Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [11]
"Oooohhhh, baby" he said out loud.
AS ALWAYS the chef showed up late: around three-thirty. He went straight for his knife, disappearing back into the changing room for a good five minutes before he reappeared in his whites, looking noticeably refreshed. Tommy didn't say anything. The chef tuned the radio to a classic-rock station, lit a cigarette, and drifted upstairs to the bar, returning a few moments later with a shaker glass of CocaCola and ice.
"What's the soup?" he asked Tommy.
"Check it out," said Tommy, proudly, "Portugee Seafood Chowder."
The chef lifted the lid off the still-simmering chowder. "That smells fuckin' great. If I think I can hold anything down, I might have a bowl for breakfast. You get the lobster squared away?"
Tommy nodded. "Yeah. And I hated every minute of it. We should get the dishwasher to do that shit."
"The dishwasher'll throw half the fuckin' lobster meat in the trash. They don't get the knuckles. And he gets upset. He's not too crazy about getting involved with shellfish. I think it's a religious thing."
"I got a fish sauce together," said Tommy. "Mustard tarragon vinaigrette with crispy leek garnish. That okay?"
"Yeah, that's fine," said the chef. "An oldie but goodie."
"I haven't cut the leeks yet," said Tommy "I wondered if you'd let me use your knife. The house knives just mash them to shit."
"Looks like you were at my knife already. Half the fuckin' bag is gone," said the chef.
"It was half empty when I found it. I just did a tiny poke," said Tommy.
"That was my wake-up, man," whispered the chef. "You don't need the shit. I need it."
"Sorry I tapped it," said Tommy. "Spur of the moment. Mea culpa. Sorry."
"Now I gotta go east," said the chef, jerking his head to the east.
"They got nothing uptown, it's too hot in the forties. I was gonna go over later, but now I gotta go sooner. I don't want to turn into a fuckin' pumpkin halfway through dinner."
"Really, I didn't do a lot," said Tommy.
"Now I gotta go over there," said the chef.
"Why don't you just send a busboy later. Hector's coming in in an hour," suggested Tommy.
"I thought about that," said the chef, "I don't like doing that anymore. It's not too cool. What if he gets popped? They'll probably deport the guy. On top a that, you know Hector. I sent him over there a few times, now he thinks he can shake me down for a steak dinner for his shaft meal. Can't you see Hector, the fuckin' busboy, sittin' up there, munchin' on a twenty-ounce sirloin and all the waitrons and the manager are trying to choke down their shepherd's pie? Doesn't look too good. On top of that, the son of a bitch eats his steak well done. I got principles."
"So you're going over now?" asked Tommy.
"Yeah, can you set up my station?"
"Yeah, sure." He hesitated. "Well, since you're going, can you pick me up a couple?"
"You have any money?" asked the chef.
"Enough for two bags."
"You got twenty extra till next week? I'm short."
"Alright," said Tommy, reaching for his wallet. "But I gotta have it back."
"No problem," said the chef. Though Tommy knew it would be a problem.
"So, you're gonna get four?" Tommy asked.
"Two for me, two for you," said the chef. He turned and headed for the door.
Seven
TWO MEN SAT in a graffiti-covered step van across the street from the Dreadnaught Grill. The dashboard was covered with empty coffee containers and candy wrappers. The men watched