2 Out 1-0! (2 weeks in October)

Week 2 of my job and I’ve fallen into a ritual and I miss parts of my training already. I would never admit to him that I enjoyed him drilling me about the stuffed peppers or boar rack. What ingredients came with which dish.

I write my life on order tabs. Imbibe the pace of the kitchen and all of its smells and smoke, inhale the spices, drink in the juices.

*

“That fucking pan roasted chicken breast.” Smoke escapes his lips as he exhales the answer in blue gray twines of breath. “Little bit of butter, chicken stock, tarragon…” He swells like a wave, his smile widening with his arms stretching over his head. “Fucking dank.” He kisses his thumb, index and middle finger in a short star burst motion. “Ugh so good!”

That sound he makes, that grunt of satisfaction like he knows what he creates is something of perfection.

*

I approach my tables with caution underscored by a blip of excited anticipation, an approach that says I’m there to take care of you, to accent your meal but not overpower it.

“Good evening! My name is Halle and I’m going to be taking care of you this evening.” I smile but not too wide, show a glint of teeth and cross my hands folded behind my back. Eye contact is something to always work on, I can't focus on anyone’s face, find a focal point on a stripe of a gentleman’s tie or the single misplaced curl of a woman’s hot-rollered hair. Sometimes its easiest to flick my gaze out the picture window, catch a glimpse of a passing hungry, stumbling man or ladies in heels and new pea coats. One of these days I’ll be able to lock eyes for a few moments with the patrons I begin a silent connection with for an hour or two before I never see them again. I try to imagine what it would be like to be on the other side, to have a waitress who can’t look you in the eye as she describes the spicy tomato soup with a garnish of sweet cornbread, pancetta and blue cheese crumble. Would I wonder why her words are so elegant but her eyes say nothing because I cannot see them? Would it matter?

But my name has, more so than not, appeared on their palates between bites of salmon or tiny bites of marrow and crostini, infused in the oil left on their lips. Maybe that will get me to look.

Table 24

“Josh this is Halle.” The middle aged man gestures his palm toward me as an older, balder one slides awkwardly into the booth next to him. He shakes my hand.

“I see the rest of your company has joined you gentleman.” When I smile I can feel the corner of my eyes crinkle.

Table 32

“See, Halle knows what she’s talking about!” Her face does not move with one iota of expression. I wonder if all that Botox will let her be able to chew. Joan Crawford enters my mind. I bite my tongue.

“The wine is divine love. Now. What shall we eat?” She holds the menu up for me to look at. I have it memorized.

“Well it depends on if you want meat, fish or something light? We do have soup and some fantastic salads. Or perhaps you’d rather just have a few appetizers? What do you think?”

“I think you should sit down and eat with us, Halle! You’ve made everything sound just too delicious.

*

It’s murky, off-red and orange dark in the restaurant. The lights are low, the crowd has died down and the wind outside the window blows rain against the glass. The weakness in my knees travels up my thighs, pushing me slightly into the expo. station behind me. To my left are abandoned booths hidden behind the bar. Table 19 is reserved for after hours, Joseph and Mary’s dinners and designated memory maker in my own world.

I’m on my own now, but a few weeks before I occupied that space, Joseph a crossed from me immersed in that same lava glow during a late night training session. Steaming plates of food before us, multiple glasses of red wine each holding only a slight pour of liquid. Hands on, palate like the nose of a dog, memorizing scents and flavors, the best way to understand the composition and the pairing, the philosophy was to let the palate discover and absorb all of it.

Those few minutes of tasting and talking, like the last drips of wine from a glass of impeccable Bordeaux. I liked that he asked me about the food, what did I taste, how would I describe it? Looking into me instead of at me. Intimidation comes in severities and types like the wine I drank. First, it was the watchful, judging eye of someone who was young, successful and knowledgeable, who walked with an air about him the way I wish I could, a wisdom I wanted to drink in but was too afraid to uncork.

I felt as if he wanted to wipe me away like the fingerprints or watermarks on a wine glass.

I felt like an impostor, or undeserving of his teaching because even the simplest tasks I could not grasp onto with my fingers.

“Through this process I will be nit picking through everything you do, I will be watching every move not because I’m looking for things you are doing wrong but because I want you to be the best you can be, I want all of the things I teach you to become automatic.” His eyes seared into me. “I’ll tell you a story. When I first started working as a waiter I had a pretty big head. I hated that someone was constantly coming up to me telling me every little thing I was doing wrong. At first I blew it off because I was young and thought I was the shit.”

“Joseph, you are young”

“No, YOU’RE young”

“Anyway so there was just one day where I decided I wanted to be the best, and that meant fixing a tweaking all of those little things, even if they seemed unimportant.”

Now my fingers burn and itch, my feet wont stand still because I want to, I will show him, just how extraordinary I am. Some day I want to be in his place, with someone acrossed from me at a perfectly set table, giving a speech all of my own, telling stories of how I’m slowly climbing rungs..