37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter 37
Risto
I checked my watch, wondering how Leslie’s meeting was going. The network was probably fuming about her recent commentary on the diet industry. Shutting it down was likely first on their list of priorities, which would go over about as well as my day had.
Listless, I found it hard to focus during the location tours with Ruben. After visiting three vacant restaurants, they blended together in a mash-up of silver air ducts and exposed wiring lit by bare light bulbs.
At our fourth site, he pulled me aside.
“So, any preference between the places we’ve seen?”
The last thing I was sure he wanted to hear was that I couldn’t tell them apart and was too tired to try. I did my best impression of excitement.
“They’re all good. What do you think?”
“Chef, imagine it filled with guests, savoring your arroz con pollo pockets, their eyes arching in surprise. You peek out the kitchen door here.” He stopped for emphasis. “Walk past an amber backlit bar… and take in your dream. Can you see it?” He grinned, facing the space.
I wanted to, more than anything. The luxurious interior. The success. But my vision was clouded, leaving me swaying in confusion while Steve chatted by the front door with the real estate agent.
“Chef Zaldo?” Ruben asked.
“Hmmm?” I answered, noting his confused stare.
He stole a glance at Steve, then took me firmly by the arm and tugged me over to a shady corner.
“Are you planning to back out of this deal? If so, do me the courtesy of telling me now, because you look bored. And it’s way too soon for that.”
“What? No. What makes you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve seen zero enthusiasm coming from you since we signed the letter of intent. The fire’s gone from your eyes. You barely say anything unless we drag opinions out of you. Plus, after visiting six restaurants to evaluate chefs, you can’t describe a single dish. What’s going on?”
Shit . I hadn’t realized my struggles were so obvious. Mired in hunger, if I wasn’t distracted or sleepy, I was consumed with the desire to eat. And not just my two-egg ration. There was a difference between thinking about composing a meal and fantasizing about eating the ingredients raw. Before Brock’s diet, I ate when hungry and was done with it. Now thoughts of eating consumed every waking moment, except at mealtime. By then, I was so petrified I’d overeat that skipping meals became preferable. Small portions brought me no joy. Succulent flavors, aromas, and textures were replaced by twisted visions of what the food would do to my body. Fat globules attaching to me like an encrusted pan, impossible to scrub clean.
I knew Ruben wanted to taste the updated menus too. But creating dishes meant tasting, over and over again. That didn’t jibe with Brock’s constant weight commandments. He had me weigh myself every morning and text him the plummeting figure. I refused at first, repulsed by his obsession. But he’d worn me down. I approached the scale with excited anticipation. A lower number than the day before validated that my diet was working.
It was my only joy lately. I pledged to stop after a month, but Brock kept moving the goal posts.
Last night was the first time in two weeks that Leslie and I had sex. I’d drop into bed each evening, exhausted, and rise weary in the morning as if I hadn’t slept. What’s more, I hated the temptation of being around food. The colors and spices that used to transform any kitchen into home now provoked icy terror.
I’d become too hungry to cook.
How was I supposed to be the next super-chef if food made me miserable?
I scratched my chin, my sharpened jawline unrecognizable. “I’m so sorry, Ruben. I’m wrung out, but I’ll do better.”
His eyes brightened. “Ahh, I see. You’ve been ‘Brocked.’”
“What?”
“I told you Brock was slippery. He’s good at what he does, but every chef he works with ends up an emaciated mess.”
“But famous.” I cracked a smile.
“Yes, that’s true. But there’s more to life, Chef. Food is love. Food is life. Food is family. Why deny yourself those things to fit into a pair of skinny jeans no one but Brock wants you to wear? The man I chose to run this restaurant is the burst of life I met at Boricua. That’s the genius who impressed us and will thrill every New York foodie who has the privilege of dining at your table. But is that who you still want to be? Because the guy I’m looking at…” Ruben looked me up and down. “He’ll get eaten alive, and you’re trending toward an amuse-bouche.”
I swallowed hard, watching every tic of Ruben’s jaw.
“I need a chef who has their shit together. That’s not you. At least, not anymore.”
Ice flushed my veins as the truth of his words hit home. In trying to become what Brock wanted, I’d morphed into a person I didn’t recognize. Besides losing pounds, I’d lost my drive, energy, and love for the one thing that defined who I was as a human: food.
Leslie had been worried.
Jose delivered meals to my house if I didn’t eat at work.
Now Ruben was about to pull the plug on our deal.
I stood dumbstruck as he squeezed my shoulder. “Chef, you have to do what makes you happy. I don’t care what you weigh or how you look. And neither will your guests. We all want the same thing: magic on our plates. Can you do that?”
I choked down the lump in my throat. “Yes. I can do that.”
“Good. Then which restaurant location do you like best?” he asked.
I cranked my neck around. Light flooded the space through the dusty, second-story windows. The spot had once been a bank. Stone columns reached up to a vaulted ceiling. We could transform the cavernous room into an indoor veranda. Special lighting could make it appear sunny during the day and like a starlit evening at night. We could even add some swaying palms.
I stepped into the area that would be the kitchen, imagining gleaming stainless appliances and work surfaces. A walk-in fridge and freezer that kept my market treasures fresh and full of flavor. This was the space I wanted.
But more importantly, this would always be the place where I remembered who I was. Evaristo Zaldo, a chef from Pennsylvania who dreamed big and lived bigger. I’d build my second thriving restaurant—and my name as a rising star of consequence.
I turned to face Ruben, who had trailed me at a respectful distance. “Right here. This is where we’ll make food magic.”
