ToastedA Chapter by rocknrolla A work of contemporary, literary fiction about Rocco and his brutally honest life story Revealing his “Highs” and lows of making it…. and breaking it as a chef in New York City. Follow him through
Chapter 1
I am a rocknrolla, a late night smoker, a flame thrower, shot taker and
all night love maker. Perhaps the term
seems clichéd, considering it’s used nowadays to describe baby-faced teenage
singing pop star wannabes. That is not
me. I call myself a rocknrolla because
no other word is more fitting for the way I live my life and no other metaphor
best describes what I do. This is a
story of sex, drugs, booze and Rock ‘n Roll. But before any of that, there was
the food. I see people on TV programs
telling tall tales about how making food is their passion, and how they wish,
they dream of becoming chefs. You know what I have to say? Shut up and do it. Don't play games. Don't tell stories. Get off your a*s, quit your job and do
it. But you won’t. And if you do, you won’t last. And if you do, I’ll buy you a shot. But before you run off to the wife and children, let’s take a walk in my
shoes; let’s see beyond the veil, beyond the bullshit smoke and mirrors of food
and restaurants. Don't get me wrong I love the life but some people are made to
be accountants, some are doctors and very few of them are rocknrollers. We push our bodies to the limit; we sweat
blood and piss excellence. We take our
bodies to breaking point and beyond. We
wake up before you and we pass out after you’re fast asleep. This book, call it
fact or fiction; I don't really care what you think, this is me telling it the
way it is. No bells and whistles. Just
my story. Nothing more. Nothing less. # My childhood was good; no real complaints there. My father was hard to please and he still is
to this day but I gave up trying to please him years ago. My mother was a supporting housewife, my
sisters hung out together giggling and desperately trying to get rid of their
kid brother and I loved to devil in this and that just passing the time. I
guess this is when I got my first taste of cooking. From when I was five years old I was helping
with odds and ends such as roast chickens and pavlovas and other tacky
classics. I could barely reach the countertops so my mother would place a stool
for me to stand on so I could mix the sauces and amuse myself with dough and
cookie cutters. It took her some time
before she trusted me with knives and boiling water though. My mother always
had a smile on her face and would give me a kiss on the cheek to show her approval. My sisters could also cook and they sometimes
helped out in the kitchen too but I took more of an interest in how my mother
cooked, looked up to her and was curious about the way she put everything
together. This was the first clue about
my journey of food. Then a few years later, I lost interest as my mother started getting the
premade meals from the local store as they became more popular thanks to mass
media. I felt disappointed but I always
had an understanding of what I wanted to do with my life. Fast forward. High school. I was
one of those lucky guys to grow up in public school. I got loads of exposure to the real world and
how it worked. I had my first smoke at
twelve years old, a tobacco cigarette that is.
Don't be thinking I was some sort of pubescent drug addict; I was at
least 14 before I started devilling in the wacky tobaccy. My last days in grade 12 were great; I had
loads of friends and girls. Guess I was lucky.
I dated three of the most beautiful girls my age; two of them at the
same time. This did not end well. The one girl had a surprisingly strong right
hook which impolitely removed one of my front teeth. I have a good dentist to thank for fixing
that black hole in my smile. Yes, I
deserved it but you can’t blame a kid for trying, can you? So I decided to move on to older girls. I started dating a girl three years
older. At that age, three years was a wide
age gap, unlike later in life when it’s uncommon to see couples together with a
thirty year age gap between them. I was
thinking to myself; “It does not get better than this”. Enter her ex-boyfriend. This was a strange meeting. Ten years later and I'm still not sure what
to think of it. He came to me after school one day as I was walking out the
building, pulled me aside and begged me not to date her. He explained that she left him for me to make
him jealous and clearly it was working.
Normally this would end with me being beaten like a pork schnitzel at
Oktoberfest, but for some reason I agreed and broke it off the next day. Afterwards, I thought about the different
ways the situation could have ended; I still
find it strange thinking about the many different ways any situation can be
handled. The way he handled it was
perfect. He could have threatened me or her
or done something violent. Instead the
guy just came up to me and told me how he felt.
He was honest and sincere. For me
this was a life lesson. Say what you mean and mean what you say. So I took
notes and added it to my arsenal of tricks. # After high school, I went to medical school. Yes, medical school. I did it because I could, I had the good
marks, it seemed like a sensible thing to do and it was my last attempt to try
and please my father. Sometimes doctors
are referred to as butchers. I understand
why, but I thought, if I was going to be cutting meat, why not make something
good of it and at least, in the cooking process how you cut the meat is not a
life or death situation (well, not for any human). So I went to med school for a year and learnt
about what it takes to be a doctor; long hours on your feet, unconventional
shifts and working times and turning your life into your work. But, did I really want that to be my life? Did I want to take the socially acceptable
route of becoming an honourable and life-saving member of society? Did I want people to come to me and tell me
about their problems? The answer is of
course, no! So, after that year I
decided to take a more unconventional path.
If I was going to have to work that hard and long, I decided that I may
as well do it whilst doing something I love.
Rather than having people come to me with their problems, I could
instead be solving them for those who choose to escape their lives by eating. I could have them
ask for me so that they could thank me and tell me how good I made them feel,
how I tantalized their taste buds, surprised them and added value to their
lives. I wanted to spend my time with
people who feel good about themselves.
And, quite frankly, I prefer the smell and feel of a warm kitchen to
that of cold, clinical disinfectant. It
is a bit ironic, doctors warn people not to eat certain foods they enjoy for
the sake of their health. I just want
people to enjoy. After all, good food
can’t be that bad, can it? So I took the
less safe option and dived straight in and I’ll never look back. I can’t ever say I helped the obesity
epidemic. # Some of the great chefs didn’t even go to school. Thomas Keller, Ina Garten and Jamie Oliver
are self-taught maestros. Sure, we
learnt how to cook, how to prepare and present our food and be hospitable but
the whole business was deceitful.
Culinary school, like all school in general, gave us little information
about reality. We made meals, had them
graded and carried on. Kids would mess
about, make jokes and mockingly compete with each other. We knew that it would be hard work but we
hadn’t the faintest idea of what it was really going to be like. We were not prepared for the real restaurant
business. I sometimes think about the
few guys who dropped out because they felt they couldn’t handle the
pressure. It’s a good thing because they
would have fallen flat on their asses in the real world. Our chef
teachers would shout and call us scum.
That didn’t deter me. I knew I
was going to make it. Nobody could
convince me otherwise. # After culinary school I started working.
I started at the bottom, peeling potatoes and following orders. This is the toughest stage. I felt like scum. Everybody in the kitchen makes you aware of
the fact that you are at the bottom.
There is a hierarchy and you have to work your way up to the inner
circle and then to the top. The guy at
the top is always the restaurant owner; what he or she says goes and that is
who I wanted to be. I wanted to be the
main man, the guy who makes the rules and can also break them. One day I would become that guy, I knew it so
I kept working and I kept my mouth shut until it would be acceptable for me to
talk back. Then somehow, through the years,
hard work, hangovers and long hours, one day you wake up and realize you’re the
executive chef. The young guy who kept
his mouth shut is now the guy shouting orders. Recipe for success as a chef (or anything else that requires passion) 1 tablespoon ambition 100 parts passion 12 parts perseverance,
finely chopped and evenly spread 300 parts hard work 10 parts good luck, diced
and evenly spread 50 parts of a sense of
humour, the meal is worthless without it I remember waking up one morning and taking a few minutes to grasp it
all. I was living in an apartment in the
Cape, ideally sized for someone in their early twenties; in fact it wasn’t too
bad at all considering that most people my age either still lived with their
parents or on a university campus. The
autumn sun shone through the window. I
had a slight headache from the night before but not from drinking. We had a long night with many customers. I was working in a fish restaurant as the
head chef. It had been two years since
I’d started there. I had enjoyed it but
I knew it was time for something different.
I was getting bored and in this industry, boredom is never a good thing. I savoured the sunlight, got out of bed slowly and went to take a
shower. Looking in the mirror, I felt as
if I hadn’t aged at all. That’s what
happens when your days fly by quickly, time moves so fast that it almost feels
like it’s not moving at all. I looked
good. I’m not self-centred but that is
inevitable when you’re at the top of your game, or at least feel like you
are. I felt like a man living a boy’s
dream. I looked into my eyes, the hazel
iris glistened with pride and passion. I
tucked in the golden crucifix my mother gave me under my clothes as I got
dressed; this was more sentimental and habitual than it was religious at this
point. I think most Catholics hold on to
the tradition rather than the beliefs as they grow older and learn more about
the world. I combed my black hair, a
signature of Italian decent, pulled out a packet of Marlboro red, lit up one
and made my way to work. I was the last one to arrive, just after ten o’clock. I made my way to the locker, where I took off
my suede jacket and replaced it with the white coat with the restaurant name,
Beluga, inscribed above the pocket on the left.
It was a Thursday so the rush wouldn’t begin until dinner time, for
which we were fully booked. I checked
the stock to see if the right shipment of fish, meats and vegetables had
arrived earlier than morning. Although
one of the cooks was in charge of that, double checking made sure that I knew
exactly what was going on. The day ran smoothly until about six o’clock that night when the dinner
rush began. Tourists, wealthy owners of
the wine lands and people flocked to the booking desk to be seated. In the mist of the rush, my cellphone
rang. I picked it up out of my pocket
and saw “unknown number”. I was hesitant
to answer. That could have been anybody
from bill collectors, to insurance salesmen (who now bug people at night), a
crazy ex-girlfriend or a girl I’d slept with who had decided that we were
together. I didn’t have time to ponder
so I answered. It was a phone call from
New York. # Now you might be thinking, why am I telling you this? Why have I wasted your time? Everything I told you made me what and who I
am. Maybe it’s taking cocaine off the
breasts of an Australian stripper and paying in coins or standing on the ledge
on top of one of the tallest buildings in New York on New Year’s Eve and
visualizing the sensation of jumping off and slowly falling towards the tarred
streets below. These are my words; these are my tales of sex, food and Rock’ n
Roll. Useful Information Part #1 The
Ranks of Chefs
Executive chef �" the
guy at the top who has paid his dues and can now tell everybody else in the
kitchen what to do; he’s most likely damn good at it too Sous chef �" the
executive chef's right hand man (or woman in some cases) Patissier �" the
pastry chef and person who is responsible for desserts Chef de partie �" the
station chef; this person is in charge of a certain section of the kitchen Saucier �" the person
who prepares the sauces and sautés Poissonier �" the person who works with the seafood Entremetier �" the
person in charge of soups, vegetables, starches and egg dishes Rotisseur �" the guy
that cooks roasted, braised and broiled meats and gravies Gard manger �" the
pantry chef who prepares the cold items on the menu Cook �" this guy works
under all the chefs, receives the most flack and has to work his way up
Chapter Two I remember how I felt during my first few weeks in New York. I loved it.
New York is a jungle of seemingly ordinary people who hibernate during the day
and turn into wild animals taking part in uncensored circus acts at night. I
thought of it as an amusement park within a maze of concrete buildings, bright
lights and music; and I took in every bit of it. Everything I could experience, I did. I
didn't stop. I didn't want to stop and I couldn't stop. Passion and addiction go
hand in hand. The feeling can only be
described by listening to Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On”. It is a painful but worthwhile rush. You have to listen to the song to know what I
mean. If you don’t fancy rock music,
then you will simply never fathom it. Chefs are passionate people.
We have to be. You have to love the smell of roasted garlic, freshly baked
baguettes and crackling alcohol fumes to the sound of clanging metal, splashing
liquids and popping oil accompanied by the bustle of people shuffling in and
out, screaming orders and cussing at each other. Our favorite words are f**k
and c**t. And if you burn yourself don’t complain. We are leather; we are
indestructible and enjoy pushing it to the edge “one more time” every time. Many people can’t handle the long hours,
pressure and arguments so sooner or later, they fold. I’s like that old adage says: If you can’t
handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.
No hard feelings, someone more competent will take your place and you
will likely be happier elsewhere anyway. Luckily when arguments were heated and people were getting flack for bad
work, up until then, I was never the one being given the sack. I had worked my
way up to working at a five-star New York restaurant and I planned on staying
there. Things, however, don't always go as planned. That's one of the things in
life which screws you over. It's
unpredictable because people are unpredictable. You can plan the perfect meal
and if one idiot misses a small detail and serves it to a critic, it all goes
down the drain from there. Or in my
case, you can f**k around and act like you're invincible until someone or some
people come into your life and f**k you over. # Life lesson number two: No matter how great you are or how good it’s
going, nobody is immune to the highs and lows of life. You just have to keep going and fight for
what you’re living for. I loved what I did. I still do. Because we love to work hard, we love to
play hard. I mean all of us. We become like a family. I think that's inevitable
when you spend most of your waking hours with a group of people. A chef I
worked under once told us that we probably knew him better than his wife did.
He was married for fifteen years and f*****g the manager's daughter half the
time. And he was right. We were in our
own bubble. We develop a sort of camaraderie. Other than spending all that time
together, few people get it. Few people truly understand when you tell them
that your day off is a Monday and you don't get off before midnight the rest of
the week. It's easier to hang out with the people whose free time and
priorities resemble yours. So we work hard to play hard. Unlike that chef though,
most of us choose not to sleep with co-workers.
It can become uncomfortable for everyone so it’s best not to screw
within the “family”. Nevertheless,
nobody is perfect and we all screw up sometimes. That chef got fired when the manager found
out. That was enough of a deterrent for
me to keep the bed and kitchen separate. # I arrived in New York, a few months after Ryan, a friend of mine from
culinary school. Ryan had been my
partner in crime. We were young, wild
and felt like nothing could stop us. He
introduced me to the underground. Ryan
was smart-mouthed and streetwise; he loved parties and lived from one high to
the next. I always got the feeling that
he’d had it pretty hard in life but he never spoke much about himself or his
childhood. Most of our conversations
were about how to entertain ourselves, girls and dirty jokes. He was a rough man with a hard yet attractive
face; dark haired with brown eyes and black curls. I think he gave women the
allusion of danger and that’s why they felt drawn to him. Even though he took risks and acted like he
couldn’t give a damn, Ryan was the kind of guy who could make people feel safe
in the worst and most risky of situations.
