"The Dish Ran Away with the Spoon"

*

“Jesus enough salad there, Halle?”

“Not nearly enough. Hush, I like salad and this is not some shit store bought salad. You boys made it. So I will take as much fucking salad I want, cool?”

“Woah, feisty girl!” Brian turns to face the rest of the boys and puts his arms in front of his face as if to shield himself for protection. “Watch out guys, don’t get in the way of the girl and the salad tray! She may beat you with the tongs.”

“I like saaaalllaaddd” Mike, Brian and Jeff twitter in high pitched, fake feminine squeals.

“Ok. A. I don’t sound like that-“ Mike cuts me off.

“Oh, so you want to sound like a dude then?”

“No smartass. And B. Yes, I like salad so all of you can go fuck yourselves.” I stick my index finger in the dressing, lick it off and strut out of the kitchen with hoots and applause on my heels.

E-meal gives me a break from the teasing, which I know, or hope, at least, is out of brotherly love, or something like it.

*

“So can we do a ribeye without the garlic and shallot confit? This lady wants it done up like our filet, olive oil sea salt. “ Andy eyes me over the expo station with a “did-she-really-just-fucking-ask-me-that” look. He gives her a hasty “yeah” and turns his back to me, tossing handfuls of chopped carrots and celery into a giant cast-iron pot that I could probably climb into.

“Really? Did she really just ask me that?” Andy says as he turns back toward where I’m leaning against the espresso machine. “There are questions you just don’t ask. You know why?” I don’t try to respond. “Because it’s fucking common sense. Take notes, Halle. Don’t turn into one of these idiots.”

“It’s the same thing I say about men. I’ll be the best damn girlfriend, or in this case, server, because I know all the secrets.”

“Right on, girl, right on. “ He holds his hand near the large heat lamps, palm facing me. I go in for the kill and slap it vigorously.

*

“Milo, darling, do you have a Sharpie I can borrow?” He’s the sweetheart of all of them. Before he can answer I spot the red marker near his cutting board and snatch it up, telling him thank you before I grab the tape as well to label E-meal for the dishwashers. “Thanks doll!” I say.

“Damn, this girl just takes what she wants! Always take never giving.” Milo shakes his head and I play along.

“Oh, you have no idea. I love to give. I’m a giver of all things. You want something, all you have to do is ask babe. I aim to please.” The last few words I let linger as I exit through the swinging doors.

“I bet you do,” Mike chimes in as I enter through the doors, bringing back Milo’s ginger ale

“Hmm. I don’t recall you being a part of this conversation. Plus, you’re unavailable, so, not much I can do to help you out there.” The boys hoot and applaud as I wipe water from my hands onto my black apron.

*

“I like it when Halle works. She takes care of me, puts the plates and liners, and knows where everything is going. It’s perfect!” Norm plops a “Mickey Mouse” plate with steaming, oozing mac and cheese covered in garlic breadcrumbs onto the square plate I pulled for him.

“Just trying to make your job easier, love.” Norm is about to tell me where the plates of food are going but I stop him placing my two index fingers on my temples, scrunching my eyes dramatically. “Wait, wait, wait. Don’t tell me…B7.”

“Damn, girl got skill!”

“Nah, just psychic.”

*

I wonder why they are all here. How much they know. Where their interests lie. Random culinary facts are tossed in with quotes from movies or TV shows. Sometimes they baffle me and other times they steal my breath with their smoke, their vulnerability and intelligence. But most importantly, they make me laugh.

*

It took awhile for me to realize just how close our faces were on the expo line. I’ve memorized every crease of Andy’s face, the scar that runs a crossed the bridge of his nose, only slightly off color so you can see a faint shadow of where the stitching together of skin was. His large weathered features give him the appearance of some sculpture in an overgrown garden, secreting subliminal sexiness with the sweat on his brow.

*

James brings warmth to me that can de-thaw even my most melancholy of moods. I wish I could just take a spoonful for him every morning. His voice reminds me of olive oil and brown sugar, supple, deep and rich. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to fall asleep next to him outside, next to an open fire, his tall, lanky stature, limbs wrapped around me like twisted sheets. He is playful, makes me laugh in subtle ways. Even after I leave work I can feel his fingertips on my bent elbow.

*

Sometimes I sprinkle chive on whipped potatoes, plate them, serve them up: Selling 6-4! I yell. My voice carries now. The boys like it when I’m loud.

I arrange hors d'vours in lines of 3, pop the left over’s into my mouth.

I make lists to restock the bar, the pantry, the walk in refrigerator, on blank order sheets, save them, make art out of them when I come home.

