The Michelin Star Fry Cook

There are so many rats in the city. I understand why but it really is a problem. Just beside my smoking spot, waist-high piles of bulging garbage bags fill up most of the alley. In between hits, I experience the most diverse whiffs of rotten meat, fresh bread, and urine. Yet, the night remains night as partygoers still walk by and express their suppressed energy in each hairstyle and flashy accessory.  

The back door opens, “Freddy, we need you in early. The dinner rush is heavy tonight.”

“I’ll be in just a second.”

The door closes and I finished my blunt, “Kamilia will be on my ass tonight.”

Compensating for the ensuing hypercritical feedback to come, I take out my pills and pop three in. As I reach for the door handle, I hear the thunder of metallic banging and people shouting. For precaution’s sake, I pop another one in. Extra focus never hurts. 

It’s nothing but beautiful smells now. The meat station’s rich fragrance of sauteing tenderloin carries with it thyme and garlic. Grilled onions cheer as they are sheered in a pan of pasta and thick red sauce. Oh, and the pastries, fried dough and vanilla goodness all remind me 50% of the reason why I do this in the first place. 

“Hey, Freddy! Thank God you’re working tonight.”

“I’m broke as shit Joe. Why else would I take a Friday night?”

Joe laughs, “It’s not like we had a choice anyway.”

“A Friday night in the heart of Manhattan and I’m here in a stuffy kitchen with a class chef who openly puts ketchup on his mac and cheese.”

Right as I turn on the stove, a lean, sharp-featured woman walks in. Everyone immediately stops what they are doing and straightens up. She walks concisely and scans each station similar to a teacher reviewing a test. One lap and then another for good measure. Yet, she doesn’t stop at the kitchen center but leans into the face of another chef at the meat station. Poor boy, he hasn’t been here for more than a month.

Her eyes grab his, “What’s in your mouth?”

The boy’s jaw clenches. 

She shakes her head, “Pablo. Open your mouth.”

Small tears pour out before Pablo refuses to refuse any longer. Honestly, given how he looks, instead of emasculating him, might as well dice his face up along the other fishes. Mouth open, she reaches in and pulls out a small piece of gum. Mint flavor I presume. 

“Gum?”

He’s frozen. 

Her voice is soft but sharp as any knife, “Gum? Chewing gum tonight? Tonight? Tonight of all nights?” 

“It-it-um-it hel-p-hel―”

“Hel-hel-hel ― HELPS. If you want to say the word, pronounce the word.”

“Sorry Head Chef Cameron ― I MEAN Kamilia ― Sorry Head Chef Kamilia.”

He’s dead. Call the funeral director already. Head Chef Kamila scoffs in utter shock, “Who?”

“Head Chef Cam ― Kamilia. Head Chef ―”

An echoing slap increases the tension tenfold. I’m surprised she didn’t just straight up beat him with that rolling pin. Pablo’s right cheek is lobster red and his eyes cannot hold back tears any longer. 

“Please! Chef please! Don’t ―”

Another vicious slap, “This kitchen is for men and women only. Not boys. Out.”

Pablo somehow drops his head even lower and heads to the exit. But before he could salvage any possible dignity, Chef Kamilia stops him, “Wait! Come back.”

Pablo hurries to her, “Yes?”

“You forgot this,” and she jams the piece of chewed gum right in between his eyes brows, “Now leave.” 

She claps her hands and everybody heads back into their work. 

“It’s kind of cliche isn’t it?”

“What?”

Joe dices red onions, “Well the whole hard-ass shtick. Cameron was kind of like that too.”

“Cameron yelled quite a bit more. He watched way too much Hell’s Kitchen,” man I could devour these scallops right now, “Kamilia is more cerebral? I think that’s the word. Doesn’t matter, a boss is a boss.”

A symphony sizzle of greens hit the pan, “Yeah… haven’t you ever considered moving up. Moving on maybe.” 

“Every time I wake up and see that gracious view of a brick wall.”

“Seriously. You really want to be smoking cheap grass in the alley all your life.”