Ironically, he was also usually the one to trigger tension in others
which led to these situations. Nevertheless,
he knew how to protect the people in his group.
I looked up to him. He just made
it hard on himself by getting into fights and earning a reputation for violence
and troublemaking. A cousin of his
landed him the job at Nina’s, an Italian fine dining restaurant and I jumped in
on the bandwagon. It looks like there
was a point to cooking school after all but I’m not saying it was easy. It is about the people you know but without
the know-how and dedication, you’re not going anywhere. He recommended me for the job as head chef at this restaurant in SOHO.
He'd always had my back. He was the sous chef there and I became the head chef
after a vigorous interview process including cooking tests, leadership tests,
skills tests and detailed background and reference checks. I took a chance by
going to New York but it was worth it and I got what I came there for. When I arrived Ryan showed me around New York, introduced me to the
ladies and helped me find a place to stay. I ended up living with a guy named
Bruno, the restaurant manager of a place a few blocks from ours. The apartment
wasn't much bigger than a shoe box. Living there sometimes felt claustrophobic
but in most cases the place was just used for sleeping and showering. The
benefit of staying there was being in the centre of downtown Manhattan. There
were always places to go and things to do, with so many people from all over
the world to meet and interact with.
Besides the clubs, restaurants and bars, being in New York is like
finally seeing the places which you familiarized yourself with in movies and TV
shows. Walking through Greenwich Village
reminds you of the show Friends and those boring evenings after school when you
had the time to watch sitcoms like that.
Ryan, me and two other guys once walked across the Brooklyn Bridge at night,
it definitely wasn’t one of the safest things to do but it was one of the
things on my list of to-dos which I gradually forgot about. Sometimes being in New York feels
surreal. New Yorkers call it the
greatest city in the world and understandably so; it’s a fast-paced hub of
culture, people and commerce. It felt
like the pace of the city aligned with my lifestyle and I appreciated that. I also met more people who understood me, my food and the way I
live. Being a chef is hard work. You
spend most of your life on your feet, sometimes working sixteen to twenty hour
shifts. My blood boils when I'm confronted with customers who act like they
believe that the food just magically appears on the tables in front of them. I
don't care much about being around anybody like that. Somebody, a complete
stranger to you, took the time to pour their heart into your meal; they gave a
bit of their time, skills and soul into nourishing yours. It takes balls,
dedication and skill to master the arts of presentation and taste. It is an
art. It is not quite the fairytale publicized by reality TV and people who have
no cooking clue about what it takes. But for the few who understand, to those
people who savor every nibble of great food and delight in the orgy it gives
their taste buds, I say thank you. I sure as hell don't do it just for you but
it feels good to be appreciated. I felt
that way in New York. I don’t mean I
never felt it before, just to a greater extent.
Maybe it’s the media. Maybe it’s
the wide variety of restaurants in the city.
For some reason, if someone in New York tells you your food is good, you
know it’s pretty damn awesome. It's difficult to live this life and stay sober. The mere shock your
body is put through in an effort to keep going is what usually pushes us to
acts of debauchery. At the time, I was taking anything and everything I was
offered; pills, grass, powder and whiskey. If I wasn't high, I was hung-over. There were a
few girls too. Some of them I vaguely remember. I can recall some of their
out-of-style but perfectly neat apartments better than I do the colour of their
hair or their smiles. Going to their apartments was easier. I could sleep and
leave whenever I wanted rather than have to wait and accommodate a stranger the
next morning or have heels thrown at me because I have to throw them out and go
to work. My objective was not to f**k around. Yes, I did f**k around but I
really tried with some of them. The problem with most people is that they
simply don't care. They want a relationship that suits them and to find
somebody to listen to them. Most people are boring. They're good for one night,
a polite smile and a moment. Honestly,
when you work in my business, relationships are difficult. Few women will understand why you miss
Valentine’s Day, their birthday and other important occasions. Everybody else’s time to relax is your
busiest time. You work to please them
and to add to their leisure. Most women
want a man to only please her; they want ordinary guys with secure jobs, cars,
normal nine-to-five working hours and a large enough disposable income to
splurge on meaningless material items which are meant to say “I love you”. That was not what I wanted. I didn’t want to
have to make excuses nor have to explain myself to someone but I did want
something more than what I was getting from other people. I wanted some girl to
come into my life and completely knock my socks off. I wanted to look at
someone and see beyond the predictability of most people and their insipid
existences. I wanted to meet someone with passion, somebody to talk to, not
just f**k. And then, just as I was about
to give up, I met someone. Tip Take a chance Bored people are
boring. Take risks. Be passionate and your passion will follow
you. The words may seem overdone but it
works. Chapter Three “Another round, gentlemen?” Ryan
got up enthusiastically and went to the bar to order us another round of
Tequila shots. I wasn’t a fan of Tequila
but Ryan didn’t make it easy for anyone to say no to him. I was perfectly content with the Vodka on the
rocks I was twirling in my right hand.
Two girls walked in, spotted Ryan and joined him at the bar. He and one of the girls exchanged a quick
kiss and a smile while the other girl looked around uncomfortably. She was the one I paid particular attention
to. I felt drawn to her. I don’t believe in love at first sight or any
of that crap, but I do believe that you can be drawn to somebody else’s energy. I liked her because she looked good. She was a tall, attractive brunette. The mini-skirt she wore and the
cleavage-exposing top may have wanted most guys in there to want to undress her
but what intrigued me was the look on her face.
She looked bored and disinterested, like it was just another night in
just another bar. That is how I was
starting to feel so I recognized it in her.
Ryan came over with the tray of shots and the two girls followed behind
him. “Ladies, these are my
friends Pete, Justin and Rocco. Guys,
this is Myra and Chris.” He introduced
us with a smile on his face and a swagger in the way he gestured to everybody
when he spoke our names. Myra, the
blonde sat next to him and was clearly the girl he was sleeping with and he
took every opportunity to caress her thighs, back and neck to reassure her about
how the night would end for the two of them.
Chris sat next to Myra on the seat to my left. Justin leaned over me to talk to her. “Isn’t Chris a guy’s
name?” Justin was evidently already
drunk out of his mind when he asked this.
He was trying his luck. “It’s short for Christine,”
she responded. “And easy for lesbians and
transvestites, if you want to, um, be a man.”
He chuckled. “Are you a lesbian,
Chris?” He asked her mockingly. “Well, every girl likes to
experiment.” She answered and gave me a
short glance. I guess she’d figured that
a conversation with Justin was hopeless and wanted to see if there was a chance
that I could save her from it. In the
dimly lit bar, I caught a glimpse of her green eyes. Her face was pale and her lips looked
pink. Her dark brown hair glistened like
she had washed and styled it just before going out. She was pretty all right. She would have passed as a wealthy man’s
trophy or even a model. I wound up the
guts to say something so I asked her, “Can I get you something to drink?” “I already placed my order,
thanks. It’s coming.” “Well shout when you’re
thirsty.” “I definitely will. What’s your name again? Rocky?” “Rocco.” “German? Italian?” “Italian.” “And you’re a chef too?” “Executive chef.” “I see.” The other two guys had
already turned around and were having another conversation. It was clear to them that I’d got her
attention now. I felt like Pete had told
Justin to back off because he was drunk.
I bought them both a round of beers to say thanks in case he did. Chris and I continued the small talk.
I found out that she was Canadian and worked in one of the hotels at
reception. I don’t think either of us
was particularly interested in the other but in that moment, we were the best
option for the other person. Ryan and
Myra left to go to her place after a few drinks. Justin started looking like he was going to
throw up or pass out at any moment so Pete took him home. We left the bar after we felt we had learnt
enough about each other in terms of background.
People in New York often sleep with each other based on less than that. “So, your place or
mine?” She asked. “Well, my place isn’t
that…” I was attracted to her, yes, but
I still didn’t know if I wanted to deal with having to cater to her needs and
deal with her in the morning. “Yeah. It’s probably a train wreck compared to a
hotel room.” “Do you live in a hotel
room?” “No, but I could tonight,”
she smiled. “And why would you do that?” “Why not? I feel like doing
something a bit different tonight.
Besides, I know that the hotel isn’t fully booked so if you’re not going
to join me, I’ll just have to enjoy the room on my own.” It was odd to have a girl
spoil me for a change. I liked it. So I smiled back at her and we took the next
cab to the Sheraton. After she whispered
something to the man behind the reception desk, he handed her the key to one of
the executive suites. We ran up to the
room like two kids on Christmas morning.
This would certainly be a night to remember. # We got to room 308, she slid the card into its slot and our love shack
for the night opened up to us. It was an
elegant room with white linen and wooden finishes. The bathroom was white and sparkling. It lacked those finishing touches of a
five-star joint but it was a hell of a lot better than my place or anybody
else’s place for that matter. There was
a flat screen in the centre of the bedroom between the cupboards and the
bed. She jumped on the bed and grabbed
the remote on the side table. “Want to watch a
movie?” She looked at me. “Umm...” I looked at her puzzled. “No. That’s not quite it, is it? You’d much rather f**k me. Right?” “Look, I don’t quite know
what you’re playing at but I’m not the kind of guy to push himself on a girl
either so if we’re going to watch a movie, sure. It’s fine by me.” She laughed. Up until this point I’d thought her to be an
ordinary girl. Now she was playing games
and I didn’t want to get caught up with a crazy woman. “Look, I can leave,” I offered. “Now, why would you want to
do that? You’re in a hotel with a pretty
girl. Take your coat off, lie down, have
fun. Room service?” She took off her black suede
jacket and placed it on the sofa on the corner of the room, then slipped off
her heels. She then picked up the
telephone. “Hey George, what’s on the
menu tonight?” She listened for a
while. “Great. I’ll take that. I’m entertaining a five-star chef here so don’t
make it too complicated or he may just judge our standards.” I stood there and just
looked at her while she made the phone call.
I felt perplexed. Usually you
arrive at a girl’s place, there’s a bit of small talk and shortly afterwards
the clothes are off and you collapse onto the bed and do what you both knew you
would end up doing. Some of them liked
to talk a bit afterwards but it was easy to drift to sleep, take a shower the
next morning and leave. Clearly Chris
wanted something more. For a moment I
pondered whether I should stay or leave.
Maybe this is what I’d be yearning for or maybe she was nuts. I decided to stick around and find out so I
took off my coat and shoes, lay down on the bed next to her and stared at the
blank screen waiting for something to appear. “You’ve got to be kidding
me?” She looked at me and laughed. It was a gentle laugh but at that time it
sounded devilish to me. I felt insulted.
“Has New York really made you so numb?
I’m just showing you a little hospitality, that’s all. You still know what that is.” “I work in the industry,” I
smirked nervously. If I think about it now, there wasn’t anything particularly strange
about what she suggested. What was wrong
with a quick meal? What was wrong with a
movie? Maybe she didn’t want to have sex
but simply wanted a companion for the night.
It’s just the way she acted and the tone of her voice that scared
me. It was like she had me cornered and
the night would progress as she wanted it to regardless of my will. It was odd and exciting at the same time. “Look,” she laid her head on the pillow and smiled at me. “I know it’s
late and I know you expected a f**k but I just feel I want to do things a bit
differently tonight. I want a bit of an
adventure. Is that okay with you?” “Well, I’m always up for an
adventure.” “Okay. Now that we’re on the same page. We could f**k each other like we’ve both
probably done with countless other people or we could make a memory out of
this. The reason I ordered the food is
because I’m hungry and secondly, you will be too when the munchies kick
in.” She walked over to the sofa where
she’d dropped her jacket and reached into one of the pockets from which two
neatly rolled up joints and a grey lighter emerged. I smiled as I began to feel
more at ease. “Shall I pour us a drink?” I walked over to the
mini-bar next to the cupboards in front of us.
It was a bit of a test for her. I
didn’t know how she managed to get the room, even though she worked there, and
it seemed like nothing was off limits. I
opened the bar but before I grabbed anything, I turned to face her. “I don’t want to get you
into trouble. Won’t management realize
that a room which was supposedly empty was used and has items missing from the
mini-bar?” “Oh, you’re sweet but don’t
worry about that. I got it covered.” My so-called adventures in
New York so far had usually involved at least a handful of people and being outside
in the city. Here I was, confined to a
small hotel room, with a stranger. It
was already 2 a.m and I started to feel beat but I didn’t want her to see that
I wasn’t up to it. “Beer?” I asked. “Sure.” She winked. I grabbed two beers out of
the fridge as she began to light the first joint. She passed it to me after I gave her the beer
and then lit up the second joint. I inhaled from the joint for
the first time and in realizing that it was at least five times stronger than
what I was used to, stopped myself and tried to exhale slowly. It didn’t work. The burn in my mouth, throat and lungs was
too strong and I began to cough. She grinned again, “I should
have warned you. This is no ordinary
joint.” “At this point, I didn’t
want to look sillier than I was probably already appearing to her so I sucked
it up and went with the flow of things.
After two successful puffs, I heard a knock on the door. It was the guy she spoke to at reception
earlier, presumably George. He handed
her a paper bag. I thought it was more
drugs until she opened the bag and the scent of fresh New York style hot dogs
blended with that of the potent weed in the room. Within a few minutes, we began our high. We were laughing and playing music from the
TV. There were a few rock channels. It impressed me that she also liked good rock
music and her favourite band was Pink Floyd.
I went on about Led Zeppelin for a bit.