I squeeze oranges; cut lime and lemons into thirds the way Travis has taught me. I stuff olives until they are pregnant with blue cheese or anchovies. And the men I work with love my scent, even if it is a mix of salt, oil and brine of the earth. They pine for it.

“That’s my girl,” they say

“Who loves you?!” I say back. And I do.

Even if they aren’t sincere, I like to pretend they are.

*

“Halle, give me your shpeel about this hors d’vours.” I blush every time Andy puts me on the spot. He is good at catching me off-guard, knows my weaknesses. I clear my throat and feel the boys looking at me over their knife skills.

“Uh, ok so…this is an herb goat cheese with roasted red bell pepper on top, served on a mini crostini, perfect little combination of crunch and cream.” I point to the next platter. “And this is a braised short rib wonton with a little Sriracha dotted on top for a kick to your taste buds.” Now I’m on a roll. The kitchen doesn’t speak. “And this is a little smoked salmon with a touch of crème fraiche and pickles onion.” Now I dare to look at Andy. He breaks into a smile the way he does.

“Halle Murcek, gentlemen.” The boys whoop it up and I blush. Hard.

Fire

*

“Oven roasted Poptart. We should add that to the new menu.” E.J. places the dry, square pastry onto the hotplate, normally used for filets or ribeyes, and slides it into the open brick oven. The frosting that resembled kindergarten craft past begins to glister and soften. The smell of roasting strawberries drifts into my nostrils.

“Yeah but would it be a regular menu item, a bar menu item or dessert?” I wonder half aloud. E.J. gives me his typical what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look. He doesn’t like me. I’ve learned not to take it personally.

*

The little shelves are occupied by bags of trail mix from random health food stores, sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper, plastic water bottles, cardboard boxes of tea with depictions enchanting faraway lands and disposable Tupperware filled with mysteries brought from home, rustic and wanting to be shared.

Greg grabs a fork from my hand that I just finished polishing with the yellow cloth. He holds it up to the light to inspect it for watermarks or other prints, the light glinting of the prongs of the utensil then brings it centimeters from his nose dramatically but I laugh because I know he’s teasing. He points it at me.

“You are lucky, miss, that this fork is so pristinely polished otherwise I would not let it come close to touching this culinary masterpiece I’m about to consume.” He whips out a container of what looks like mac and cheese.

“Oh yeah? Is that some 4 star shit in there?” He leans against the counter next to me and pulls the lid off the container with exaggerated movements. Plunging his for into the Velveeta mac and cheese shell pasta, gooey with orange froth he places the fork into his mouth and cleans ever last bit of liquid from it.

“Mmmmmmmm…Velveeta with truffle oil.”

“Greg, are you shitting me? Let me taste!”

That was so like him.

*

Brad approaches me with his cautious but calm hesitation, a demeanor that saunters inside of my own body but never presents itself. I think that’s why I’m always a little bit brighter and warmer around him. He clutches the metal cup in his grip, a large tumbler pocked with scratches and dents. All of the chefs use them. I quench their thirsts when their cups run dry.

Andy- water with a little ice and no straw, sometimes lemon

Milo- ginger ale, lime wedges and four straws

Forest- Pepsi, sometimes soda water with a squeeze of lime juice (I put an extra one on the side for him)

Mike- Sprite

Brad- diet Pepsi a little ice and three straws

Pedro-ice water with lemon

Norm- ice water plain no straws

Brian- Pepsi no ice

Drew- sprite one lime

Sean- sprite no ice

David- sprite ice and 2 straws

EJ-sprite and a few cubes

I’ve assumed my position at the polishing station surrounded by color-coded glass racks; my back is to the kitchen. The aura of a chef coat clad body approaches from behind me, a sensation like electric static on the backs of my arms.

Brad clutches the cup between his bulky palms the same way I’ve seen him handle slabs of meat. His filets were flawless tonight, looking as if they were made from some fine material instead of muscle of an animal. Perspiring and seeping juice only slightly to give it an engorged plumpness to the cuts, sliced in such a way that the pieces appear cut by a laser and not by his swift hand. Though I don’t eat red meat the sight of it was enough to make me sweat a little.

He gazes at me sheepishly; enough to make me blush and question if that flush is from him or the heat of the kitchen.

“Halle?” His eyes never leave my face. He can be shy but that’s what I like about him. He never averts his gaze.

“Yes dear?” My lips can’t resist the smile he brings on. Never. Fails.

