Expo. Deux

Andy drizzles balsamic reduction onto the porterhouse that the menu suggests for 2 but could really feed a pack of wolves

Ingredients scroll though my head, followed by preparation and random facts as I watch him over the metal island, wiping stray flecks off the white porcelain.

Porter House

48 oz.

cut off the bone for convenience and a presented plated presented with the two parts of meat: strip steak and filet

served with a balsamic steak sauce

-onion, garlic, sage, rosemary, clove, celery seed chili powder

-balsamic and white wine vinaigrette

-ketchup, brown sugar, raisins

I know the sauce is simmered and reduced, then handed off to chef who finishes off the dish at the final plating station.

“Runner!”

“I’m your girl!”

“52 seat 2”

*

The knives are slow and steady now. It’s early and the only “rush” going on is happy hour, with the exception of the porter house, little wonders of goat tacos, fried brussle sprouts, goat cheese mac and cheese and the oh so sumptuously delectable Roast Burger served on an English muffin topped with a quivering fried egg, make their way to the front of the restaurant, via black stripped clad wait staff.

My face feels sunburnt.

People say a kitchen is a kitchen but being here makes me think of Zinc back in Sandusky and how different every component is, down to the last call.

When I watch those boys cook it reminds me of my writing, fixated, concentrated on every detail, pinched brow, eloquent hands.

“Dude I spend $35 on chanterelles this weekend.” Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m hoping Andy is interested in my love of food, that he gets that I’m not just working this job for a paycheck. I thrive on the heat of the burners and what he does with his hands and a large knife.

“Yeah? The mushroom guy there? At the farmers market I mean.” Andy doesn’t look up from his brenoise of carrot and celery but I sense interest in his voice.”

“Ha, oh was he.”

“What did you do to them?”

“The mushrooms?”

“No, the mushroom people,” he snorts. “Yeah the mushrooms silly girl.”

“Roasted them, balsamic, lemon olive oil, a little salt and cracked pepper, nothing fancy.”

“Chef in the making, hmm?”

“Word”

*

And the heat is on. A 15 top walk in ordered 6 lobster salads and god knows what else.

The boys are on high gear, plates are shuffled and dealt like a deck of cards, perfection, in rose pink dressing, like sauce, chunks of watermelon and plumb pieces of poached lobster and shrimp in a neat little pile on the plate. Bright green dusting, a garnish of pistachio finishes it off. I’ve already tasted the dish and can feel the slight heat in the back of my throat from the hint of ginger and jalapeño.

*

“2 Out 16!”

“Fire seconds on thirty! “

“Sides on 40 on the fly!”

They each have their own dance. Andy stays smooth and steady like running water. Calm, even when the atmosphere around him is about to burst. I look at him sometimes and wonder what he is thinking, working these long hours only recreating a design, and artwork that is not his own. I want to know what his ideas are, what he would create if he had the freedom. Instead he ensures perfection of someone else’s vision. Is he stifled?

He wears rubber loves, chopping chilies the color of my nails.

“Fire 24!”

“Resting 24!

Every so often my nose picks up a scent of something new out of the familiar wafts of salt and oil.

“Here, try some of this.”

Norm hands me a sliver of Humboldt fog that tastes of vineyard soil after a midnight rain. Herbal, piquant, with a big of tang like orange or apricot rind. Maybe some asparagus too, like someone roasted the tips a big to long, ashy and salty but full bodied.

I’m wondering if I will last.