With the music, euphoria and the continual booze we fished out of the
mini-fridge, we were soon completely out of it, dancing and going crazy. We kissed.
And as we began to introduce our tongues to each other, the craving we’d
both had shone through and we gave in.
Soon we were naked and reckless all over the room with the music playing
and the left over smoke encircling us.
We shared the hot dogs. She’d
bite into one end and I into the other and we’d compete to see who gets the
most bites out of it. I won simply
because my mouth is bigger and let’s face it; it’s unlikely that an ordinary
woman could beat a man at an eating contest.
We were euphoric and we lost all inhibitions and just gave in to each
other. There were no hallucinations but
just a heightened sense of everything around us. I smelled every scent in the room, the music
was louder and clearer than ever before and my body mapped every crevice and
bump in her skin as it lay or stood next to mine. The sad part with these types of drugs is
that losing the high comes just as quickly as getting it. It disappeared and I looked at her. She was smiling again. I liked looking at her smile. It exposed her slightly irregular white teeth
and two dimples in her cheeks, which only surfaced when she smiled or laughed
hard. It made her face soft and
approachable. Her eyes were pink around
the green from the smoke. Her pale skin
glistened a bit and her chest rose and fell with every deep breath. I could tell she was exhausted and about to
fall asleep. I lay closer to her on my
back and slid my right arm under her neck so that I could caress her hair and face
from the other side. We both felt
content and satisfied; then shortly fell asleep. I doubt I’d been asleep for an hour when she woke me up. “Come on, come on. It’s time to go,” she said as she pushed me
off the bed. I fell flat onto the
carpeted flooring which kicked me out of the deep sleep I was in. “What the hell’s going
on? What’s the time anyhow?” I demanded. “It’s almost six
o’clock. You have to leave,” she said
sternly. “Why? It’s so f*****g early. I don’t have to be at work for at least another
four hours.” “Okay, okay, sunshine. Put on your clothes, take this and just head
on out. We have to leave now.” She passed me a small
transparent bag with a white powder in it, presumably cocaine. “Are you a drug dealer or
something?” I accused. “No but you’ll need it to
get through the day.” “Something’s wrong with you
chick!” She became impatient. “Look, I’m not being rude but if we don’t
leave now, some serious s**t is gonna hit the fan,” she pleaded. “Okay, okay. Thanks for the good time and all.” “You’re welcome. Now leave!”
She pushed me out the door as I was getting the last of my things
together and followed behind me. “Are you coming with me?” I
asked perplexed. “No stranger, this is the
part where I go my way and you go yours.
See you around.” I turned around as we exited
the building and she had already turned and was walking in the opposite
direction. I looked back at her and
shouted. “Hey Chris!” She turned around. “Oh, I forgot,” she said. “She ran back towards me,
gave me a quick, intense kiss and whispered in my ear. “Goodbye.” “Bye,” I said, watching her
turn around and walk back. She had surprised me again. I grabbed the first cab home, collapsed onto
my bed exhausted and managed to fit in two additional hours of sleep. I woke up late and took a quick shower, and
hurried to work. This was a new job and
even if I was the head chef, I was still proving myself to management. When I got to Nina’s I
placed my coat in my locker and got to work. The day started off slow so there was lots of time for me to think about
Chris. I wondered if she even worked at
the Sheraton. Maybe that guy George just
owed her a favour. And if she did work
there, why risk her job for one night of lunacy with a complete stranger? That made no sense to me. On top of her strange nature, I was pretty
sure she was a drug addict. That bag of
coke was still in my coat pocket. I
reminded myself to get rid of it. I had
used coke before but I wasn’t about to make it a routine nor smoke it on my own
like a depressed addict. I did it for
the fun of it and to amuse myself around other people. # “So, how was she?” Ryan asked mockingly. “Good,” I winked at him. “That’s all. Well, Myra was a sex, f*****g goddess. We kept going until we were all worked out.” He grinned and nudged me at the
shoulder. Ryan was the only guy who
spoke to me so playfully. You could tell
we were pals. I laughed and shrugged him
off a bit. “Yeah,” I said. “Aren’t they both?” he laughed. # I couldn’t get her out of my
mind that day. We had shared something
wonderful although short-lived and we would probably never see each other
again. A couple of days later, I had
already consoled myself with that fact, when Ryan invited me on a day trip to
Bear Mountain. With a proud smile, he
told me he’d invited two girls to join us.
Myra and Chris. Chapter Four The fact that these two girls could go on a trip with us on a weekday
was surprising for me. Maybe I was just
paranoid. Had they skipped work? Or maybe Chris was out of work after the
incident at the hotel. Ryan rented a car
for the day; we picked up the girls on Monday night and headed to the inn. It only took us an hour’s drive from New York
City. Ryan’s style surprised me. I thought that Myra was just his latest fling
but the choice of accommodation implied that he may have wanted to impress
her. The Bear Mountain Inn is an almost
hundred year old place which once housed American presidents Truman and
Eisenhower. The lady at reception made
it a point to tell us this when we booked in.
We had two adjoining rooms. I
felt a bit awkward but Chris appeared completely at ease. “Isn’t it interesting that
our second night together will be spent at another classy joint?” She remarked. I gave her a smile and there
was a knock on the door. Ryan and Myra
came in looking mischievous. Ryan took
out a transparent bag out of his pocket with white powder. “Let’s get this party
started, ladies”; he laughed. Chris grabbed the bag from
his hand, placed it on the right wooden night table and pulled a credit card
and fine point pen out of her handbag.
With the speed and accuracy of her credit card, the white pile turned
into four neat rows. She then pulled out
the ink refill from the pen and used the emptied pen to snort the first
line. Myra followed and then Ryan. They looked at me as I hesitated. I grabbed the pen from Ryan and inhaled my
line into my left nostril. Call it peer
pressure but I wanted to be a part of the group and I wanted to have fun. The problem, however, came in when our bit of
fun went too far. Looking back, we likely appeared very out of place. Here we were, four
kids in a fancy place, fooling around because we had nothing better to do. After snorting the cocaine, Ryan offered me a cigar. He smiled and acted
like he was a million bucks. We started tripping on the cocaine. # We took a drive into the Hudson Highlands, parked there and grabbed our
picnic items. We had one flashlight and used the car's headlamps for lights. I
don't think any of us thought if the car battery would last us for the duration
of the picnic. We had cigarettes, beer, wine, brandy and vodka which we had
bought earlier on the trip there. Our food was a mix of chips, snacks, fruit and
day-old limp sandwiches which we picked up at a service station. We lay a
blanket down on the grass which we had grabbed from one of the room closets at
the inn. The forest was vast and quiet.
It felt like a shame that Ryan had paid for us to stay in the inn when
we could have simply camped out in the woods.
I later realized that it was too cold for camping. As the night progressed we would have had to
make a fire and stick together to stay warm.
The stars looked particularly bright. The scene was romantic and
picturesque. “It’s getting cold,” Myra
said. “Well, then we’ll have to
get warm. How about a run?” I suggested. Myra looked at me as if I
was crazy. I heard Ryan smirk and Chris
smiled at me. Ryan was the first to get
up off the blanket. He headed towards
the car. “Lights off people. Let’s see how well our ears work.” He opened the car and turned off the
lights. The only light still on was the
flashlight on the blanket. I could hear
the girls breathing in the silence. I
could tell Myra was freaked out. She was
still and breathing heavily. “What’s your plan Ryan? A game of Catches in the dark?” I asked. “Exactly!” He exclaimed in a
malignant tone. Chris and I knew that it was
our cue to run, we both got up and she pulled my hand in her direction
again. We ran together, trying to make
our way in between the dark tree forms and barely visible walkways. After a few minutes of running, we stopped
and I leaned against a tree to catch my breath.
I heard her breathing come closer as she came towards me and pushed my
back against the tree. When I felt her
breathing against my lips, I leaned forward and we began to kiss. We were embracing when we heard a ruffle in
the grass and something falling. Myra
screamed in agony about a second later.
We followed the sound towards her. “Myra? Are you okay?” I asked in the dark when I figured we were
close. “I’m over here.” A soft voice spoke. I tripped.
It hurts but I think I’ll be okay.” We all stopped as we heard
more footsteps coming towards us. “Guys?” It was Ryan’s voice. “We’re over here.” I said.
“Myra’s hurt.” I remembered my cellphone
had a flashlight function so I took it out to illuminate the scene. “Thanks Rocco. Our flashlight’s battery died some time ago.” Myra was on the floor,
grabbing at her knee and her jeans had dirt all over them. “How bad is it?” Ryan asked her. “I just fell on it. It hurts a bit but should be okay.” “Let me carry you.” He lifted her up and we all
began to make our way back to the car, with me shining the cellphone light in
front of us. When we got to the car,
Myra insisted she wanted to stand on her own.
She could walk but did so with a pain in her knee. Ryan asked her to lie on the
back seat and took her pants off so he could take a look at the knee. He touched and examined it a bit under the
car light. “Ah. You’ll be fine. You scraped it a bit but that will heal. Now, do you want to put your pants on again,
or…?” He said playfully to her. Chris and I stood at the
back of the car. She’d obviously
declined and was dressing herself again. “Come on guys, let’s
go.” Ryan said to us. I used my cellphone light to find the blanket
and goods we had left behind earlier, which Chris and I grabbed and tossed into
the boot of the car. I sat in the front and Chris got in the back with Myra as we headed back
to the inn. On the way back, Ryan drove like a maniac. The car twirled up and
down country roads at his will. The incident with Myra was enough to sober us
up a little bit but that didn’t last. We
were happy everything was okay. We
probably should have worried. Maybe we should have pictured scenes from horror
movies and urban legends. We didn't. We drove on laughing at the near miss of
an accident we just had. # When we got back to the inn, we went to Ryan and Myra's room so that
Myra could get changed. She took a shower and changed her outfit while the rest
of us smoked and talked. We then went to the
Bar. It was a fancy place, probably more
suited for newly-weds than four kids having fun. We got a few stares from people who looked at
us like we were the rowdy, out of place group.
We didn’t care. Our money was as
good as anybody’s. What these people
didn’t realize is that they slept in the hotels like the one Chris worked in
and had their food prepared by me and Ryan.
They had no clue what role we played in their lives. We fed them.
It’s funny how everybody can just blend into society on a casual
evening. Without a chef’s coat, nobody
would probably guess what I did for a living.
Just like I probably won’t guess who the lawyers, doctors and other
professionals out there are, but when you’re part of a profession, you can
recognize your kin as civilians. It’s
all in the hands. Cooks have rough hands
which move gently due to the intricacy of the work we do. Our hands are tested by fine details,
pressure, hot pans and blisters. I
looked around. There were definitely no
cooks in this stiff crowd. Even the guys
from the restaurant which was now closed were not around. Ryan ordered our first round of drinks. “Myra, what do you do for a
living?” I asked because of my curiosity about Chris and the relationship
between the two of them. “Oh, I work with Chris at
the hotel,” she said. I turned to Chris. “I was wondering about your job after the
last time I saw you.” “Oh! That,” she smiled. “Don’t worry about it. All sorted.
The place was cleaned up after we left.
That guy you saw, George, he’s got my back and me his in situations like
that. We’re like one big happy
family. The people at the hotel, I
mean.” She didn’t have to explain
herself to Myra, who she’d presumably already told about the last evening. Ryan turned around to
Myra. “Why haven’t you invited me to the
hotel yet, babe? Instead, here I am,
dishing out cash to put you in this classy place.” “Well, should the
opportunity arise then I’ll return the favour.”
“You better.” He winked at her and drew her towards him
into an embrace and kissed her briefly.
I had another scotch and a beer after that and I could tell that Ryan
was on the edge. I knew his partying pattern by now. He had snorted a line of
coke with us, likely not the first fix he’d had for the night, and I'd lost
count of the drinks he'd had. I thought it would be better to go to their room
as the bar closed; where we could leave after he passed out on the bed rather
than having to change rooms to accommodate him after he'd passed out on ours.
Myra would be disappointed. We sat on the bed telling stories and laughing at each other’s
jokes. As I’d predicted, in no more than
an hour, Ryan was out cold and snoring.
We left the two of them for the night. When Chris and I got back to our room, we were already sobering up from
the coke high but drunk from the booze. She offered me another line and we
continued the party between the two of us.
This time things came more naturally.
We delighted in finding out a bit more about our already familiar bodies
and then familiarized each other to our backgrounds and emotions. “Why’d you come here?” she
asked me. “It’s a long way from home,
isn’t it?” “It’s an adventure. I’ve always wanted to stay in New York.” “Hmm, I didn’t,” she
remarked. “Why not?” “I prefer a quiet life,
believe it or not. I came here to get
away from my family.” “Why’d you do that?” “They’re fuckheads, the lot
of them. Isn’t all family like that?” “I wouldn’t say so.” “Yeah, of course not. You still wear a damn crucifix around your
neck.” “What’s that supposed to
mean?” “You can’t possibly be
religious. You f**k around, take drugs
and do as you please. You’re a hedonist
like everybody else in this place. You
take pleasure in wanting and getting what you want.” “Isn’t that what everybody
wants?” “Not religious people. Religion is about self-sacrifice. It’s about seeing your body as a temple, not
a f*****g amusement park.” I was shocked by the
reference. “You’ve read Kitchen
Confidential?” She laughed. “No, but every cook in America has. Let me guess, it’s your favourite book right?” “Well…” “Of course it is. You see, you can’t really be a cook and be
religious, can you?” “I never claimed to be.” “Not verbally, no. But you’re keeping that God of yours as a
backup plan in case one day you simply can’t act as if life’s one big joy
ride.” “Look, I don’t know where
this is coming from? We’ve had a good
night, haven’t we? Why the insults?” “Sorry, you asked why I’m
here.” “And what’s religion got to
do with anything?” “You asked why I left. I left because of family. My father’s a pastor. The biggest hypocrite I know, so I left and
never looked back. I started working on
cruise ships before I landed up here.” “So you ran away?” “Isn’t everybody running
from something? Aren’t you running from
something?” I let the question sink in a
bit. I hadn’t thought of myself as
running away from anything. But then I
knew the answer. “Boredom,” I said. She smiled. “Well, that’s why they invented amusement
parks. So people don’t have to stay at
home and get bored. Instead you can go
try out every ride. That’s what we’re
doing, isn’t it? Every trip is a
ride. I’m a ride to you. You’re a ride to me. It’s all about the fun and games.” I looked at her and for some
reason that is not what I wanted her to think of me. I wanted to be better than somebody who would
just take her for a ride. “You’re not just a
ride. I like you. And I don’t think amusement parks are all
bad. They’re learning experiences and
you create the experiences yourself.
