Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [3]
"About the beurre?"
"It wasn't me that ratted you out."
"I know," said Tommy. "It's okay, man . . . It was probably somebody on the floor. He wouldn't a noticed himself. Stephanie considers herself some kinda gourmet lately. . . She probably said something. Probably read something in the Wednesday food section, came in Thursday and tried to impress the chef with her vast knowledge . . ."
"She impresses me with her vast posterior."
Tommy shrugged, took a last pull on his cigarette, and flicked it into the street. "Let his sauce break on him halfway through dinner service a couple of times . . . He'll be right back at us to put a little cream in. He's just bustin balls."
Ricky raised his chin slightly. "Look who's comin' down the street."
"Oh shit," said Tommy. He looked up to see Sally, halfway down the block, tossing a piece of uneaten pizza crust into a trash can. He grimaced, "It's fuckin' embarrassing, man. Just look at that fuckin' guy. . . He looks like a cross between Sonny Bono and Hermann Goring."
Ricky straightened up and moved away from Tommy.
"I think I'll leave you alone with your uncle, bro'," he said. "I've got something in the oven."
Sally approached Tommy with a broad grin stretched across his face from jowl to jowl. "Hey, chef," he said, "cookin' anything I like?"
"I'm not the chef," said Tommy. "I'm the sous-chef. I told you before."
Sally wrapped two beefy arms around Tommy and gave him a hug and a half-slap on the cheek. "Whassat mean? You make the soups or somethin'?"
"No, it means I'm the second chef—the under chef. Like the under boss. You know what that is, right, Sally?"
"You got a fresh fuckin' mouth," said Sally. "So what are you and your little friends cookin' down there today?"
"Absolutely nothing you like," said Tommy.
"No veal chop? No pasta? How about sausages? I thought this supposed to be some kinda fancy French restaurant. You don't got any fuckin' sausages?"
"This is a seafood place . . . Mediterranean seafood. French Mediterranean seafood. We do mostly fish," said Tommy.
"How about squid?" asked Sally. "That's seafood. You got any squid in there?"
"No squid," said Tommy.
"You should try some of that squid they got next door. You ever try the Count's squid? He serves some nice squid. That squid is beautiful," said Sally.
"Foreskins in afterbirth is what it is," said Tommy.
"It's good," insisted Sally.
"That shit is fuckin' vile," said Tommy. "I'm ashamed I ever ate there."
"It's good."
"It's not good. It's not even fresh! They buy it frozen," said Tommy.
"He told me it's fresh," said Sally.
"The fuck it is," said Tommy. "I'm tellin' you . . . they buy it frozen. I see the deliveries comin' in. They buy like six tons a that shit at a clip."
Sally held up his palm. "You just don't appreciate good Italian food. Anyways, we can agree to disagree. I don't want to get into it with you. You never knew how to fuckin' eat. I shouldn't be surprised."
"Whatever," said Tommy. He lit another cigarette. "What, you here to see Harvey?"
"Yeah, is he here?"
Tommy nodded. "He got in an hour ago. He's in the office, sweating the weather. He calls the weather service every ten minutes. Like they're gonna change the forecast, he calls back."
"Business not so good?" asked Sally.
Tommy shrugged. "Ask him yourself."
Two
SALLY FOUND HARVEY looking out the window of his cluttered office. Harvey was a man of medium height with dark curly hair graying slightly around the sideburns and receding from a high forehead. He had bushy black eyebrows and horn-rimmed glasses. He was very tan. Harvey's desk was stacked with bills and invoices and bundles of dinner checks. On the wall, next to a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, two schedules, and a diploma stating that Harvey was certified to practice dentistry in the state of New York, hung a photograph of him in his white smock, smiling, with his arm around a plump, blond dental assistant.
"Hey, Harve," said Sally.
"Sally, what do you hear about the weather? Last time I heard they said it might