"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.