Life is not like an amusement park that was put there for everybody and
it’s the same for everyone. You create
the rides and then learn to make and enjoy better rides.” “Well, you’re a very
interesting ride then.” She smiled and
rested her head on my shoulder. We fell
asleep and thanks to Ryan’s pocket, we didn’t have to rush out of the place in
a couple of hours. We woke up at midday. Chris
called Myra who was headed for the spa for a treatment which was likely also
sponsored by Ryan’s credit card. Ryan
was still asleep. We had missed
breakfast and didn’t feel like heading to the restaurant so we ordered from
there and had the food delivered to us instead. Myra was out most of the day
exploring the premises and likely digging further into Ryan’s pocket while he
slept. Chris and I spent the day talking
and making love. That night the four of
us met up again in the restaurant for dinner.
We ordered a variety of meals so Ryan and I could best critique the
place �" chicken, steak, pasta and a salad.
We took a few pointers at the atmosphere of the place but compared to
our food, the menu was mediocre at best.
I could tell the ladies were getting annoyed when we carried on about
the food and how it could have been better and how it compared to ours. Honestly, I was chuffed with myself. This place had served presidents and Babe
Ruth and my food was better than theirs. I paid for the meal. I tipped the waitress well but when she came
to grab the bill and money I said, “Thanks for the service, you were great but
tell the chef that his food is crap.”
With that, we all got up and walked off.
I was young, arrogant and way in over my head. For all I knew, the chef was a veteran going
through a bad day. I didn’t care. We slept at the inn again
that night and drove back to New York in the morning. Tip #2 Life is an amusement
park. Boredom is essential to
creativity. If you’re never bored,
you’ll stop thinking up new ways to amuse yourself. Your body is an amusement park. Being a chef is about experimenting with
tastes and foods and how they blend together in your mouth to make you feel
good. Essential read: Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain Chapter Five We dropped the girls off and headed straight to work. Ryan dropped me off at 9 o’clock and left to
return the rental car. Although I had
slept well, my head was throbbing from all the chemicals I had pumped into my
body over the past couple of days. Half
a bottle of aspirins got me through the day and the pressure. Wednesday was a busy day at Nina’s. We were fully booked and there was a lot for
me to catch up on for the last couple of days.
I had to check the cold room for the right stock levels of meats,
vegetables and other ingredients. I had
depended on the other chefs to take care of things. This is not always a good idea. In most cases, when the executive chef has a
day or two off, his sous takes care of the running of things. This time, both I and Ryan were off so we
depended on the other guys. To my
relief, most things were on schedule.
Only one order of fruits would be late because it failed to arrive the
day before so we expected it this morning. When Ryan returned, I asked him to organize the preparation of the
kitchen. Sometimes our work life seemed
like it was a contrast of the little time we had off of work. When we were outside and having fun, Ryan was
the one showing me around and in a sense telling me what to do. In the kitchen, the roles reversed and I was
suddenly not his buddy but his boss.
This never affected either relationship.
It came naturally to switch roles and Ryan was an excellent sous and I
could count on him more than anybody else to understand what I needed, get
things done and keep things going when we were under pressure. “So, how were your days
off?” the patissier who we all called Pip asked Ryan. “It was good. The boss and I headed to Bear Mountain with
two girls.” Ryan responded. “Bear Mountain. I like that place. Did you go on any of the trails?” “What trails?” “You know. The hiking trails through the woods and
stuff.” “Sure. We did that on the first night.” “Night? There aren’t any trails at night.” “That’s what you think.” Pip was a naïve guy who’d
grown up in New Jersey and spent the past five years in New York. He had explored the city and seen more of it
than most of us. He didn’t smoke nor
drink. He argued that those things
affected his sense of taste and therefore his cooking and baking skills. He may have been right but few of us seemed
to care. I had a great team. I often felt
very lucky. The guys knew what they were
doing. I was the only one who was new. When I asked the manager why he was looking
for someone outside the team to be the executive chef, he told me he didn’t
want to cause a rift among employees and also that he felt that none of them
had the required leadership skills to run the kitchen. We closed up at one o’clock in the morning after all the cleaning up had
been complete. I thought about calling
Chris but wondered if that was such a good idea given that it was so late at
night. I walked home immediately instead
of joining some of the guys at a bar. I
felt I needed the rest. When I arrived
home, I found Bruno on the couch. He had
fallen asleep and I woke him as I entered the apartment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to
wake you”, I said. “No problem”, he said as he
sat up and stretched his arms. “Long
time no see. How’ve you been keeping?” “Good and you?” “Busy as heck. The city’s filling up again with the last
bunch of people coming back from vacations abroad. Business is good. Have you been away?” “Yes. We went to Bear Mountain for a couple of
days.” “We?” “Yes. Me, Ryan and two girls.” “Oh, I see. Well, I hope you had fun.” He said this as he got up and began walking
towards his bedroom. “We’ll talk another
time. Perhaps when I’m more awake and
it’s not so late, or early.” “Okay. Goodnight then.” “Goodnight.” I looked at the coffee table
in front of the sofa. There were empty
beer cans. Bruno had drunk a six-pack
presumably before he fell asleep. That
was unlike him. Maybe something had
upset him at work. I took a shower and got into bed.
Again, I thought about Chris and whether it would be a good idea to call
her. I decided to send her a message as
a compromise. “Hi there. It was a busy day at work so I just thought
I’d let you know I’m thinking of you. Rocco.” A couple of minutes passed
and then I heard a beep. “Actually, I’m in bed.” “That’s no fun at all.” “Yeah. It would be more fun
if we were together.” A pause and then after five
minutes she sent this. “So, shall I come
over?” I thought about this. In the whole time I’d been in New York, I’d
never invited a girl over before. It
seemed too personal. Then again, I’d also spent more time with Chris than the
average girl I’d been with. I replied. “Sure.
When would you like to come?” “How about… now?” “Am I not stealing you away
from your girlfriends.” “Yeah, but I can’t have sex
with them.” After giving her my address,
she was at my place in fifteen minutes.
I didn’t bother to get dressed and answered the door in my trunks. In a few minutes, she was naked and in my
bed. Having her there felt unusual but
comforting at the same time. When I woke
up, she was no longer next to me. I
thought she’d left but then she popped in a few minutes later. “Hey. Good morning.” She was fully dressed, cleaned up and held a
mug in her. She placed one mug on the
table next to me. “This is a real guy pad,”
she said. “There ain’t much food for
breakfast but with the help of your friend, I found this coffee.” “Thanks. You met Bruno?” “Yes, that was his
name. He seemed shocked to see me and a
bit hungover. Anyway, I’ve got to get to
work.” She sipped the last bit of her
coffee and placed the empty mug on the table next to mine. She went to grab her handbag from the other
side of the room. I asked, “So, when would you
like to meet up again? I mean, for a
date, not a hook up.” “A date?” she smiled and
winked at me. “We’re a strange pair,
doing the whole hotel and time away thing before we’ve even been on a proper
date. Let me think about it.” She looked down at her watch and began to
rush a bit. I got a peck on my lips
before she left. “Bye” “Goodbye Christine.” I smiled at her because I knew the use of her
full name would amuse her slightly. After I heard the front door
shut, I turned to look at the time on my clock on the side of the bed which
Chris had slept on. It was 06:30. It was no use trying to squeeze in thirty
minutes of sleep. I got up and started
to get ready. # Three days past and I hadn’t heard anything from her so I decided to
call her one afternoon at work. “Look. I’m sorry.
Things come up. There’s been an issue
back home and I have to go help out. She
sounded stressed and frantic.” “Is there any way I can
help?” I asked. “No. There’s nothing. Thanks.” “Okay. Will you let me know when you’re back?” There was a slight pause. “Sure,” she answered. After the conversation, I
felt upset. A part of me was genuinely
worried about her and what she might have been going through but I felt hurt by
her pushing me away. She didn’t even bother
to tell me what the issue was. Ryan
could tell I was upset when I walked back into the kitchen from the locker
room. “Hey, what’s up?” “Ah, it’s nothing.” “Girl trouble? It’s Chris isn’t it?” “It doesn’t matter. They come and they go. The chick’s a wild cat.” “Well, I’m sure you’d know,”
he mocked. Then more seriously; “There’s
other fish in the sea.” “Besides, I wouldn’t worry
about her. Myra told me she never gets
too serious. She likes to fool around
and have fun, that’s all. Isn’t it what
we all want?” “I guess. How are you and Myra anyway?” “Ah, that flame fizzled out. It just gets a bit boring after a while if
you don’t really connect with someone.” “That’s surprising. I thought you really liked her.” “Of course I liked her but
you can’t plan these things. They just
happen. That’s the way of this jungle we
call New York City.” I smiled at him and carried
on working. # Work carried on as usual but
I didn’t manage to get Chris out of my head.
I didn’t hear from her for another week until, surprisingly, Myra called
me one afternoon. “Hey. Rocco?” “Yes.” “Myra here. I was wondering if you could help me. Is Ryan with you?” My first thoughts were that
Myra was crazy and wanted me to help her in some elaborate plan to get Ryan
back or stalk him. “No, Ryan’s not here. What do you need help with?” “I was at Ryan’s place last
night and left my access card for work there.
I keep calling but his phone is off.
The battery is probably flat or something.” “Oh. I thought you two weren’t seeing each other
anymore.” “We weren’t. Just saw each other last night.” “How’d you get my
number? From Chris?” “Well, sort of. Chris is out.
She used my phone to call you the other day so I have your number
saved.” “Chris didn’t call me. I haven’t spoken to her in over a week.” “Look, she said she was
calling you. That’s why your number’s on
my list. Maybe she changed her
mind. I’ve got to get to work. Can you help me?” “Sure. I can get an hour off work. I’ve got Ryan’s spare key.” I grabbed my set of keys. Ryan’s spare key was one of them which I kept
in case he got drunk and lost his keys.
It happened once and we struggled trying to break him into his own
apartment until his roommate finally pitched up. I met Myra outside Ryan’s apartment building. “Why’s an access card so
important? I thought you hotel girls
could get away with anything at work.” “No, not all of us.” “Just Chris,” she
sneered. I’m sorry I had to bother
you. My shift starts at two and I
couldn’t find my card anywhere. I’m sure
it’s here.” “Have you tried buzzing?” “Yes, I did that before you
came. He’s probably not here.” When we got to Ryan’s
apartment door, I knocked and called for him.
There was no answer so I unlocked it.
Myra went in first and hurried over to Ryan’s bedroom door. I followed behind her. She opened the door. “What the f**k?” she yelled. I came in second through the
door and saw Ryan with Chris on top of the bed.
They were both naked and shocked.
We didn’t have to ask any questions about what was happening there. Myra was upset but clearly
didn’t care enough about Ryan to make a big scene out of it. “You are disgusting, Ryan.” “What the hell are you doing
here?” he asked. “Myra forgot her access card
last night. I let her in,” I said. I looked only at him. I couldn’t bring myself to look into Chris’
eyes. Myra foraged around a bit
and then held up a white card which she found just under the bed. “Well, thanks Rocco. Thank you Ryan.” She scanned everyone’s faces and rushed out
the apartment as quickly as she had come in.
I was still stunned. “Look, Rocco…” Chris started. “I’m not interested.” I looked in her eyes, seeking some type of
remorse and an attempt at clarification.
I found none and words would not help me. I turned around and left. # After the shock faded, anger
set in. That f*****g a*****e! Maybe she didn’t care, to her I could have
been just another ride. She was aloof,
unpredictable. But, Ryan knew how I felt
about her. He knew that over the past
few weeks, if I was upset at work, it was because of her and if I was grinning
ear to ear it was also because of her.
Until now, the guy was the only person I truly trusted in New York. Now, he was the person I trusted the
least. When I got back to work, I put my
coat on in the locker room. I then took
Ryan’s key off of my set and chucked it into his locker. They call it Murphy ’s Law. I
don’t know what it is but it always seems to happen that when one thing goes
wrong, it is followed by a series of unpleasant situations. The rest of the day was like that after this
turn. Waitresses got orders wrong. One of the idiot chefs got a hair in the soup
which was then returned by a disgusted customer and stock which was due to
arrive in the morning did not arrive, leaving gaps in the menu of what people
could order. The kitchen, a reflection
of my emotions, was a mess. I spent it
shouting and yelling at people and cussing more than usual. When it was over, we were
all glad. At eleven o’clock when we left
that night, nobody cared to invite me to the bar for drinks. It would not have been odd to go along anyway
but I did not want their company. Word
would spread and soon enough everybody would know about what happened. Having Ryan back tomorrow would be difficult. I got home to find Bruno on the couch again watching TV. This time, there were no beers in front of
him. “Well, hello again. You’re in earlier than usual.” “Hi. I could say the same to you.” “I’m just taking a break
from things.” I didn’t really feel like
talking so I walked straight to the kitchen hoping to find something to drink
there. I opened the fridge. It was pretty much empty besides some milk
and ketchup. “F**k!” I slammed the fridge door shut. “Hold it dude, is there
anything you need?” “Yeah, there seems to be
nothing to drink around her.” “That’s my fault.” He smiled.
