North of Happy Read online

  * * *

  Now it’s Sunday morning again, pre-brunch. I haven’t seen Emma the last couple of nights because of late shifts and the fact that she has other things to do, a life beyond me. I try to ignore a longing for her so intense and specific that it’s like a food craving that won’t go away. I try to forget it and focus on the kitchen, where I feel sane.

  The workload has not piled up yet. Roberto is not even around, which means I have shown up earlier than asked for again. Station to station I go, checking to see how I can help, if anyone wants to talk, if anyone will talk. Lourdes arrives, and I rush to help her bring the vat of atole to her stovetop. Matt walks by and hits my ass with the flat end of a wooden spoon, which stings like hell and makes him laugh way more than it should.

  A sudden yell rings out through the kitchen. No one’s playing music yet, and the hood always feels quieter at this time of day, like it, too, needs time to wake up, so the words are clear. “Fuck, Gus!” It’s Chef. Heads turn. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t do this right now.” There’s the sound of the office door slamming open. Gus walks down the corridor, past the prep kitchen. He’s got his leather knife roll tucked under his armpit. Lourdes keeps her head down, gets started zesting lemons. I can’t help but gawk. Memo and Isaiah set their knives down on their cutting boards too, twin cocked eyebrows. Chef comes storming after Gus. “At least give me two weeks. You owe me that much.”

  I simultaneously want to stay out of it and follow every word that’s said, so when the prep cooks file out, pretend to go to the walk-in freezers to grab something so that they can listen in, I follow behind.

  “Sorry, Chef. But it’s not my problem. The new place doesn’t open up for a few weeks, but they’re having some issues right now and the owner needs me there.” He grabs something else from his station and then heads over to the lockers. “I’ll see if Boris can finish out his two weeks, but I gotta go.”

  “What the fuck. You’re taking Boris with you?”

  It feels like everyone’s eyes meet at the same time, like we’re watching some soap opera and registering each other’s reactions live. Chef crosses her arms in front of her chest, uncannily similar to what Emma does when she’s broaching certain conversation topics that she’s shy about. “It’s the middle of summer, man. We’re slammed every day. Don’t you have any fucking loyalty? I can’t do this right now two cooks down. Give me time to find a replacement. That’s all I ask.”

  Gus checks his phone. “I really gotta go.” He walks right past Chef, answers a phone call on his way out. There’s this terrifying moment where it feels like Chef’s gonna catch everyone staring and start throwing knives. But then everyone kind of has the same thought, and we scatter to our stations, knowing already that shit’s gonna be heavy today.

  When I see that the kitchen is starting to come alive into that pre-service dance, I disappear behind my partition, ready to work my ass off. In some ways, the busiest times are the best. My mind is free to wander, but it doesn’t wander to the Night of the Perfect Taco, the question of Whether I’ll Always Be this Way.

  Often it goes to new dishes, strange combinations of flavors. Lately, though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, much less Emma, I plan out dates. I don’t let my mind skip ahead to a predictably sexy ending but rather linger on the details of each step. Meeting her at her door, the exact way I’d greet her. A kiss on the cheek, my lips on her skin. A picnic on that hill she loves, fireflies illuminating our grilled cheese sandwiches (roasted vegetables inside, three artisanal cheeses, thyme butter).

  Today, I grant us an early kiss in the fantasy, and goose bumps shoot down my arms even as the hot water and the scrubbing fibers grate my fingertips through the gloves down to unrecognizable smoothness. I didn’t know there could be such pleasure in just the imagining of someone’s company.

  CHAPTER 12

  MEXIMAC ’N’ CHEESE

  2 cloves garlic

  1 white onion

  1 habanero pepper

  200 grams bacon

  1 cup grated Monterey Jack cheese

  1 cup grated Manchego cheese

  1 cup grated Chihuahua cheese

  ½ cup dark beer

  ¼ cup buttermilk

  500 grams macaroni noodles

  METHOD:

  When I step outside, I’m briefly replenished by the gorgeousness of the weather, another nonsensical full moon. It’d be a perfect night to swim in the lake, but Emma’s not waiting for me outside the restaurant, and, without her, the urge to go there is muted.