“Could I bother you for a diet Pepsi?” The briefest hint of his own personal smile barely escapes onto his mouth. I like that this is has become a ritual every time we work the same shift. Down to a time frame, first 5 minutes before we open then again a little over halfway through the shift. I can predict it and always make sure I’m in the kitchen then, so I don’t miss it, so he doesn’t pass off the task to someone else. But part of me likes to think he wouldn’t ask anyone but me anyway. “If you’re not busy,” he will add.

“I’m never too busy for you sweetheart and you know you never bother me. Of course I will.” He makes my cheeks hurt from grinning so hard.

*

Travis gives me the kind of looks that leaves a woman perplexed but feverish and blushing.

“There she is.” His voice is a dash gall blended with a hint of confidence and intimacy. I can nearly taste it in the air when we talk. Olive oil and brown sugar, I think, addicted to his Portland accent, a note of something unfamiliar but just there enough to notice west coast sass. He intrigues me endlessly with his decision to move far away from there to a city that is gasping from breath. He told me over a glass of wine he poured for me during after hours, red he guessed and I told him he knew me too well already.

“Why does any guy do something drastic?”

“Not fair,” I point at him over the rim of the glass, “I asked you.

“Well consider this a switcheroo.” He raises an eyebrow, one of his mannerisms I can’t get enough of.

“A girl”

“Bingo” He swipes at the counter with a rag. “Six years and counting.”

He told me after another glass that I should never compensate or settle, that I had more going for me than most. Somehow after knowing him only a week, I believed this more from him than I had from my best friend or my parents. I still do.

“Trav, it’s usually the girl that does shit like that.”

“Yeah well I’m not most asshole guys. I mean don’t get me wrong I can be an asshole but not 98% of the time, ya know?”

“Somehow I knew that 5 days ago.”

I held on fast after that. And two months later, between stuffing blue cheese into pitted olives and squeezing every last drip out of oranges he said, “Hey you know you make this place more bearable.” I barley caught the sentence as he paced from one end of the bar to the other, setting up for service, grabbing black cocktail napkins and menus. He does that; slips in discrete compliments, maybe hoping you aren’t paying attention. I just smile when he does that, knowing he’s looking at me even if I’m not looking at him. He’s like a brother now, shoulder punching and flicking my wrist or elbowing me in the ribs. Somehow I think he would stick up for me if need be. I’d do the same and then some for him.

*

Leftovers

*

Wooden shelves hold a few water glasses filled with half melted ice cubes and water, soda or iced tea. Two porcelain mugs of coffee sit unsteaming and neglected. A teabag hangs from the third and I assume it’s Carrie’s, Lemon Nestea. Beyond the swinging stainless steel doors is a dining room full of patrons in a dull murmur of conversation and clinking of china and silver wear.

We gather around the little nook by the dishwasher station, left over’s and extras placed there, gathering sopping up broth with crostinis and letting the liquid drip down our chins, reveling in the food we normally wouldn’t be allowed to eat.

Little bowls with puddles of creamy broth, four or five muscles held there gently like a hand palming something delicate. Two thickly sliced, crispy crostini finish the little wonder.

We anticipate leftovers so we can gather around each other to hold a cupped hand under our chins to catch crumbs or drips of sauce, smiling while we chew, brief notes of satisfaction and hums of satiation.

*

“Yeah, this is what I call the smoked salmon crostini club sandwich,” Norm stacks five of the finger food into a mini sandwich, pinches it tight between two fingers and places it into his open mouth.

“Want some? They are left over.” The sentence I've been waiting for since I started catering the wedding party. The little nibbles of crostini teased me as I helped Andy assemble them on the white platter.

*

“Andy, what do you want to save? He peers into the various troughs of staff meal. “Eh, keep…keep…keep...garbage.

Now I retrieve plastic bins dump left over’s into them like feed for farm animals. I swipe damp, dirty rags over splotches of sauce or spilled salad dressing. I stack plates, line B and B’s with black napkins or square share plates with folded, crisp linens.

My hands are soggy and wrinkled from damp polishing clothes. I burnish silver wear I put on a smile. I’m humiliated.

*

I’d rather have their acceptance. They make me laugh, face aching from smiling so much.

Slow night, only a smattering of hanging tickets and the boys are cracking jokes, quoting movies and comedians, giving each other a hard time. The atmosphere soft and malleable under our breathy chortles. Sometimes they make me forget I was almost fired. Now back to basic blacks I offer up whatever I can to prove this is what I want, that I can be a waitress, a damn good one, that I can develop that pigs hide skin and not let tears escape from bad nights.

“Hey Halle, you wanna pick parsley for these guys?”

“YES!”

Everyone stops and looks at me like I’m crazy for accepting the task.