“What’s with the attitude Joe,” I joke. I sense something, “Something on the mind.” 

“My side is ready. Yours?”

I flip the golden brown scallops onto the plate which Joe tops off with cooked broccoli and a sauce, “Order for table 10!”

This Adderall is really kicking in, “What were you saying again?”

“You know what I said.”

“Moving up?” I spend too much time with Joe, “Me be the one and take Kamilia’s spot?”

“Not even just that. Start your own restaurant. Call it Freddy’s, a nice original name no one has tried before.” 

Whether he can read it or not, Joe is certainly right on this. I mean being a chef, a legit chef, in a legit restaurant with “class” is great. A thing most dream of in this industry. But there is always more and I want it. Yet, I never understood what I would be if I get there, hypothetically of course. If anything I would either start my own restaurant or chase a head chef spot but what then. Starting a restaurant is like leaving food on the counter while a dog sits by, you just don’t do it. Then being a head chef, well, it’s not like Kamilia is spending her weekends at yacht parties or being the one dining. I guess it’s just the thought of the dream that keeps me going. The money would be nice. 

“Frederick.”

“Yes, Chef!”

“Your scallops look excellent.”

“Thank you Head Chef Kamilia.”

“Stop staring and get back to work. I want all your attention on table 13. Take the salmon.”

“Yes, Chef!”

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. A thrashing jolt of nerves nearly makes me vomit on the spot. This sucks, this really sucks. All I want to do is cook a couple of entrees, maybe snag a dessert or two, and collect a paycheck. Now, my entire job and reputation on the line for some pretentious, snooty, double-chin, no charisma, sad excuse for ―

“Freddy?”

“What?”

“Get the salmon going.”

Right, “My bad.”

“Uh-oh is someone scared of a critic? Hey, one raw-fish could take one of our stars away.”

“This is not Ratatoulli Joe, this is real life,” I pour oil and throw in the thyme. Damn, this kitchen is really loud. Metal on metal, gruff voices, and fires all stewing together. How can anyone get any work done in here?

“Frederick! The salmon. How is it?”

“Be ready in 2 minutes!”

“2 minutes too late!”

I grab the first piece of fillet fish I see. Skin side down, salt, pepper, squeeze some lemon. 

“Fred ―”

“Not now Joe. Not now, please!”

“Fred you’re cooking ―”

“Spectacular? I know,” Jesus Christ my hands are numb. Flip and drizzle a touch more oil. 

“Fred! Look at what ―”

Just a couple more seconds. Wow, this is a rush. My heart is DJing every beat of blood it can handle. I reach for a towel to dry the layer of hand sweat in my palms. It wasn’t until I thought of breathing did I realize I wasn’t it. My smile cracks. This is why I cook. I’m beautifully terrified and I love it. As a boss, you worry about others. As an owner, you just worry about money. Here, it is only me and what I create. 

“Order for table 13!”

“No Fred,” whispers Joe. 

Kamilia takes the plate alongside another dish and hands it to the waitress without a glance. I whip through another order like a morning routine. It is not until several minutes after when I finally receive the results. The waitress whispers into the ear of Kamilia who then turns to me. I’ll never be able to read her. 

Her voice remains direct and stoic, “He says it was the best tilapia he has ever hand. If I could, I would kill you right now.”

Tilapia. Tilapia? OH! 

Kamila tries to size me up but I give my coat away before anything else. What else can I do? I nod to Joe who sympathetically shrugs and I walk out of the kitchen. Tilapia really? That’s how I go? 

The alley hasn’t changed a bit. As I meet the sidewalk, a small crowd of more partygoers passes by. They smell of smoke and booze and walk almost diagonally to McDonald’s. The entire space is so full that a small line begins at the door. A big yellow and red sign on the window reads: 

THE FILET-O-FISH IS BACK! TRY OUR 2 FOR 3$ MENU! 

Right below:

HELP WANTED! FRY COOKS AND MANAGERS. APPLY INSIDE OR ONLINE.

Omens may be real. 

“Freddy’s McDonald’s.”

I’ll work on the name.