On the way back to Leslie’s apartment, I stopped at four markets to gather ingredients. The first for meat. The next for vegetables, then spices, and finally, seafood. A feast was in order. Creativity coursed through me like a raging river bursting through a dam. The shame of keeping my secret slipped away. Leslie had been honest and vulnerable with me about her food struggles and deserved the same in return. She probably suspected something was wrong with me. But if we were going to survive as a loving couple, I had to do better about letting her in.
I dropped the spare key she’d given me on the table next to the door and jogged up the stairs with my groceries.
“You home?” I deposited my bags on the counter and started unpacking. “I’m making us dinner. There’s so much to tell you.”
I put the dairy and produce in the fridge and turned back to see the top of Leslie’s head peeping over the half wall separating the staircase from the living room beyond. “Hey, what are you doing over there?”
Leslie didn’t move or speak.
Something was terribly wrong.
I abandoned my ingredients and found her sitting on the sofa, hugging her knees. Tears and black mascara streaking down her face. She let them fall freely, staining her cream-colored blouse, the one she must have purchased today for her big network meeting.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They fired me.”
“You have a contract. How is that possible?”
She tossed a stapled stack of papers at me. It hit my chest and splayed out, pages bent every which way. I gathered it together to see. The title page with Leslie’s name and the network’s.
“According to this worthless agreement, I’m too fat to be on-air. I ran it past Barbara, and it appears they’re on solid ground. I’d been the same weight for years and laughed at her when she originally pointed it out. I laughed . Ironic, huh? That fucking clause ruined my career. Kaelen was so disgusted he could barely look at me. He called me a blob.” Leslie shuddered. “All because I stopped starving myself. I’ve never felt better, but all they see is bulk. This is… it’s so….”
Her head dropped to her knees as heavy sobs wracked her heaving shoulders.
I sat beside her to draw her in, trying to press my love and support into her. Seeing Leslie this way cracked my soul wide open. She’d always been so strong, definitely the rock between us. Yet she shed her hardened exterior to be vulnerable and selflessly invited the world in to benefit from her journey. She gave and gave, and now there was nothing left. Not even her job.
I couldn’t help feeling partially to blame.
With Brock’s urging, I was perpetuating the same anti-fat stereotypes that cost Leslie her job. Only slim people were worthy of being seen. Large people were expected to hide away in shame until we were deemed small enough to be presentable. How stupid I’d been to listen to Brock. He’d made it seem like his was the only way. But everything was fine before his meddling. I became the success he now wanted to diminish. I had allowed him to reduce me in every way, but no more. The scale I kept hidden from Leslie would be trash as soon as we got back to Pennsylvania.
Brock worked for me, and I had a choice. She deserved that same opportunity.
“There’s nothing we can do?” I asked.
“Don’t laugh, but my one out is going back to starving myself. Forever. After I’ve fought so hard to get well, this job depends on me being sick? Can you imagine?”
I could. Popular thinking said thin equaled success. Opportunities opened for the lean, while the heavy got doors shut in their faces. Employers hid their bigotry in coded language and fine print because they knew how discriminatory it would sound to voice it aloud. The Brocks of the world wanted to be bigots without consequences. Scribed in black-and-white and sanctioned by their legal team somehow made their bigotry acceptable when it was anything but.
I sat beside her, planting a kiss on top of her head and squeezing her tight until her heaving subsided. Dusk settled around us, leaving the room in semi-darkness. After a while, vibrations of my stomach’s grumbling jerked us apart.
Her lips rounded into a smile.
“Seriously?” she joked.
“Well, it is almost dinner time.”
“Are we eating?” she challenged.
“We are. I am.”
“Are you going to come clean?” Leslie swiveled to face me on the sofa, crossing her legs.
“Brock pressured me to lose weight.”
She clapped her hands in triumph. “I knew it! I knew you haven’t been right, but I wasn’t sure if you were doing it on purpose.”
“I was. And honestly, I hated every minute. Was it that way for you?”
“Definitely, but I was more petrified of the alternative. What happened today makes my fear feel justified.”
“But their actions are not justified, you understand that. What they did to you was gross. If people only knew—”
Leslie leapt to her feet. “You’re a fucking genius!”
She grabbed my face with both hands to plant a sloppy kiss.
“What’d I say?”
“If people only knew. This nastiness festers because it’s kept secret. Shady dealings negotiated behind closed doors and buried in contracts. We watch shows, thinking everyone is naturally thin and that there must be something wrong with us if we’re not. Occasionally, they let one or two fat people slip through as sad examples of what not to be. This behavior will never stop until someone exposes the powers that be for the shallow bigots they are.”
Leslie fisted her hands, pacing. “They sat there, insulting me to my face like it’s a perfectly normal activity. Because it is. People in larger bodies get insulted in broad daylight. We’re called diseased and told we’ll die if we don’t change our ways. Well, fuck that. This has to stop.”
While her chest heaved in indignation, I thought of all the forces aligned to keep us repulsed by largeness. While the studies Leslie shared over the last many weeks lit a bright path in the right direction, doctors, food execs, big pharma, and government agencies were totally invested in their crusade against fatness. If they kept walking us off a cliff, there’d be nobody left to warn the rest of the line to turn around. I’d be forever grateful to Ruben for his warning cry. But Leslie and I were just two people against a gigantic machine that’d been chugging along, full steam, for hundreds of years.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “Reed has his regular guest spot on Sunrise New York, the day after tomorrow. He’ll be on that couch with a huge glass window behind them.”
“And?”
“I think he needs some fans to show him and the network some appreciation. Don’t you?”