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Adam’s been working in this kitchen on Grand Street almost a year now. His knife skills are getting good. He takes it as proof of his mastery that the owner sometimes leaves the restaurant under his control during lunch. Adam treats the kitchen as his fiefdom. If he takes the moon down from the sky and holds it down on his cutting board he’ll chop it into wafer-thin slices in seconds. The knife hitting on the board sounds like someone shuffling cards. He is this good because he loves his knife. He respects it and fears it. As a result his onions are uniform and skinny, and he can cut them with his eyes closed so they won’t make him cry. Exquisite! he thinks. He pushes the onions into a four-quart container and bangs out a three-egg omelet with spinach and chevre. Shavruh, Anthony calls it. Anthony’s the other cook working this shift. He’s got greasy eyes. He’s staring out the window into the restaurant with his thumb up his ass. Adam hates him like Portobello mushrooms. Adam turns back to his knife. He gets a dozen tomatoes out of the reach-in and touches the edge of the blade to the skin of the first. The knife isn’t sharp enough to slice with a touch. “These cheap-ass knives,” he says. “You look at them wrong and they lose their edge. Give me the steel.” He can reach the steel himself, but he likes saying it. Anthony hands him the steel. He has no tickets on his line and, as Adam has not expressly told him to do anything further, he kicks back and folds his arms. “I hope the governor comes
back and sees that thumb up your ass,” says Adam. His knife
is sliding down the steel, now on one side, now on the other, making
that good noise in his ears: the sound of precision.
“I heard he died,” says Anthony, “and made you boss.” “Shut your cakehole,” says Adam, and turns his back, denying Anthony the privilege of watching a master sharpen. “You really burn my ass, man. You could be learning something here.” “Like how to bust my ass for the same eight bucks an hour I get paid to do nothing?” Adam stops sharpening. “It’s called a work ethic.” “What the hell good is a work ethic if that’s all you’ve got?” The knife clatters on the board. “You need to check yourself before you wreck yourself,” Adam says, with the stern forefinger of authority extended. “I’ve been working in kitchens for over six years...” “Five of ‘em washing dishes, man! José told me. You are so full of shit.” Adam can’t say much to this, because it’s true. “Why don’t you get on some of this prep before I do it all?” Anthony shrugs. “Jesus Christ, Adam,” says the waitress, “you haven’t started this order yet?” |
He
carries the street on his spine |
For once Anthony doesn’t wait to be told. He starts searching through the containers of prep Adam’s been doing, while Adam searches the food on the line. |