“Sorry, can I buy you a beer.” “No. I don’t feel like going out.” “Come on. You look like you could use a drink.” We headed over to a nearby
bar on the other side of our block downstairs.
I eased up a little and began to tell him about what had happened. “That’s rough man. Sorry to hear it.” He seemed genuinely compassionate. This was the first time I’d spoken to Bruno
by himself, besides a few run-ins we’d had at the apartment and he didn’t seem
too bad at all. “Women ain’t easy,” he
continued. “We’re talking about that
pretty girl I met at our place the other morning, right?” “That’s it.” “Well, a chick like that can
get any guy to wanna lift her skirt. No
offense. Your friend, Ryan should have
known better than to mess with a girl you have the hots for.” “My thoughts exactly.” “She is also to blame
though. Wouldn’t trust her either.” “I don’t. She’s a
b***h. I told her I liked her.” “Don’t get too hung up on
it. You’re still working with the guy,
aren’t you?” “Yes, unfortunately.” “Yeah, Nina’s isn’t an easy
place to get into. Don’t cause too much
trouble. It can give you a bad rep.” “I know. F**k, I know.
Just don’t know how I’ll face him without feeling the urge to knock him
out.” “Then knock him out. It will be fun. Just don’t do it at work. Maybe take a day off.” “I’m the executive chef!” “Screwed over by your
sous. Life’s funny,” he snickered. “You’re right, just keep it cool.” “Ah. Women!
They can cause a lot of trouble in your head, man. I dealt with that too recently.” “That explains why you’re around
so much nowadays.” “I just thought I’d like to
get away from things from a while. This
ain’t an easy business. It’s easy to get
messed up with the wrong crowds, drugs and s**t.” “Some people are just having
fun.” “Fun can get out of
hand. Anyway, how’d you become close
with Ryan anyway?” “We went to culinary school
together and we’ve been friends since.
He landed me this job and he’s shown me around New York.” “The sous got you the job?” “That’s right.” “That’s interesting
considering it’s usually the sous who gets the job when positions like that
open up and no offence but maybe that’s not the kinda guy you want to show you
around anyhow.” “Why’d you say that? Because of the girl?” “Not just that. I hung out with the guy a few times and
stopped. There’s just something off
about him. The last time I spoke to him
was when he asked around about finding you a place to stay.” “If you don’t like Ryan,
why’d you agree to have me stay with you.” “I didn’t have any problem
with you when I met you. You seemed like
an okay guy.” “Thanks.” I thought about what he’d
said for a bit. “Maybe they didn’t trust him
enough to run their kitchen”, I said. “That’s probably it,” he
remarked. I had lost his
attention. He was winking at and
flirting with a girl at the other end of the bar. A few minutes later he went over to speak to
her and she handed him a card, presumably with her number on it. He was smooth and suave in the way he dealt with
it. He looked friendly and smart. When he spoke to the girl, she smiled and
seemed to adhere to his every request. I
noticed that Bruno was a good-looking guy.
His blonde hair and blue eyes were a sort of contrast to his name. He looked like a resurrected version of James
Dean instead of a dark, Eastern European man for which the name was
common. We didn’t spend too much time in
the bar and left shortly after midnight. When I got home, I noticed that Chris called and left a voice
message. I’d kept my phone on silent so
as to ignore calls from her and Ryan. I
listened to the message. “Hi Rocco. Look, I’m sorry but you knew there was
nothing serious happening between the two of us. As for your friend, he happened to run into
me when I needed comfort. Sorry
again. No hard feelings.” No hard feelings? Ryan was comforting? It would have been better had she not called
at all. I went to bed and counted down
the hours until the next morning when I’d have to face Ryan. I couldn’t sleep. # I got to work that morning at Ryan was already there. I’d received no calls or messages from him so
I assumed he’d try to talk to me at work.
I ignored him and brushed him off at every attempt. The kitchen was tense and everybody at the
restaurant sensed that there was something going on. I tried hard not to face him
or speak to him about anything outside of work. Later that morning, I went outside for a smoke. Ryan followed me outside. “Look man, I’m sorry.” “F**k off!” “She couldn’t have meant
much to you anyway. She’s just another
girl.” I just looked at him and
carried on smoking my cigarette. “I bumped into her. She said her father had died or
something. Some sob story. I took her to the bar to cheer her up and
when we got tipsy, one thing led to another.
In my opinion, if a girl is that quick to jump into bed with a guy, she
just wants sex. She couldn’t have
respected you much anyway.” “What about Myra?” “What about her? Yes, we spent the night before together but
we both knew what it was about. She couldn’t
have been hurt. We were over. We’re still over.” “What about me? You knew I liked her?” “What did you want me to
do? Call you up and ask for permission?”
he sneered. “Look, you may be the boss
around here but you don’t have any say over who I get to sleep with or not.” “I thought we were friends.” “Yes, what’s that got to do
with it?” “What kind of friend are you
then!” “The kind to get you this
job. The kind who’s got your back.” “But not the kind to stay
away from the girls I’m dating.” “Dating? You fucked her a few times. I’m sure if you were dating she’d have known
about it. Look, you’re reading too much
into this. Just move on and forget about
her. I have.” “You’ve forgotten her
already.” “Well, who could really
forget that a*s, right?” I was furious. I just looked at him, flicked my burning
cigarette onto his chest and walked back into the restaurant. He followed me and started
pleading from behind. “Come on. You can’t be this upset over something like
this.” “She was mine. I wanted her.
You knew this and you went and fucked her anyway.” “I’m sorry I didn’t consider
your juvenile affections for a girl who doesn’t give a s**t about you before I
decided to have a bit of fun.” “Oh f**k off!” “What the hell is the matter
with you?” “Ryan, check if Pip needs
help with any of the stock.” He looked at me and
snickered, then answered condescendingly, “Yes boss.” I blew a fuse and impulse
took over. I turned around and punched
him straight into his jaw. He fell and slipped on the
cold tiled floor before looking up with a thousand yard stare. He lay there like a dead fish. No, he looked more like a rat. Everybody in the kitchen had
paused to look at the scene now. Then came a slow applause. I realized then that Ryan wasn’t the most popular
guy around and news had probably spread about what had happened. “You’re a f*****g idiot,” he
gasped. At this point, I already
knew I was in s**t. Everybody saw me
punch him. So, I thought I’d have
another whack at him. I know they teach
you never to hit a man when he’s down but I felt he deserved it so as he got
up, I went for his nose. He fell
backwards and covered it with his hands.
Mario, the restaurant owner, an older man with grey hair and a powerful
presence about him came in. I don’t know
if he heard the ruckus or somebody went to call him. “What the hell is going on
in my kitchen?” he demanded. I knew
things had gotten out of hand. I was
called to the manager’s office. Mario wasn’t around often
but due to a stroke of bad luck, he was there on this day. The manager was sick for the day so he
thought he’d step in and check in on how his restaurant was being run. What he found appalled him. He interviewed other staff members while Ryan
and I waited. Ryan stood at a wall
opposite me. I was amused by the redness
of his nose, proving that it had bled and his bruised chin. He barely looked at me, anticipating what
Mario would do and suppressing the anger and frustration he likely felt towards
me. When Ryan came out of the
office his demeanor had completely changed.
He had this devilish look on his face.
I knew he hadn’t lost his job. I walked in last. “Rocco, when you were hired,
I had my reservations. You’re young, new
to the city, fairly new to the business.
I thought it was a disaster waiting to happen. Then I was proved wrong by your record and
your performance. You did well, but
you’re still new around here and I won’t settle for this crap. Fighting with a staff member at work over a
girl? Come on, grow up boy. But, my business is not going to suffer while
you grow out of adolescence. Get the f**k out of my restaurant.” All I could
say was, “If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. He deserved it.” I know I was arrogant and hard-headed. It felt better than bowing my head in shame
which would have been embarrassing and I’d have denied that I did in fact enjoy
that one moment of aggressive release. I left the place in a rage. I
must have looked like a crazy psychopath walking the streets, cussing and
punching my fists together. I realized
I’d walked straight out with my chef’s coat on and without collecting the stuff
in my locker. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to face any of them. Not now.
I’d do it tomorrow when I’d calmed down a little. The next day, I went in to collect my things. I’d sobered up from a night of drinking alone
at bars before I eventually got home to pass out on my bed. I thought that maybe I could beg for my job
back. Maybe Mario had calmed down a bit
and was ready to reason with me. When I arrived, everyone starred at me.
Some of the looks were sympathetic; others were awkward and made me feel
out of place. All this time, I felt like
Ryan had wronged me but the atmosphere of the place and Mario’s decision made
me feel as if I was the one at fault. I
was the one who had been given the boot.
I felt insane. I consoled myself
by thinking that maybe it wasn’t a big deal and I was fussing over
nothing. I went over to the locker
room. My locker was already empty. “They did that for you
earlier this morning. I think you’ll
find a box in the office,” Pip told me.
He looked away as if he was ashamed to talk to me and turn away soon
after he spoke. I went over to the office
and knocked on the door. I heard Mario’s
voice inside. “Come in.” When I opened the door, he
said nothing and just looked at me in disgust. “I’ve come to collect…” “I know why you’ve
come. Shut the door behind you.” I closed the door. “You idiot! As if getting into a fight wasn’t
enough! I don’t care what you do in your
private time but bringing that to work is crossing the line.” “I don’t understand. I thought we went through this yesterday.” “Yes, the fight. I had no idea then that you were bringing
your f*****g drugs to work as well.” They’d emptied my locker. I knew what he was talking about. My jacket was still there with the cocaine
Chris had given me a few weeks back after the first night we spent together. I forgot to get rid of it. He walked over to a brown
box, which was at the end of his desk, grabbed the packet of coke piled on top
and tossed it at me. I snatched it as it
hit my chest. I thought it best to just
grab the box and leave. Anything I would
have said or done would have only made things worse. After the fight, nobody would believe the coke
wasn’t mine and it was my fault for forgetting about it. I took my things and headed to the apartment. I was out of a job. I had been betrayed by my closest friend and
I’d lost a girl which I felt I was beginning to connect with. At that point I looked at New York as an
empty shell. I was alone in this jungle
and now I had to fend for myself. I
didn’t know what I’d do but I had to make a plan soon. I stayed in my bedroom that
night so as to avoid Bruno who had warned me about what could happen and urged
me to keep calm. I was ashamed by my
behavior. Yes, I had a right to be upset
but my feelings shouldn’t have lead to rash actions and harsh consequences. Ryan, the b*****d. Maybe Bruno was right about him. Maybe he was loving this. He’d lost nothing. He still had his job and could carry on his
life as he pleased. It was ironic, I
thought. The same guy who had got me the
job also got me fired from it. What
would I do now? Hopefully Murphy had let
his guard down and I would be back on my feet in no time. Chapter Six I used arrogance to hide my
insecurity in the beginning. Although I
had only worked at Nina’s in my whole time in New York, I wanted to feel
confident that other top class restaurants would hire me based on that and my
previous experience. The problem was
that I didn’t know many people in New York.
Thus far, my main window into the city was Ryan and that was gone now. Suddenly, New York became a foreigner to
me. It felt like a concrete desert and
for the first time, I became aware of my loneliness. Aside from feeling alone, I had little hope
of landing a decent job without any contacts.
All my contacts were related to Nina’s and the fight wasn’t something I
wanted on my resume. I spend my days
browsing job ads in Newspapers and online.
I stayed away from the apartment, trying to avoid running into Bruno and
having to tell him about what had happened.
I sent my resume out every job opening I could find and waited. My nights were spent in sports bars, drinking and pretending to
be interested in football. I wasn’t
interested in interacting with anyone.
My objective was just to lay low until I found a job and rid myself of the
embarrassment of being fired from Nina’s.
A week after I left Nina’s, I ran into Bruno at the apartment. “Hey man,” he greeted. “Hi. How you doing?” “Good, but shouldn’t I be
asking you? What you been up to? Looking for a job?” “Oh, how’d you find
out?” All this time I’d been trying to
avoid the guy and he knew all along. “Everybody in the restaurant
business knows.” “Yeah. What are they saying?” “That you were high and
punched Ryan in the face because he slept with a girl you liked, which got
Mario to fire you.” “News travels fast. I wasn’t high though.” “Well, I didn’t know which
parts of the story were true, but I do know you lost your job. Want a beer?” “Sure.” Bruno walked over to the
fridge, grabbed two beers and opened them while I made myself comfortable on
the sofa. “So, did you punch him in
the face?” he asked. Bruno sat down next
to me and handed me one of the beers. “Yes, thanks.” “Did it feel good?” “Yes.” He smiled. “Was it worth it?” “Probably not.” “Well, it happens to the
best of us.” “He provoked me. I probably wouldn’t have done anything had he
not started talking to me and tying to make it seem like it wasn’t a big
deal. The rumours going around about me
being high probably had something to do with the coke they found in my locker.” “Were you snorting coke at
work?” “No. I’m not that careless but I was stupid for
leaving the coke in my locker. The girl
I told you about gave me a bag when I first met her. I left it in my jacket pocket in the locker
and completely forgot about it.” “That’s some hard luck. This girl’s caused quite a bit of a stir in your
life.” “She has. I’ve learned my lesson.” “I hope so. For your sake.” “I have. Tell me, how hard are these rumours going to
make it for me to get a new job?” “I don’t know. People forget these things after some
time. You just gotta keep trying.” “Thanks. I’ll do that.” “You’re welcome. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.” “Well, there is. You got any opening’s at your place?” “Ah! Unfortunately that’s one thing I can’t help
you with right now. We haven’t got any
openings.” “Oh! You’ll let me know if there are any, won’t
you?” “Look. No offence but I’m a
bit too close to Nina’s. When all of
this blows over, we can talk about it again.