  I start heading home instead, try to remember what’s left in my fridge. I’m not sure I even have the energy to cook anything, but it’s become a habit I enjoy after my shifts, one that helps me fall asleep with ease. I’ll probably need it to push Emma out of my thoughts.

  I hear steps coming behind me, and at first I assume that it’s Felix. I turn over my shoulder and see that it’s actually Elias, half jogging to catch up with me. “Hey, man,” Elias says. “Crazy day.”

  “Hasta la madre,” I say.

  “You up for some pool? I need a drink and everyone’s going to this guy’s party I don’t feel like going to.”

  I picture going to my motel, looking up YouTube videos of cooks poaching eggs or dudes who can wash dishes with machine-like speed. A shower, more fantasies. Falling asleep with my phone on my chest.

  So we go to The Crown. It’s a quiet night and there’s an open pool table. I get quarters from the change machine in the corner while Elias pays for beers. It feels like such a Felixian place that I scan the crowd looking for him. A couple of old townies are at the adjacent pool table, playing without exchanging a word. A thin woman with frizzy hair is half off her bar stool, talking loudly to the guy next to her, who looks desperate to escape the conversation. Felix loved places like this, windows into the lives of others.

  Elias comes back and shoots first; the pool balls separate with a crack. “So, how’re you liking the job?”

  I take a moment to think about it while I line up a shot. The sore muscles, the wandering thoughts, being the bottom of a totem pole with no ladder in sight. “I’m loving it,” I say, and I don’t think it’s a lie.

  “No shit.” Elias drinks from his beer, a long first gulp that’s pretty standard after a hellish shift like we just went through. “I fucking hated dishwashing.”

  “You did it too?”

  “A year. It sucks.” We take a few quiet turns. The internet-equipped jukebox is playing something distinctly not-bar-like, something slow and mopey, which would never fly in Mexico City, where every establishment likes to blast pop and dance music.

  “Shit, man,” Elias says after a while, “you’re not gonna say congrats?”

  I look at him askance.

  He looks up midshot, smiling wide. “You didn’t hear? Chef promoted me to sous.”

  “Whoa, that’s awesome.” I walk over with my beer, and we clink glasses. He takes a tough shot between two other balls, but since the world’s on his side today he nails it.

  He runs a hand through his hair, walks around to the other side of the table to line up another shot.

  “So, what’s your story anyway? You just showed up like a hero in one of those old Westerns. The stranger no one knows. If I’ve learned anything from those movies, you’re either here with some sort of a plan, or you’re running from something.”

  “A little of both, I guess.”

  Elias laughs, one loud burst. “That’s exactly what those dudes would say.” I screw up my first shot pretty bad, grimace like I was expecting it to go in. Elias takes his time getting back up, savoring his beer. “You cook?”

  I nod, excited that the truth is easy on this one.

  “Work in restaurants before?”

  I shake my head, bow it in shame.
r />   Another crack of a perfectly hit ball. “Picked a damn good place to start,” Elias says with a grin. “I hear you’ve been working your ass off too.”

  “Just trying to keep up,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.

  Elias walks around the table. “Good, humility. Kitchens need that. Lots of dudes come in thinking they’re the shit, thinking they deserve to be on the line. No one likes to say they’re struggling when they are.”

  I take small sips of the beer, which is some American microbrew that’s way stronger than what I’m used to, the flavors big and bold. Elias kicks my ass and then racks up again. Lisa the bartender comes by with another round, and since the bar’s mostly empty, she hangs out next to us for a bit. Her accent reminds me, like everything else, of Felix, those six months he spent in Brisbane, somehow starting a construction company before shrugging it all off and moving on. Sometimes I’m comforted by the thought of all the things Felix got to do in his life, and sometimes the thought of all he could have done with a normal lifespan comes crashing down on me.

