Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [14]
"Bummer," said Tommy, watching Cheryl take the bouillabaise and a bowl of steamed mussels off the shelf. He took down a dupe and spiked it. "You alright?" he asked the chef
"Yeah, yeah," said the chef, tying his apron. "Just a little freaked. I walked around a little after."
"So they got it all," said Tommy, turning around to lift a piece of sauteed skate out of a pan. He drizzled basquaise sauce around it.
"All of it," said the chef, stepping behind the line. "I had it and they took it. Sorry."
Tommy wiped the rim of a plate with a kitchen towel. "Are you gonna make it through the night?"
The chef shook his head. "No way. I'm sick already. I'll hit Harvey for an advance later and maybe hit Ninth Avenue or the Upper East after service. You wanna go again?"
"Fuck it. I'll get drunk instead. It's free."
"Sorry about the money," said the chef, looking pained.
The chef took his place at the sauté station. Tommy moved over to the grill and scrutinized a long row of fluttering tickets hanging from clothespins over the outgoing food orders.
"Pick up snapper!" yelled Tommy, leaning on the call buttons. Cheryl's chin and breasts appeared under the stacks of plates. She leaned into the narrow opening over the shelf.
"She doesn't want the head," she said. "She says she doesn't want it looking at her."
"Cheryl," said the chef. "I'm lookin' at the ticket right here and I don't see anything where it says 'head off.' "
Cheryl gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, I vegged out. I forgot. Can't you just whack the head off for me now? This woman is a bitch on wheels. She'll just send it back."
"Take the head off," said the chef, turning to Tommy. Tommy slid the cooked red snapper off the plate and onto the cutting board. He reached to his right and came over with a wide, carbon-steel blade, severing the head from the body in one motion.
"Not with my knife!" howled the chef too late. "Not with my fuckin' knife!"
"Shit," said Tommy. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."
The chef ignored the orders on the board and picked up his knife. He held it at eye level and examined the blade. There was a tiny indentation in the soft metal at the heel. "Shit!" he exclaimed.
"Shit," said Tommy.
"My baby," said the chef. "You fuckin' mutilated my baby."
"Can't you work that out with a stone?" asked Tommy.
"Where's my snapper?" said Cheryl.
Tommy coated the bottom of a clean plate with beurre blanc and gently lowered the headless snapper on top. Using two plastic squeeze bottles, he drew quick abstract flowers on the plate around the fish, then pulled the tip of a paring knife through the design, making artful swirls through the beurre. He spooned a dot of red pepper relish onto the fish and put the plate up on the shelf for Cheryl.
"You can fix it, right?" he asked the chef, who was still brooding over his knife.
"Yeah, yeah, I can fix it," said the chef. "Please, please don't fuck with my knife unless I tell you, okay? Please?"
"Sorry," said Tommy.
"Where's Stephanie?" shouted the chef, to nobody in particular. "This food is getting cold! Pick it up! It's piling up back here!"
"She just took out a cold order," said Tommy.
"So send it with somebody else," said the chef. "The shits dyin ." He pounded on the call button. A new waitress with a nose ring arrived.
"What do you want?" she said.
"What I want," said the chef, "is for somebody to pick up this fuckin' food for me. This. Will you take this out to A-seven for me? If you would be so kind?" He mopped his brow. His nose was running.
"And can you bring me a Heineken when you come back?" asked Tommy.
"I'll get it for you," said Cheryl, back at the shelf. "Chef? You want something?"
"Gimme a Coke," said the chef.
"Ricky?" asked Cheryl.
Ricky put down a basket of gaufrette potatoes filled with pommes soufflees and pushed a few sweaty strands of blond hair off his face. "Rockin Roll," he said.
"One Heineken, one Coke, one Rolling Rock," said Cheryl. "How about the dishwashers?"
"Yeah," said the chef, "Bring 'em a couple a Cokes