Okay?” “Sure, thanks,” I said. “Hey, cheer up, man. It’ll blow over.” “Thanks. I think I’m heading over to bed.” “Okay. See ya then.” That was the first time my
bubble burst and I was aware of the situation I was in. Every decent restaurant in New York knew
about what happened at Nina’s. Soon my
savings would run out and then I’d be screwed without money to pay the rent and
my other expenses. I knew I needed to
act fast. I thought about Chris
again. She had caused a whole lot of
needless hassle in my life and there was nothing I could do about it now
besides forget about her. A couple more weeks passed and I was still jobless. None of the restaurants I applied for a job
at had returned my calls or responded to my applications. Money was running out and the frustration was
setting in. I started wondering if maybe
I should leave the States and head back home.
It would be a shameful escape.
Maybe people at home didn’t know what had happened. I could just go back to the type of life I
had had. Nevertheless, my courage
prevailed. I didn’t want to give up and
go back home as a failure. I came to New
York for an adventure. This was just a
setback. One Wednesday morning, I lay awake in bed until late. At about 11 o’clock, there was a knock on the
door. It was Bruno. Today was his day off which is why he was
home. “Good morning sunshine. How’s the job search going?” He greeted me optimistically.” “Hi. No luck.
I don’t know what to do. You may
have to search for a new roommate soon.” “Look, I know it’s hard but
you’re probably just going to have to settle.” “Settle for what?” “Less than you’re used to
until you’re up on your feet again.” I didn’t want to
settle. That was not a part of the plan. “Like working at a fish ‘n
chips joint,” I sneered. “It doesn’t have to be that
bad. Just keep going. Lying in here all day won’t get you
anywhere.” I felt upset. Who the hell was this guy trying to lecture
me about what I should do? “No offense but it’s none of
your business. I actually haven’t been
lying here all day. I’m trying my best.” “I’m just trying to
help. You don’t need to get defensive
about it. I have a proposition for you.” I thought he’d offer me a
job. “Yes, what’s that.” “I’ll cover your half of the
rent and bills this month. Call it a
loan. It will buy you a bit of
time. Your job is to well, get a job in
the meantime so you can pay me back.” “Thanks. I appreciate that. But, can I ask you why you’re even bothering
about it?” “You don’t seem like a bad
guy to me. You’re just down on your
luck. If I can help you, why not?” “Thanks again. I really do appreciate it and I will pay you
back.” “Don’t worry about it. Just keep going.” “I guess that means getting
out of bed then.” “For a start. It would be helpful.” He winked, walked out the
door and shut it behind him. I got out of bed, took a
shower and decided to swallow my pride and find whatever job I could get. It wouldn’t be for long, just until people
forgot about the fight at Nina’s, then the good restaurants would consider
hiring me again. I had a cup of coffee then
began browsing the online classifieds on my laptop in the kitchen. I applied for every restaurant job I could
find, even the ones I had passed up before because I felt they were beneath
me. I replied to any advert which seemed
a little better than flipping hamburgers at McDonald’s. I felt low but not that low. Afterwards, I headed
downstairs to grab a newspaper so that I could search the classifieds in there
too. I passed a bakery and decided to
grab a box of pastries for Bruno and me.
It was way past breakfast but it was a gesture just to say thanks. I sat back at the kitchen
and started circling relevant classified ads.
Before the day was through, I got my first callback. It was the manager of a small pizza and pasta
place. I can’t say I was excited but it
was better than nothing. The place was
in Brooklyn and I’d go for the interview in the morning. Papa Mia �" the name of the
place was somewhat promising but when I arrived even that glimmer of hope was
shattered. Upon entering, I noticed the
plastic tables and chairs and got an idea of the place’s clientele. The restaurant was situated near to a local
school so the kids would stop by to buy pizza slices and servings of lasagna or
pasta in small polystyrene containers.
When I arrived, I asked to see the manager. I was greeted by a man in
his sixties who owned the restaurant and had run the business for over two
decades. He was thin and bald and his
hands testified to years of hard labour and scarring. “It would seem silly to
interview you. In fact, you’re
overqualified. We just need a simple
cook. Our main business is take-away
servings for the workers and kids around here, not a classy clientele like you
would have had at Nina’s.” “That’s okay. I need the work.” “You must need it to come
around here. I’ll take you but I can’t
pay you nearly what you would have earned before.” “I know. I’ll accept what you can give.” “And please, no
trouble. We may run a modest business
but it’s a good one. No scaring away
customers or you’re out of here.” I wondered if he’d also
heard about the fight but decided it was better not to ask. “I understand. There will be no trouble.” “Okay, can you start
tomorrow then?” “Can do.” “Good. See you then Mister Rocco.” The next morning I started off with Darius, who was the manager
and owner showing my around. “I don’t need to show you
how to make pizza, pasta and lasagna, do I Mister Rocco?” “No. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” “And pancakes. People love pancakes.” “No problem.” There was a man sitting in
the restaurant, reading a newspaper at one of the tables. He laughed under his breath whenever Darius
would explain something to me. His
familiarity with the place gave me the idea that he was either a regular or a
family member. “You can get changed her.” There was one locker in one
of the store rooms. Inside it there was
a white chef’s coat with faded tomato stains on the one sleeve. It was the type of gear purchased at a shop
with no names or labels printed on it. “Thank you.” “Any questions?” “No, I’ll ask if anything
pops up.” I was the only cook in the
kitchen. My job was to produce enough
pizza and pasta to last the day, as well as clean up and keep the kitchen
tidy. The only thing which was made to
order was the pancakes. There was also a
selection of packaged sweets, deserts, chips and canned drinks which the place
sold. There was a culture of fast food
and using as much as possible. Unlike at
Nina’s where we threw out the day’s remains, Papa Mia’s would simply store food
which wasn’t sold in the freezer overnight and reheat it for sale in the
morning. There was one guy behind the
counter who handled sales for most of the day.
Two waitresses also served the place.
There was a window between the kitchen and the rest of the restaurant so
I could hear what was happening around me throughout the day even though I
wasn’t really a part of it. The two
women would chat when the place wasn’t busy.
The one lady, Thelma had two kids.
Her husband had died the year before and she was desperately trying to
make it while working two jobs. The
other woman, Magdalena was an Eastern European immigrant. She had come to the states from Bosnia in
search of something better. Her country
had been at peace for nearly two decades but was still recovering. People from poorer countries still believed that
the grass was greener on the other side.
For some of them, it was and they got good jobs and prospered. Others opened businesses and also made it but
many of them realized that being an immigrant is difficult and often
depressing. When I first arrived in New
York, I didn’t feel like an immigrant.
It was exciting. I felt more like
a working tourist. Only now did I
realize I was an outcast. And not only
was I an outsider but I was one who took drugs and started fights in a
well-known New York restaurant. Every day at Papa Mia’s felt the same. I made the same amount of food which would be
sold to the school kids and the guys working at the nearby post office. Food which was not sold two days in a row was
given to staff so I was on a diet of lasagnas, pizza and pasta. After fulfilling the day’s quota and cleaning
up, I’d sit around waiting for Darius to tell me what to do or for someone to
order pancakes. The more I sat, the more
depressing it became. Kids would flood
in during breaks and after school to buy some junk food for lunch. Our busiest time was around lunch time. It was mostly quiet the rest of the day. On weekends, people walking through the
cities and workers came by for food and takeaways. Weekends were rarely busy unless there was an
event happening nearby but the flow of customers was more continuous and we had
work to do throughout the day. “Mister Rocco, why do you
sit there alone when you see we are not busy?
Come, join us for a coffee,” Darius offered. It was two weeks since I
started and I’d spent every day alone in the kitchen. “Thanks,” I said. I sat down and Magdalena brought a tray full
of coffee cups for all of us. “I’m sure this is very
different from Nina’s but how are you liking it?” “It’s okay,” I responded. “Ah! Don’t worry, you’ll lighten up. We’re a small family but a happy one
nonetheless. “Nina’s? That’s that place in Manhattan, right?” The man who took the orders, John, asked. “Yes.” “Classy joint. Why’d you leave?” “Got fired.” “Sorry about that. You must be a good cook to have worked in a
place like that.” “I’m okay.” “Boss, maybe he can help us
add more things to the menu. It will
make us compete better with the other guys around here. The kids would like something fun.” “Hmm… Got any ideas Mister
Rocco?” Darius asked. “I don’t know. You could add a few pastries to the menu and
vary the pastas a bit.” “It mustn’t be too
expensive. We don’t want food to go to
waste.” “I’ll think about it a bit.” “Not that your food goes to
waste Mister Rocco. It’s good. The kids love it. Actually, let’s have some now. Thelma, heat us up some lasagna. After that, Nutella pancakes, what do you
say?” There was a joint
“mmm”. Everybody seemed pleased but
me. I felt that every time Darius said
“Mister Rocco” he was mocking me. He was
friendly but it was almost like he made fun of me for being a good chef stuck
in a place like his. We had the food and pancakes
before the after school rush. People
talked but I paid little attention to them. That night, I took the subway and walked the last few blocks
home. I looked around. New York is like a coin. When your head’s up and things are going good
it is warm, shiny and beautiful. When
you’re at the tail end of things, it becomes cold and dull like faded copper. I
felt like a shadow of myself. I wanted
to go out and prove myself again but I didn’t know how to go about it. I got in the apartment and slumped on the bed
wondering how I could make myself feel better and then I remembered
something. After that last confrontation
with Mario at Nina’s I dumped my box of things in the cupboard and placed the
bag of coke in the bedside drawer. I
don’t know why I didn’t flush it down the toilet for all the trouble it caused. I opened the draw and slid my hand into the
back. The packet was still there. What
the heck? I thought. What else did I
have? I took out my wallet and grabbed a
credit card and a dollar bill. I tried
to remember how Chris had done it but I was probably pretty clumsy that first
time. Eventually, I had a neat enough
line so I rolled up the note and snorted it up.
I sniffed a bit, looked in the mirror and wiped off the powder from my
face. It was time to go out. Chapter Seven One of the main reasons narcotics remain popular is their effect on how
the users feel about themselves. I never
cared much for drugs in the past. Sure,
I would get high if the occasion called for it but I was content with my life
and confident about myself. That first
snort in solitude marked a turn in my life and I began using drugs to feel
good. The thing about coke is it has a
way of making you feel like a million bucks even if you don’t have a single
dollar in your wallet. Instead of being
ashamed which may have lead me to introspection and perhaps better actions, I
got high. I got high and it felt good. I went over to a downstairs Irish pub called Dublin. Before I’d finished a beer, I met a girl at
the pub, we spoke and I referred to myself as a five star chef from
abroad. After finishing my beer and
proving myself to be interesting enough to hang around with, I tagged along
with her and two of her friends and we ended up at a club together. That’s something else coke does to you, it
makes you sociable and interesting in situations in which you otherwise might
not have been. The girls weren’t too
interesting but hanging out with them beat being alone and it didn’t hurt my
ego at all to go club hopping with three hot, although potentially brainless,
girls. All I remember is the chatter and
giggles amongst vodka and tequila shots, martinis and colourful cocktails. I didn’t recognize anybody at the club. I wanted somebody to spot me and see how much
fun I was having. Nobody did but I
carried on having fun. The girls turned
out to know a local drug dealer named Steve.
He came over to the table at one point and held each arm over the
shoulder of a girl. “So, what can I do for you
tonight ladies?” he asked. He was
smooth, dressed all in black with his dark hair combed and gelled
backwards. I had seen him before. He was probably scoring fixes for Ryan and
his group too. He smiled and liaised
with us a while until he slipped his hand onto the legs of one of the girls, probably
placing a bag of some illegal substance on her lap. I saw him whisper the words “you owe me” to
her afterwards. Up until now, he had
pretty much ignored me, then he looked across and asked, “And what can I do for
you mate?” “Nothing thanks.” I replied.
I wondered why he’d even asked but the answer was obvious. I looked drunk and high with my pupils
dilated. I was a newbie who had been
bumming drugs off of friends at this point and because I was “making new
friends” it must have been obvious that I was no longer hanging out with the
old ones. He knew I must have been down
and out and that I could easily turn into one of his desperate clients. It was his job to recognize and fish out
people like me. That’s how he made
money. Steve smiled, looked at me and grabbed something out of his
inner jacket pocket and placed a calling card on the table. “At your service. Just call.”
He winked and left our table. The
card was simple. It just had the name
Steve with a number below it printed in a simple black font on white
cardboard. I grabbed it and placed it in
my pocket. “Steve hooks us up with the
good stuff,” one of the girls said. “You
want one?” She discreetly gestured
towards a packet of pills which was squeezed in her hand. She opened her fist long enough for me to
see. “What is it? I asked. “Acid.” “Sure.” She looked at me and
giggled. She fumbled with the packet
under the table and passed it on. When
it arrived in my hands, there was one pill left. Steve had given her just enough. I grabbed the pill out and let the clear bag
fall to the floor after which I swallowed the pill down with a gulp of
whiskey. Music raved in the background and we hit the dance floor. . It
wasn’t anything I recognized, just a dj mixing tunes, but anything is good when
you’re intoxicated. We danced. We didn’t care what we looked like or what
anybody thought of us. Club life can be
eccentric �" a bunch of sweaty bodies collapsing all over each other, near each
other and going mad. What have you got
to lose? It’s just you and the
music. The LSD kicked in making the
music louder, the lights brighter and more colourful and the whole scene became
more psychedelic and enjoyable. I saw
people’s mouths move and warp, not hearing what they were talking about and
failing to notice when I was being referred to.
I saw a couple who looked like Ryan and Chris but as I moved closer to
them, they turned into two people I didn’t know. Emotions came up and thoughts rushed through
my head. Nothing was clear but it made
more sense than before. The feeling was
enough to make me question why I’d ever been sober. At some stage later during the night, one of
the girls pulled me out the club and we ended up in an alleyway, kissing and
fondling. We would have probably had sex
in that alley had some guy not come around from the club to start throwing up
against the wall a few feet away from us.