“Wow, that’s the enthusiasm I want to see from all of you!” Andy turns to face the line. The boys laugh. It’s my secret that I want to be back there with them. I feel sexy in my black t-shirt and chucks.

Resting 1-2

I've decided to take a brief break from this blog to work on my other one...which you should all check out..if you so please.

Lo

vE

When Pigs Fly

*

My body pulses in time with my heart as soon as I lay in the shadows of my room, covering my like a heavy blanket. Most nights now I am too exhausted to even fold down the comforter or sweep the mound of pillows off the bed with my arm.

I know I need a thicker skin, a skin that is nearly impenetrable. Skin like hide, tough and sustainable to lashes and beatings. Pig, horse, cow, animals of the farm, poked and prodded, whipped to be controlled.

Wikipedia

Pig (also know as Swine)

“Despite its reputation for gluttony the swine is actually a social and intelligent animal.”

*

His hands are rough but warm, like a leather interior of a car sitting in the sun. I have one resting in my palm, our wrists touching pulse points. Maybe it was just an excuse to touch him, or maybe I wanted to see what the hands of someone who used them so often felt like. The muscles resting just below that slight layer of skin are taught like rubber bands, little nodules hidden, wedged between the striations, I could imagine. I worked the pad of my thumb into the circumference of his hand and tried not to explore the pattern of scares and cuts there.

“Jesus, Dan you have some serious calluses going on there,” running my thumb over the hardened patch of skin just below his ring and pinky fingers.

“Yeah man I know.” I half expected him to pull his hand away but he let me keep hold.

“Dave, you get your knife callus yet?” Dan pulls his hand closer to his face to inspect his battle scars, my hand loses grip and his knuckles slip past my fingertips, raw and scathed from hours over flame and waves of heat from opening and closing oven doors.

*

“Yeah? So what’s your kryptonite?” He cocks his head to the left for a minute, as if he’s listening for the answer from the next room or some unknown presence.

“Hmm…damn, I don’t really know man.”

“Oh come on, there has to be something. You aren’t a superstar as much as you may think you are.”

“Sassy much?” he looks at me briefly as if he’s thinking about smiling but doesn’t. “Yeah I guess terrines. I hate that shit.”

I want him to pick up the electric guitar that lies beside him like a sleeping lover. The next day he will show me a photo on his phone, of the collection of guitars hanging on his wall. He will ask if it looks familiar, in front of the whole kitchen staff and I will say yeah, your basement. The guys will all snicker into their plates of curry and rice.

My father has a way with his hands. His large, deceivingly nimble fingers, the way his surgeons grip handles tools. Dan’s hands tinker and sashay the way they do on his guitar. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised but the array of electric guitars on his wall makes the muscles in my legs tighten and twitch.

*

Filet m/ wp/ mush/oysters

Tomato sal/ lob.

Chop sal no onion

Four Sisters

I envy Ashley who can make notes in her head where I take pen to paper.

*

“Brad, are your ears burning?” The polishing rag makes my hands soggy.

“Huh? I know somethin's burning. Look at all this smoke!” The apple wood charcoal and wood chips smolder beneath the grate of the grill where the slabs of meat sit smoking and cooking with scents of pork and cow juices seeping upward in curls of haze. The kitchen has a cloudy aura to it.

“Brad we were talking about you.”

“Yeah what about?"

“I was saying how my new tattoo is going to be your name on my shoulder because you a meat grilling god machine.” He laughs and uses his wrist to scratches at his red smattering of whiskers. The color of his hair seems to match the tint of the meat the butchers.

Blade

Brisket

Chuck

Fillet

Flank

Fore rib

Leg

Neck

Rump

Shank

Shin

Silverside

Sirloin

Thick rib

Thin rib

Topside

It’s the ABC’s of meat, of the slaughter, of the grilling and chewing and savoring.

“I’m serious. You cook meat perfectly, flawlessly with a consistency I’ve never seen before and that I probably won’t ever see again.” Brad hacks into a piece of porterhouse and smiles, hold his gaze and pauses to not and say thank you. I know he is sincere; his nod is brief but consoling. He is humble.

The bones of the short rib protrudes in bowed ivory like a rainbow, marbled layer upon layer of meat red like Brad’s his cheeks and nose. When I watch him hack into that thick hunk of pork I wonder what its like, using your own body against the grain of another animal’s. Lacerating the layers of muscle, fat, tendons, the blade of the cleaver slashing through easily in some places, others getting stuck at a stubborn piece of tendon sweat gathering on your brow from the blows.