  “This is Carlos,” Elias tells Lisa. “From my hometown, just started at the restaurant.”

  “Welcome,” she says. “How the hell did you find yourself here?”

  “I have no idea,” I say, trying to shake away morbid thoughts.

  Lisa laughs. I turn to Elias. “How’d you end up here?”

  “Shit, that’s a long story.” He takes a sip from his beer, puts it down. “I hopped around the restaurant scene in LA and San Fran for a bit. Then a buddy of mine was opening up a taco place in Seattle, asked me to come with him. We didn’t stay open long ’cause we had no business running a restaurant, but our food was good. Chef found me there and saved my ass by dragging me onto the ferry with her when that place closed down.”

  “Saved you from what?” I ask.

  “I was up to my neck in debt and drugs, man. My buddy and I spent most of the investment money on speed and blow, trying to chase after some romanticized vision of being rock star chefs. We idolized Marco Pierre White, wanted to do all the crazy shit that went out of style when people figured out it was a stupid way to run a business. It didn’t go so well. The shape I was in when Chef found me—I would have never worked in a kitchen again.” He trails off, and I think I hear a note of fear in his voice, which makes me wonder just how bad it got.

  The squeak of a stool being pushed back makes us both turn away from the conversation. The skinny woman at the bar drops a twenty on the counter and then stumbles out the door. A warm breeze pushes in from outside; dozens of stars are visible in just that brief opening, surreal and comforting.

  I turn back to Elias. I want to hear everything about his journey to Provecho. I wanna know all the steps involved, what his life has looked like since. But he’s looking around the bar, losing interest, so I leave it for another time. We spend the next hour just talking about food: the best things we’ve ever eaten, the best things we’ve ever cooked. I haven’t talked with anyone like this since Felix died.

  At around two in the morning, I get a text message from Emma, a picture of her shrieking at the camera.

  Would you like to make a reservation? I text back, smiling at my phone.

  Eww. Terrible joke, she responds. What are you up to?

  I tell her, a little proud that I can answer with something truthful, that I’m not just passed out in a motel room, begging for sleep to save me from my thoughts. You?

  The same thing I do every night, Carlos.

  Trying to take over the world? I write, sure she’s making a Pinky and the Brain reference, this old cartoon that Felix got me into.

  Her response isn’t immediate this time. Elias is at the bar getting us one more round. Aside from a lone couple necking in a corner booth, we’re the last ones left in here. Nope, scrolling through the internet to feel less lonely. Talking to you.

  I hope I’m helping, I write.

  Sleep is tugging at me, begging for bed. I’m pretty sure I’ll never be well-rested again. But there’s a momentum to things here that I can’t break, and instead I sink the three ball, take a long drink from my beer. Lisa is starting to close up the bar, and she keeps the door propped open as she takes out the trash. More stars are visible than before, as if they’re coming out just for me.

  Back at you, she writes, and that’s our good-night for the evening.

  CHAPTER 13

  BANH MI TORTAS

  25 bolillos

  7½ pounds flank steak

  6 stalks lemongrass

  16 ounces pinto beans, soaked overnight

  7 carrots, grated

  7 cucumbers, sliced

  4 jalapeños, sliced

  3 bunches of cilantro, roughly chopped

  METHOD:

  Two days later, when I try to buy my morning coffee, my credit card gets declined. I’m guessing Dad wasn’t too thrilled when Mom told him I was staying longer. I’m honestly surprised it’s taken him this long to try to force me back home. There’s a moment of panic, which subsides strangely easily once Anne, the nose-ringed girl who usually works mornings at the bakery near Provecho, just tells me not to worry about paying, that I can get her back next time.