The smell of puke is never pleasant, especially when you’ve taken a
psychedelic drug which heightens your senses.
We rushed passed him and onto the street. In a few minutes, her friends caught up with us. “Did I give you my number?”
she asked. “I don’t think so.” “Here.” She took out a pen and scribbled on the back
of a receipt she fished out of her handbag.
The girls then ran off giggling and looking stupid. For the first time in weeks, New York looked
beautiful again in my eyes. I was
euphoric and I thought I was happy. I
was confident and careless. It must have
lasted a few blocks until I looked around and realized I was lost. I thought it would be wiser to catch a cab
than to try and find my own way home. I
looked into my wallet and realized that I’d already spent almost half of what
Darius paid me in a week in one night. I
didn’t care. To me, it was worth it at
the time. But I did realize that I
couldn’t take a cab home. Although it
was a s****y job, I needed it and I needed to get to it. Walking through the streets of New York, I
began to think about my life. I thought
about it in the same manner that most inebriated souls do. That is, it’s all good as long as everyday is
like this one. An acid high lasts much
longer than a coke high so after wandering around until I found my way home, I
spent the rest of the morning thinking up new recipes and ways to improve Papa
Mia’s. Perhaps I could make the best of
the situation and leave the place better than it was when I got there. After a brief attempt at sleep, it was time
to get up and go to work. I went through
the usual routine with the slight euphoria of the psychedelics. Although ordinary, I saw things in a
different, more luminous light. Perhaps
that was the “spiritual” effect some people rave about when describing their
trip on these drugs. When I got to work,
I began things speedily and with more zeal than usual but as my high began to
fade away so did this new outlook. The
rosy fog disappeared and reality set in again.
I was still broke and in the same s****y situation. This is the first time I wanted to get high
immediately after the first high. You
get addicted to feeling like you’ve been transported to a parallel universe where
things are suddenly better �" you’re better, the outlook is better and so is
everything else. It wasn’t better. I was depressed but rather than admit that
and let the black hole of depression to swallow me whole, I chose to lie to
myself and to my body. In a sick twist of events, Darius had a stroke a few weeks
later. It wasn’t fatal and he’d recover
but he would no longer be able to manage the restaurant and shop. For a while, we went on as usual. John knew his way around the place as he had
worked there for years but we all knew the inevitable truth. One day, one of Darius’ kids (I had become
acquainted with all three kids while he was ill and they came to check up on
us), his eldest daughter came around and summoned us all to an impromptu meeting. She explained that none of them wanted to
continue the business and that it would be healthier for her father to
retire. The building and all the assets
of the restaurant would be placed on the market for sale. We were retrenched. After that week, my co-workers became part of
the hazy New York crowd of acquaintances who faded into my memory. Once again I was jobless and in desperate need of an income to
support my growing coke and other drug addictions. I did give Steve a call. He knew who I was on the phone two days after
he’d given me his card. He was
smooth. We didn’t meet in dodgy
alleyways as is sometimes depicted in movies but in public �" bars, clubs, pubs,
restaurants, cafes. That was the way he
operated and I played along. It was likely
also a tactic to real me in and get me hooked after which he’d begin to provide
useful services like credit allowances and begin bargaining with me about which
fixes he’d provide and for how much.
Strangely enough, the more addicted you become to drugs, the more the
price is inflated exponentially. That’s
when you really start to feel a sting in your pocket or for those less
fortunate, a lost limb, loved one or your own life. I didn’t get to that point, luckily. I was snorting stuff, injecting stuff and
taking pills to feel good and on top of the world when I really wasn’t. A few days passed before I landed another lousy job. I was walking around at night when I noticed
a “Cook Needed, Enquire Inside” sign outside a local diner. I returned to the place the next
morning. The owner didn’t have much to
ask. He didn’t care for my resume and
previous experience. I guess there isn’t
much experience involved in making hot dogs, flipping burgers and putting
together a standard English breakfast.
He asked me to show him I could make an omelette and I was in. It was a dead end �" long hours, no days off
and lousy pay. Nevertheless, the little
money I got could afford my rent, some necessities and my drug habit. Luckily for me, meals were covered by the daily
gruel. So I’d work all day and part of
the night, coke would get me through and then I’d spend the rest of the night
and morning club hopping, meeting girls, sleeping around and fooling around in
general. I hung out with Bruno a few
times who proved himself to be a good friend as well as someone who genuinely
wanted to help me out. Unfortunately,
when you hit rock bottom, the truth hurts and you tend to push people
away. One night we went out for beers
and he tried to warn me about the path I was headed down. “You can’t carry on like
this man?” “Like what?” I asked
defensively. “It’s all good to have a
little fun but I think you’re taking it too far. You need to slow down and focus a bit.” “Again, you’re lecturing
me. What gives you the right…” “It’s okay. Don’t bother about it. I’m just observing. You do what you have to.” After that night I avoided
the guy for some time. I didn’t like
what he was saying and I owed him two months’ worth of rent money and some cash
he’d paid for drinks and going out on a few occasions. Life was monotonous. In
retrospect, without the drugs it might have been harder to bear. There’s that silver lining. Food had once been something I was proud
of. It was about preparation,
presentation and enjoyment. It had now
become plates of quickly prepared, quickly served and eaten means of sustenance
with the food just arranged together haphazardly without any particular
intent. Food was survival. Cooking became my way to make a living, score
drugs and simply keep on going. It
wasn’t much of an art. Cleaning and
doing menial tasks wasn’t much of a profession.
I was alone among the vultures and none of them cared for anything other
than their usual order of the day. I
didn’t even have a coat but simply worked in an old T-shirt and jeans. I became a part of the back end of the
industry I had grown to love. One night I was about to score it big time with two ladies who
had invited me back to their place. I
waited for them at the bar of the pub while they went to the bathroom. Across the bar was an older man, probably in
his fifties. He was drunk and pouring
his heart out to the bartender, like many people do when they are inebriated
and have something that needs to come off their shoulders or feel they need to
be heard. “You know who I am?” he
asked the bartender. “No.” “Of course. Nobody knows who I am anymore. But, you know… Once, every-a everybody knew
me in this here New York City.” “Aha.” “Sure, they knew. I was top of, on top, top of the lot.” “What lot?” “Buildings, you know… Big
buildings, real estate, stocks. Trump
wasn’t so big then. I was. I was I tell you. Young and hot.” The bartender then took the
order of another man at the bar. “You know what happened?” “No. What?” “Lost it all. I lost it all and for what? I don’t even know for what.” The bartender then continued
to take other orders. “Hey! I said.
Do you know me?” the man screamed at the bartender. “Okay, sir. Let me send for a cab. It’s time for you to go home.” “Home. Who the f**k wants to
go to that dump?” He grumbled a bit but the
cab arrived and he was escorted to it by two other men working at the place. The ladies returned and we
made our way in a cab to Brooklyn to the one girl’s apartment. I was high on coke and had more for the night. We arrived and started to play games �"
kissing, caressing and undressing. “Ever tried a speedball?”
one of the girls asked. “No but I’ll do it with you
two.” That was my foolish answer. I was sniffing coke off of
the chest of one of the girls and pouring and sipping single malt whiskey out
her belly button while the other one cooked a cocktail of heroine and cocaine.
I was laughing and shaking so much that the coke went all over the place. My face looked like it had been hit by a 70’s
pimp with baby flour.There was one needle which we all used. That should have worried me. It didn’t. I injected the stuff into my left arm’s vein. For a couple of minutes I thought it was
working. What was really happening was
my body going into shock. Shortly afterwards,
my nose began to bleed and I passed out on the floor. Chapter Eight Nobody likes to be associated with a drug overdose. The doctors ask questions and if anything
illegal is involved, whoever volunteers to answer those questions is automatically
implicated in the illegal activities. I was alone at the hospital.
I don’t know how the girls got me there but I was grateful they did that
instead of dumping me for dead in the nearest gutter. I’d received a shot of adrenaline for my body
to revive. The hospital staff wasn’t
particularly friendly. Heart attacks,
strokes, serious accidents �" those were “real” reasons to be in hospital. It was like they perceived drug addiction to
be self-induced. In my case, it
was. After being slapped around by one
of the nurses, a slim grey-looking doctor came around asking questions. The scene, like my life at that point was
shaky due to the tremours caused by the drugs and the administered adrenaline. The doctor asked what I’d taken and how long
I’d been using drugs. I answered
truthfully. He asked who he could call.
I had no one… It took me a while before
I remembered Bruno. He was my black-up
fyi that’like back up but the kind you need when days are dark and friends are
few. He was the only person who could
come pick me up and at least pretend to be some sort of decent “next of
kin”. The girls hadn’t stolen from me so
everything I’d had in my pockets was taken with me to the hospital. I was given the mobile phone to find Bruno’s
number and give it to the doctor. I found it difficult to sleep that night. I probably only got in a couple of hours of
sleep in the morning before the nurses from the morning shift came in with a
ruckus and began waking up everybody in the ward. The funny thing is when having a neardeath
experience call it deaths kiss, the foreplay to the big event. That b***h can
wait! I couldn’t allow myself to close my eyes because I was paranoid that if I
shut my eyes again death might come a knock’in. Bruno came around in the
morning. I expected a lecture or
annoyance in being the person I’d called to come deal with this. He was instead polite and genuinely
empathetic. “Don’t worry. You’ll be okay and we’ll have you out of here
in no time,” he reassured me. Blowing smoke up my a*s, but
what else could he say? I realized that
Bruno, although I’d pushed him away, was the only friend I had. He came around
daily until I was discharged. A series
of tests revealed no permanent damage but verified my near miss in ending up in
purgatory. Hospital food was a
surprisingly good change from the food I’d been eating. Although it was bland for the most part, I
sensed it was healthier and good for my body’s recovery. I spent most of my time staring at the
ceiling and observing the people around me.
I felt out of place but I realized that they were a reflection of
me. This was the new sickly, disoriented
and shriveled “crowd” which I was a part of.
I also attended sessions with the resident psychologist and focus group
meetings with other rehabilitating addicts.
I found it hard to believe that I could be labeled by that term �"
“addict”. I had met with my darkest
hour. I was lost… # Opon my release, Bruno came
in to help take me and the stuff he had brought me (clean clothes, cigarettes,
money, soap and other toiletries) back to the apartment. I had lost weight, felt weak but I was
determined never to fall back into the hole I’d just crawled out of. I would attend the AA meetings to please the
doctors and Bruno but I knew I’d make it.
I looked myself in the mirror �" my eyeballs had sunken further into my
skull and there were dark patches under my eyes, my lips were dry and my pale
skin no longer looked like the result of spending too much time under
florescent kitchen lighting (and too little time in the sun) but rather like I
was malnourished and sickly. I was alive
but I could have been an extra in Michael Jackson’s thriller video and at least
I could dance. I was a skeleton of the
man I used to be and wanted to be, both inside and out. I assumed I was out of a job again. The diner was not the type of place which
enquires about employee absenteeism.
They likely gave up after the second day and found somebody else. I felt relieved because I didn’t want to go
back to that life again. I gathered up
the guts and asked Bruno for help again. “Look, I just wanted to say
thanks. You’ve proved yourself to be my
only friend,” I started. “You’re welcome. Hopefully you won’t ever have to return the
favour.” He smiled. “Actually, I need another favour.” “It’s okay. I’ve got your a*s covered on the rent for now
until you land a new job.” “That’s just it. I can’t keep working in those joints. I get it.
I understand why things have turned out this way and that the addiction is
just a way of covering up emotion. But I
don’t want to feel those emotions anymore.
I can’t be depressed. I want to
be me and I can’t be me unless I’m working in a decent kitchen.” “Look, we really don’t have anything available…” “Please…” I pleaded. “Let me see what I can hook
you up with. I can put in a good word
for you in some other restaurants I’ve worked in. It has been some time since you left Nina’s
so it should have blown over by now.” “Thanks. I really appreciate it.” “Don’t thank me yet. All I can do is get them to see you and set
up some interviews, the rest is up to you.” “I won’t let you down.” “It’s not me you should be
worried about letting down.” “I know. I’ll do my best.” “Okay. Give me a copy of your resume and we can get
started. We’ll have to make up something
for the last few months.” I later gave him the resume
and he passed it on to some of his contacts.
Within a week, I had three interviews scheduled. Chapter eight The first interview was a cattle call. A year-old restaurant specializing in French
cuisine was in need of a new sous chef.
I was the last candidate to go for the interview. Although Italian, not French, was my
specialty I was confident I could pull it off.
The place looked neat and classy.
As I walked in to view the oak and marble finishes, I felt like I could
make a home for myself there. At the
same time, I felt intimidated. A part of
me still felt unworthy after the way I’d spent the last few months. Luckily, my feelings of anxiousness and
inferiority subsided when I sat down for the interview. They asked the regular questions which I felt
I answered well enough but the interview was monotonous. I got no reaction out of the manager as if
he’d heard the same answers repeatedly the whole day. That might have been the case and he was
probably just seeing me as a favour to Bruno and just wanted to get it over and
done with. The middle-aged man ended
off with, “We’ll call you if you meet our requirements.” I knew that was a no but it was a good
experience and got me ready for heading into other kitchens and making better
preparations for these meetings. He didn’t call and after a similar process at the second
interview, I didn’t receive a callback from them either. I was the only person being interviewed (or
so it appeared) at the third place. The
general manager was a blonde woman who politely sat me down at the bar, with
the bartender there and organizing some of his bottles, and asked me a few basic
questions whilst skimming through a print out of my resume. I knew that would be a “no” too. # I made my way to a bar
nearby. The place was quaint with
leather upholstery and a spotless oak bar.