*

“Dan…what part of her would you eat?” The lower half of my body is wrapped in a wrinkled comforter. Dan places one hand on my ankle and the other on my thigh just above my knee.

“All of this dude, all of this. The shank, most muscular part, most flavor.” Dave nods in agreement and I’m blushing

His fingers maneuvered my own over the bass guitar’s strings earlier. He’s hard to read, hints flickering a crossed his face for milliseconds before flitting out. I played three notes, he played times infinity, I kept the beat and his fingers plucked and fluttered over the neck and strings like I wish they would down my spine. His touch is quick and hesitant, as if he’s afraid to be burned if he even grazes any part of himself against me. He plays with fire for a living but steers clear of all parts of me.

*

They scrub down the kitchen, suds slopping over the stainless steel counters, the same color of my nails.

The floor is soaked, puddled in a faux orange zest scent, coating the tiled floor in bubbles. I reach down to the pocket of my apron for a pen to close out my last tab but for the third night in a row they have somehow disappeared. I started with 5 brand new Zebras and am now left with zero. Travis pushes his way through the stainless steel doors and I notice 3 identical pens are tucked neatly into the front of pocket of his jeans. But I don’t say anything.

*

The night hovers just above the brevity of mid afternoon. 3-4 PM sits in its own fermentation, waiting for someone to add spice to it, or fleur de self, give it another layer of flavor and punch that only the evening can taste like.

I sliced a chunk out of the tip of my thumb. It was Monday, I had no tables. I sliced bread until the serrated edge like razors found my skin and mistook it for the raw crust of multigrain. My blood came is increasing drips of red. Dotting the white cutting board, crumbs pooling with the red itself. I saw the flap of skin, the running of blood before the pain, just stared for a moment, aware of my body’s response to injury, the release of elements from inside of me, offered to the open air.

Then pain coming instantly, a heartbeat in my fingertip.

*

I am cold when I am not in the kitchen, goose bumps until the heat of a rush comes.

Part of me wonders if I let the knife slip, to give myself a wound, a remembrance of this place and time, a scar to catch a glimpse of when I’m writing of driving or perhaps in the wake of a morning that has left me aching and worn. I’ll look at that scar, put it to my teeth and pause there to bite the discolored, hatched skin

*

His calluses are like scars, pieces of warped skin from where the handle of the knife slipped and rubbed incessantly during each maneuver. Hours of rapid fire mincing, his muscles tensing into steel like contractions, Japanese steel, the kind his knife is whittled from. He opens the knife case, unrolls it like a carpet, his tools placed discretely in proper holsters, different gradations like an amp or seismograph. He removes each one, runs his thumb slowly a crossed the blade to the tip and when I watch him sharpen the steel I wonder about the day he bought those knives. Maybe he wandered up and down the isles, shelves and such glistening with Japanese steel, angels and points in perfect lines and he’d test each one, running his thumb down the blade like I imagine he would over the line of my body or full bottom lip before he devours me.

*

The back of my throat burns from trying to hold in frustration through tears, I pray to some higher power that the dampness rapidly pooling in my eyes won’t spill over and stain my cheeks with black lines. Movements and actions don’t connect; I’m reaching for silverware I don’t need and scrambling for the expo. screen which looks like a jumble of neon nonsense. Laura steps up beside me to grab a marking plate. I can feel her pause in her usual mechanical motions.

“What’s wrong, boo?” Her gentle hand settles onto my wrist, halting the jerky movements brought on by the customer who just can’t be pleased.

*

Your hands are cracked around the edges, on the pads of your fingers, in white lines, like dusty strands of hair left in a corner. Pink fingers with scathed patches of skin. You hate how they feel, thirsty for sweat or oil. Something to penetrate those dried up lines like tiny parched tributaries, skin that feels as if your outgrowing it, stretching over the frame of your body, you can nearly hear it creek when you clench your fists, wrap your fingers around large plates, rubbing and burnishing silverware until its luster is unhindered of fingerprints and watermarks.

It tightens until you can nearly feel it rip in the thinnest places, like at the place where your knuckles join and bend, you have expected to see exposed bone soon.

Water from kitchen faucets is deceptive. You flash your hands quickly there to rinse excess butter or foodstuff or ketchup and the temporary dampness reminds you of a burst of cool air on a humid, sticky afternoon.

But the relief vanishes.

Moments later, your hands even more chapped than before. The heat from the large porcelain plates, the heat lamps at the runner station sip and suckles ever last drop of moisture from your palm to fingertips. Yet passing by a window or glass floor you see your face, sheen with a mist of its own oil and sweat. You are perplexed, and rub your hands together, hoping they do not spark.