  I remember how Felix used to talk about money, how even when he didn’t have much he was okay letting it slip away. He was always so candid about it too, confessing to sleeping on park benches and eating nothing but rice, like he wanted to rub his lifestyle in Dad’s face.

  The memory calms me down a little, but I can’t quite shrug it off the way Felix clearly could. A part of me is clawing at all the awful things that could happen, all the terrible possibilities hidden among the world that could destroy my precarious position of independence. At least I paid for my room another week in advance. Plus, I’ll be getting a paycheck soon. My very first paycheck, and it’ll have a restaurant’s name on it. Not Dad’s company. There’s something thrilling about that.

  Though I now have access to that employees’ entrance, I still prefer to knock on the glass and wait for Emma to appear. The moment she greets me carries me through the day, late into my shift when my muscles ache and no one has yet to say a word to me.

  “You are the best,” Emma says, taking the cup I brought her and holding the door open for me.

  “Not really. Yours spilled and I didn’t want to get another one, so I just kind of scooped it all back in there. Got most of it! Hope you like asphalt-y coffee.”

  “You kidding? It’s my favorite.”

  It’s a more relaxed morning. Midweek, we still get booked solid, but service only starts at lunch, so the early hours are slower. Plus, it seems Chef’s out of town, leaving Michelle and Elias in charge. Memo’s playing banda music nice and loud, and he’s not the only one who knows all the words. Isaiah’s singing along too, the words clumsy as they come out, all the r’s slipping instead of rolling. Matt yells at him to turn “that mariachi shit” off, but even he’s in a good mood. When I come by offering to take out his garbage for him, he even looks away from his prep sheet and says, “Sure. Thanks, man.”

  Then he dumps out a whole gallon container of sauce into the bag so that it’ll leak, smirking at me as he does it. Baby steps, I guess.

  The pleasantness in the air makes it easier to work, and I speed through my stack faster than I have all week, even though Roberto is again working cold foods and I’m on my own. Scrub a pot, load the washer with dishes, stack saucepans according to size. I carry glasses over to the server station, mugs to the coffee station, garbage to the dump. I walk past the hostess station, where Emma is on the phone, and I make a face like I’m shrieking to make her laugh.

  When I walk past the office, Elias calls out to me from inside. “Hey, man. You busy?”

  “Nope,” I say, leaning into the doorway. I almost do a little dance while I say this.
It might be the first time that I’m completely caught up on everything in the middle of the day. It won’t last long, but I want to bask for a moment. Felix always told me to celebrate small victories.

  Elias looks away from the computer monitor where he’s checking who knows what. He’s got a pen in his hand that he twirls a few times. “You up for making staff meal?”

  I freeze. Of course I’ve imagined this happening before. The fantasies while I scrub dishes are not reserved for Emma alone. But then I think of Chef’s warning not to touch a knife unless I’m washing it. “Um,” I say. Suddenly, my fantasies—which always end in culinary triumph—feel like a joke. I’ve never cooked for more than five people. My knife skills compared to everyone else’s are sad, like I chop in slow motion.

  Emma shows up at the doorway, smiling at me as she turns to Elias. “Hey, just so you know, Sylvia called in. She’s sick or something.”

  Elias groans, looks at his computer, clicks around. “Call Bill, see if he can come in. If not, try Linda.” Then he turns back to me. “So, what do you say, man? I’ll take you into the walk-ins, show you what you can use. The rest is up to you.”

  Emma quirks an eyebrow.

  “Come on, man.”

  “I’m not qualified, am I?”

  “Okay, now’s not the time for humility, man,” Elias says, chewing on the back of a pen. “Everyone’s slammed. You told me you can cook. Just grill up some burgers or something.”

  “I can’t believe you’re hesitating,” Emma says, nudging me with her elbow. I break out into a smile, but I can’t bring myself to look at either of them.

  “Look, man, we’re still short, and you’re caught up on your work. Even if I thought you couldn’t put cereal in a bowl, I might put you in charge of staff meal.”