He eyed the fruit, then me, with suspicion.
“What gives? You never eat in the afternoons?”
“Nothing. I’m just having a snack.”
“You’re acting weird today. Sulky one moment and a total asshole the next.” Jose transferred dishes between the wash, rinse, and sanitize sinks before resting items in the drying rack.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I bit the apple, then aggressively tore away a bite that snapped the fruit in two.
He raised his eyebrows but let me be to join in the cleaning.
A short while later, my phone rang from my breast pocket.
Dot sounded frantic.
“It’s Leslie. Come home. Fast.”