Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [48]
"Socialist," corrected the chef.
"The same thing. De Gaulle should have put them all in prison. After the war."
The chef's mother took a last bite of cheese, dotted her mouth with the point of a napkin, and leaned forward. "Do you use a condom?" she asked.
Shocked, the chef tilted his head. "What?"
"When you, when you go out with your friends, maybe to meet a girl, some girl. Do you use a condom? I've been reading articles in the magazine."
"Yes, Maman," said the chef, embarrassed. He glanced at the surrounding tables to see if anyone else had heard. The old ladies at the next table were busy drinking martinis and commenting on the busboy's buttocks.
"Well, that is something. That's good. You should always use one," said his mother, satisfied.
"What have you been watching, Oprah or something?" asked the chef.
"What is Oprah?" inquired his mother.
"Forget it. Joke," said the chef.
"Qu'est ce que vous voulez comme dessert, madame?" inquired the waiter as the busboy whisked the cheese plates off the table. The chef's mother strained to see the dessert cart.
"Tell bucket-head to bring the cart closer," said the chef, slightly tipsy.
"SSSH! Ça suffit!"
The waiter had already moved over to the cart and was bringing it alongside the table. The chef's mother carefully scrutinized each item on the three-tiered pastry cart. "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Paris-Brest. Will you look, Michel, Paris-Brest. Remember?" She pointed a finger, and the waiter cut and served a portion. "Gimme one a those, too," said the chef to the waiter. When the waiter disappeared, his mother scolded him. "You shouldn't speak like that. I eat here every week."
"I'm sorry, Ma. Just enjoying myself. Loosen up. I'm having a good time, see?" said the chef.
"You like the dessert? You remember the last time we had it?" she asked.
"In Chagny? It was that place with all the dogs, right?"
"Yes. Chez Denis. Paris-Brest is absolutely my favorite. They made it so well. This is also excellent. Do you like it?"
"It's great," said the chef, shoveling an enormous mouthful into his face, creme Chantilly gathering at the corners of his mouth. "This was a great meal. Outstanding."
"And I suppose I'm paying for it," said his mother.
"Well," said the chef.
"And you said you need money," said his mother, reaching into her purse. She handed him a check for a thousand dollars, written in her spidery, old-lady scrawl. "I'm only giving you this if you promise to get a haircut. You look like a cannibal like that." She held onto one end of the check. "And make sure they trim your sideburns, I don't want people thinking you are, you are some sort of terrorist."
"Sure, Maman" said the chef. She released the check.
The chef put his soiled napkin over his empty dessert plate and sat back in his chair. Andre, the chef and owner of the restaurant, came over to the table to pay his respects. He wore a spotless white chef's coat with Chinese buttons and the French tricolor adorning the collar. His name was embroidered over the chest pocket in flawless blue script, his starched toque piled high up over his head. He spoke in French for a few moments with the chef's mother, inquiring about the meal and her health. They discussed mutual friends.
She turned to the chef and in English said, "Andre, allow me to present my son, Michel. He is a chef also." The chef sat up in his chair and extended his hand. He wanted to die.
Twenty-Two
THOUGH THE DINING ROOM was empty, the bar was still busy. A large group from Long Island was arguing loudly at the corner of the zinc bar. A drunk, one of the bar regulars, in a Yankee warm-up jacket slouched over his scotch, tearing little pieces off of the cocktail napkin under his drink. He rolled them into little balls and tossed them one after the other into the trash can under the register on the other side of the bar. Two lovers, both overweight and overdressed, groped each other at the other end. The