The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [22]
Though there were at least twelve felonies, or violations of club policy, in evidence at this precise moment, Bobby didn't care. He watched Nikki prepare his dinner, absolutely transfixed by her smooth, economical movements behind the line. She seasoned a thick slab of monkfish, grinding black pepper from a mill, then rubbed it with sea salt. She fired up the stove and noisily slapped a pan on it, waiting for it to get hot. Without looking, one hand darted out, grabbed a wine bottle with a speed pourer, and drizzled a little olive oil into the pan, stood back a few seconds, waiting for it to get hot, then laid the fish in the pan with a sizzle and gave it a shake.
Twirling, she fired up another burner, reached for a small saucepot and positioned it over low flame. Bobby saw butter go, a little oil, some shallots. He was amazed how quickly her hands moved, how effortlessly she seemed to handle her knife, chopping the shallots into uniform small dice before scooping them into the saucepot. When Lenny saw her pouring hard pellets of arborio rice into the pan, stirring it with a wooden spoon, he looked shocked. She nudged him out of the way and reached into his lowboy.
"Hey, bitch," he protested, "don't fuck with my meez!!"
"Shut the fuck up, bitch," said Nikki. "I need stock. Gimme some . . . And some porcinis. Some porcinis would be nice."
"Fuck, man . . . they all the way in the back," complained Lenny.
"Suck my dick," said Nikki, ignoring him. "I need stock. I need porcinis. And haul me out some truffles while you're in there, cupcakes." She gave Lenny's fat ass a gentle pat as he ducked into the low reach-in refrigerator to get her what she wanted.
She laid out a few crayfish tails from her own stores, a bottle of white truffle oil, turned to stir the rice, poured in a little stock when Lenny finally managed to extract some from his crowded refrigerator, stirred the risotto with the wooden spoon. Judging the fish ready to turn, she flipped it with a pair of tongs, put the whole pan in the oven and casually kicked the oven door closed with the side of a food-encrusted clog.
"Damn!" said Lenny, seemingly appalled. "You making the man truffle risotto?"
Nikki just turned wordlessly back to her cutting board, reached down once again into Lenny's box to retrieve some arugula, turned, stirred the risotto again, added a little more stock and stirred again — then lowered the heat, looking satisfied, lost, seemingly in thought. Bobby saw she was chewing her lower lip.
"How do you like your fish?" she asked Bobby.
"Uh . . . I don't know . . . Whatever . . .' said Bobby. Noticing that she seemed to shake her head slightly at this, he corrected himself. "Okay . . . uh . . . medium rare." This seemed to please her.
"Good. You didn't look like a well-done." As she turned back to the stove to once again give the risotto a stir, she said "Good" again, softly this time.
In went the crayfish tails, the mushrooms and the truffle peelings. She reached down into the oven, a side towel protecting her hand, and removed the fish. Bobby watched as in a small saucepan she heated a little sauce from a cooling crock a few stations down, whisked in a little knob of whole butter, lowered the flame. Pulling the risotto off the stove, she folded in some arugula, then carefully piled a neat mound in the center of a plate, spun back to the stove and gingerly transferred the fish from pan to plate, resting it at an angle atop the risotto. When the sauce seemed reduced to her liking, she drizzled some around the plate with a large spoon, then stepped back to examine her work, head tilted, seemingly unsatisfied with something. She reached for a bottle of truffle oil over Lenny's station, reconsidered, and then, looking both ways, quickly dodged back into Lenny's lowboy and removed a single, fresh white truffle from inside a moist towel. She was shaving a few paper thin slices over the plate with a small grater when Eric looked up from his cocktail and his stack of dinner dupes.
"White truffle!? White fucking