I sat down and ordered a beer. I
started thinking about my next move. How
could I help myself if even Bruno could not help me by pulling a few
favours. Two men walked in whilst in the
middle of a conversation. One of them, a
man in his late thirties wearing a black leather blazer and a pair of denims made
the order for two beers while the other man sat down at the nearest table. “It’s a bloody nightmare,”
the other man said when the second guy sat down. “Well, did he tell you why
he’s leaving?” “Not a peep.” “This will ruin things for
us. Where will we get somebody decent at
such short notice?” “I’ve no f*****g idea.” The man who had sat down first shook his
head. “Yeah, it’s not easy finding
a decent Italian chef in New York. The
best guys are taken.” And here it was. I heard the beginnings of an opportunity. Despondent from my last interview, I thought
of just sitting there and not wasting my time just to be disappointed
again. Then I thought, what’s there to
lose? I didn’t have a job and all three
opportunities organized by Bruno were behind me. I walked over to the mens’ table. “Excuse me but did I hear
correctly? Are you looking for an
Italian chef?” The guy in the leather
blazer answered, “Yes, that’s right. Can
you help us?” “Well, I am an Italian
chef.” Their faces lit up and I
briefly told them about my expertise in a quick impromptu interview.” Afterwards, the guy in the
leather jacket looked at me, smiled and said, “I’m Jonathan. Welcome to the business.” Chapter nine Bella was a lovely restaurant in Greenwich Village. It took my breath away to see it for the
first time because I was finally headed back to my old standard. The owner Jonathan had planned the opening
with the help of his business partner for the past few months. The Italian chef who they had hired to run
the show had disappeared a couple of days earlier without giving them much
reason as to why he was leaving. They
were desperate to get somebody to run the kitchen in order to host their
opening night as advertised and not fall behind in the schedule. I was treated like I’d suddenly rescued the
place from failure. Jonathan was
desperate so he took a chance on me and hoped for the best. It was a challenge but I didn’t want to admit
it at the time in fear of alarming my new bosses and causing them to postpone
their plans and search for somebody else (and possibly dig deeper into my
past). I knew I could do it. Some of the crew had already been hired so I
only had to do some minor head hunting.
The furniture was in place and all the equipment purchased. I had to put together a menu, order stocks
and put the staff to work in the best way.
I walked through the place ogling at the carefully selected pieces and
styled interior, the dark wood bar already stocked up with booze. Then, the kitchen �" sparkling silver metal
waiting to be worked on, stainless steel pots hanging from the ceiling and of
course, there was the knives. Every good
chef loves having a good set of knives.
Soon this empty space would become the stage for my ballet of line cooks
and staff, carefully choreographed to supply some of the best Italian food in
New York City. I felt like luck was finally on my side again. I was a chef again and in a real quality
Italian bistro. I was determined to
shine so bright that the past would disappear into the vanishing shadows. This was my time. Luck was on my side and I was ready to look
out into the world and say, “Rocco’s back!” Tip #3: We all fall at some point. Falling (and failing) is inevitable but what
determines your character is how and how quickly you get up. As a chef, you need to learn to get up pretty
fast else the vultures will come after you and you’ll find it more and more
difficult. Fight the battle
wholeheartedly until the end. Chapter ten The first thing I knew is
that I could not do it alone. I needed
somebody on my team who I could trust. I
called Bruno and asked him to meet me later.
We met in a bar to discuss the details. I arrived at the bar at five
minutes before seven shortly before our agreed upon time. I sat and waited for him. When he arrived, he looked excited. It must have spread from my voice and the way
I looked. “So, what’s so
important? You’ve got good news?” “Yes, I’ve got great news.” “Cool. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be this
excited about getting one of the jobs.” “No. That’s not what this is about. Thanks for the help but none of your friends
actually hired me.” “Oh, then what?” He looked surprised. “A twist of fate.” I smiled. “Interesting… What
happened?” “I met the owners of a new
restaurant that’s opening in the Village.
It’s called Bella. I was sitting
at a bar and overheard a conversation they had in which they were talking about
needing a new chef. I listened and
approached them, we spoke and I got the job.” “Well, that is a good twist
of fate. When do you start?” “Now! The place opens in two weeks time.” “Well, that’s some pressure
for you. Do you have everything you
need?” “Actually that’s why I
called you.” “I’m intrigued. How can I help you?” “You’ve been in the
restaurant business around here for quite some time. You’ve got the contacts and the
know-how. I need somebody like you on my
team.” “You do realize I already
have a job, right?” “Yes, I know but I also know
that this will be worth your while. Let
me show you the place and introduce you to the owners.” “Okay, okay. Can I at least finish my beer?” Bruno and I finished our
drinks and I gave Jonathan a call. He
would meet us the next morning but in the meantime I took Bruno round to the
place to take a look. Jonathan had
arranged for the building’s caretaker to let us in. I could see as we walked around the empty establishment
that Bruno was just as much in awe as I had been. He was excited and he wanted to know more. The next morning the deal was done. Bruno would be the place’s new manager and
Jonathan agreed to pay him a handsome amount than what he was currently was
earning because he’d heard about Bruno and the restaurants he’d worked at. After living on the edge of poverty for the
last few months, I felt like a rock star.
Jonathan gave us a card with twenty thousand dollars worth of credit to
spend on the restaurant. I got busy on
getting things together. I put together
a classic and simple Italian menu while Bruno got to work on contacting the
suppliers and deciding which suppliers would be the best for us. I had taken a bit of a chance on Bruno. I knew I could trust him but I didn’t know
how he worked before this. I went on the
assumption of his reputation that he was good at what he did. My assumption and instincts turned out to be
correct. Bruno was an ideal
partner. Although he wasn’t a chef, he
understood the kitchen and he had a good idea of what I needed. Bruno understood the business. He was a born manager �" money hungry and
meticulous about every potential money making or losing detail. He had the ability to connect people and
systems to make a restaurant effective. One moment which sums him up was a
table of four, twenty something year old girls sat around a table, and he
started with “good evening b*****s how about a drink”. They loved it! He was strict and sometimes a lot less
charming at work than I had seen him when he was socializing. He was always on the edge. When we were vetting the new floor staff, he
threatened to kill people when they got something wrong. He was particular about etiquette and
tidiness. His zero tolerance attitude is
probably what caused some of the staff to leave during the trial periods but
for that reason, those who remained were strong and good workers. In the kitchen, I tested the skills of my new line chefs. When the pattisier, Greg, suggested we add
Italian Style pancakes to the menu, I felt a tremor from the memory that for months
the only food I was making as per order was pancakes. These pancakes would be exquisite however and
luckily I was not the one who’d have to make them. My new sous chef, Michael was a bit of a
disappointment but he got the job done.
I remembered the days when Ryan had been my sous. I knew I could depend on the guy for
anything. Michael, on the other hand,
was the type of guy who would never give much more than was required of
him. He paid his time and dues in
exchange for his pay and that was it. He
made it clear that he wasn’t going to bust any knuckles for anyone. I thought that was a stupid approach if he
ever planned on being anything more than a sous but I realized that not
everybody thinks alike; some chefs and cooks are content where they are. We who strive for glory, wealth and success
are never content. We eat tears take shots of sweet and pisson your heals while
we take what we want. # Our opening night was a foreshadowing of the future success of
the Bella. Jonathan had invited his contacts
from magazines who in turn invited some minor celebrities as well. The place was fully booked and almost every
table seated some sort of reviewer, writer, artist, editor or director. Jonathan was highly optimistic. He had arranged all of this prior to me
coming on board as a chef. Although he
was confident, sometimes I’d catch him glancing at me with that look which
said: “If you f**k this up, I’m going to kill you.” The guy’s reputation stood on this
opening. Everybody’s did. I knew if I would have one chance to make a
name for myself in New York, this would be it. Our army of cooks and the floor staff slaved away into the
night. I checked every meal that went
out into the dining room, making sure that it was worthy of being looked at,
smelt and eaten. Anything that had to be
sent back was accompanied by a compliment sandwich for the offending cook. One of the items on the menu was Italian
style tombolo, one of the hardest items to cook. Like trying to sleep with the
most beautiful girl in the room and she is armish. My instincts told me that something was
wrong. I hopped over to the chefs
station and grabbed peered at the freshly unmolded b***h he’d just placed on the table. “Cut me a piece,” I said. He cut a piece and I grabbed
a tasting and placed it into my mouth. “Mmm…” He waited for me to
finish chewing. I could tell he
anticipated my reply and the other guys were listening in to hear whether I had
an insult or a compliment to dish out. “Your crust has a great
colour but tastes like a fat ninety year olds underwear on the 4th
of july . The seasoning is also nice so
work on the rest.” That’s a complement sandwich.two positives on either end of
something terrible. I spoke calmly but clearly in order to make sure that he
understood my message. He looked at me
shocked. He was surprised but not by my
comment; he was relieved about the way I chose to deal with it. Some chefs run their kitchens like army
commanders �" they shout orders at the top of their lungs which cause all the
employees to shudder and mindlessly follow, I’m not like that. Although I always want the best from my team,
I want them to become better and to
trust me not to squeeze their balls every time a mistake is made. Okay, I do squeeze, but I make it a point not
to do it too hard so the poor fellas can at least carry on producing. Opening night ran smoothly.
When we ran late with orders guests would receive a complimentary glass
of wine. That was Bruno’s idea and it
worked well to keep people satisfied and avoid complaints. At midnight we were all exhausted.I poped
some “crunchies” that’s what we called asprin.
When the last table of customers left, everyone in the kitchen
cheered. Jonathan came in to
congratulate all of us on a job well done.
He was impressed. The night was
not yet over for us �" we had to clean up and prepare for the next day. I left it up to the night porter to do the
rest of the cleaning when I exited the building. Bruno had gone out with some of the guys to
celebrate. I decided not to. The pressures of hard work and trying to stay
clean may have made me cave in if I had gone to a bar or club where
recreational drugs frequently complemented items on the menu. Things were going good and I’d stick to my
routine to keep luck on my side. The weekend came and we were met by more full houses. Michael’s Spanish skills came in handy in
communicating with most of the staff who were from Central and South
America. Immigrants were preferred
because they followed orders and got the job done. Guys from culinary schools like myself were
notorious for being high maintenance and were therefore kept a a minimum of the
staffing quota. Our kitchen was loud
with shouting, banging and people shuffling around and maneuvering around each
other. Orders were logged into a
computer for reference and shouted out for everybody to hear and
acknowledge. “Order!” “We got an well-done on table five.” “Fire.”
“Murder the steak! I said burn
the mother-f****r!” “Watch your
meat!” “Juz it.” “We ain’t got time, throw it in the
jukebox.” “hand!” Those are some of the things I kept saying
and hearing. The orchestra of clanging
metal continued under the roar of our voices.
It was like being in the army in the heat of battle. In order to win the war, we had to work
together, get the food ready on time and keep the customers and the clients
happy. Thanks to Bruno. Admittedly the grind at Bella was better than
the low-budget places I worked in lately. I was attending the weekly Drug
Addicts Anonymous meetings as promised and I was regaining my old shape and
complection. Soon I’d be a respectable
member of society again. Well, I would
at least look in the mirror and be proud of myself instead of wondering about
the shadow staring back at me. # Within a week, our first
review was published in the newspaper.
“Rocco, the once disgraced executive chef from Nina’s is now rocking it
at Bella. His comeback includes a
variety of mouth-watering classic Italian dishes which are undoubtedly becoming
the trademark of one of New York’s best fine dining restaurants.” I smiled as Bruno read the review to
everybody in the restaurant before we began working. I was making waves in one of the hottest
places to dine at in New York. In the weeks to come, we had the time of our lives. We felt like celebrities finally being
recognized for our craft. I was featured
as Jonathan’s right hand man for public relations and appearances. Our reservations were full for weeks in
advance and everybody wanted to taste a bit of what we had. Photographers came around along with food
journalists and one of my recipes was featured in Food and Wine Magazine. Soon every aspiring cook and housewife would
recognize my face and name in public.
This is what I had come to New York for.
Isn’t that what everybody goes to New York,for �" fame and fortune? Perhaps only the young and naïve. Celebrities such as Lindsay Lohan, Emma Sone and Lenny Kravitz came
through our doors. A request to thank
the chef would often be followed by a conversation and a photograph. Now, this was something I could make people
jealous with on a Facebook profile! That
is, if I’d had time for Facebook at all.
It’s funny, when you really are successful and it looks like you’re
hitting the big time, you don’t have to tell people about it. They find out by themselves. The celebrities in turn attracted the tabloid
magazines and paparazzi who became stalking our bars and making reservations to
eat at Bella just in case somebody famous could be spotted. One night Woody Allen and Soon-Yi Previn came
around for diner which created publicity with older crowds as well. Rumours about who had been seen at Bella
spread and about bar fights and occurrences which never happened but only
worked to boost our popularity and profits. A few of us went out to a club night and I remember two girls at the bar
giggling and gesturing towards me. I
couldn’t help myself so I went over to find out what it was all about. “Two drinks for the ladies
please,” I asked the bartender. The girls turned to look at
me. The one closest to me said, “Thanks
Chef Rocco,” with a smile on her face. I
smiled back and chatted to them, ordering each round of new drinks. I felt more appealing and confident now that
I was actually successful, could afford the drinks and I wasn’t smashed out of
my mind. I went home with the ladies
that night and this time I woke up in the bed of a two-bedroom apartment
instead of a hospital. Life was
good. Jonathan and his partners were
happy, so were the staff as well as me and Bruno. We were on top of the world but sometimes
things are simply too good to be true. © 2014 rocknrollaAuthor's Note
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Added on October 3, 2014 Last Updated on October 3, 2014 Author
rocknrollacape town, western cape, South AfricaAboutI'm a chef and a aspiring writer. I own a restaurant read my stories and see beyond the veil more..Writing
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