Fiction (TBD)

Vince stomped his boots on the weathered steps leading into the back door of his kitchen. The muddy ice fell away. His toes didn’t get warmed up even though he blasted the truck heater the whole way from home. He exhaled smoke from his last drag of a Parliament and turned the key to go in. It smelled like the goddamned fryer had been burning all night. He made his way to his tiny office. Cluttered with invoices, stained paper menus, opened cases of wine, and his crooked photo of Marco Pierre White. Vince worked for him one winter. He idolized him. He hung his yellow Carhartt jacket over his chair and walked down his line. The fryer oil was smoking. Three gallons of black waste looked back at him. They were both disgusted.

He liked being in the restaurant before anyone came in. Quiet solitude at home was unnerving. Here, it was peaceful knowing others would come and keep him company. They had to, he paid them for their presence. He said that it was because he liked to set the temperature of the room – that he hated coming in and redirecting the energy to his liking. Lies.

Vince grabbed a 5-gallon stock pot and began emptying the fryer. Ladling some back in to help wash down the burnt shit that sat on the bottom. A fucking mess. Why can’t people get their shit together? He lugged the pot outside in the freezing morning air and dumped the contents in the oil trap. Thing smelled like the floor of his truck. Lighting a smoke and pushing his hands deep into the waistband of his chef pants. Smoke curled up into his nostrils, burning the inside of his nose. He exhaled and spit for no reason. It tasted like coffee. Coffee sounded good.

He took his clipboard off the hook in his office and began writing.

Duck.

Morels.

Rapini.

Fingerlings.

Flatiron.

The phone rang.

Hi. No. That’s Tuesday. I would assume, but check. Ha!! Ok, see you in a bit.

He loved her. Or at least whateverthefuck he thought love was these days.

The coffee was too strong. The staff hated when he made it. He always pulled a cup before it was done brewing.

He set a pan on the burner and scrambled three eggs in a small bowl. Fucker was chipped. I can’t afford new dishes right now. Maybe in the Spring. I can wait until the end of the season. The butter foamed in the pan and he poured the mixture into it. Slowly pulling the pan back and forth in circles, moving the edges of the eggs to the middle.

Salt.

Pepper.

Circles.

The dining room was cold. The previous owners imported a fuck-ton of a bar from Lyon. It was a beautiful black beauty. French oak. You could smell it. He ate his breakfast standing against it. The silver fork was antique. Heavy. He liked heavy.

Prisha was on her phone when she bounded in. Huge expensive designer bag, keys, an overnight bag, a pair of heels dangled from her fingers. She was wearing those stupid Ugg boots, black yoga pants, a huge scarf, and huge black sunglasses. She’s tiny – so everything looks huge on her. She walked past, and I could smell her with the cold she brought in. Flowers, spice, incense, something…I dunno. Evil. Heaven. Her.

She’s beautiful. Not just the way she looks – that’s easy. Long black hair, eyes that look through you, and black as infinity. She carries herself too well to be on purpose. She doesn’t walk. She moves. Floats, really. Her skin is dark – but somehow shines. Her teeth are perfect – including the left front one – it pushes in against its neighbor – but just slightly. Her flaws are what make her perfect. Perfect to me.

When she speaks, my ears hiss against the surrounding noise – pushing out whatever is

vying for my attention. She’s Indian. I’ve never been with an Indian woman. She’s all business. Not just mine – she takes care of the restaurant better than I ever could. She’s a better Maître D’ than I could ask for. She studies people without them being aware. I know this because I do the same. She reads. A lot. She reads about wine. Her father imported wine before his wife died in a car accident when Prisha was 11. Now he just drinks it. I met him a couple of times. He lives down Valley with his dogs – he’s a good guy. Never talks to me much – Seemed like he was embarrassed about something. I dunno.

Prisha is studying for her MW exam. It’s a big deal. When she passes, she’ll leave me. Us. Our restaurant. Me.

What the fuck is that smell? What are you burning?

It’s not me – Roxy left the fucking fryer on all night.

Well, this place stinks. I’m opening the doors.

We don’t open for hours – I’ll turn the hoods on and get some of this out.

Ugh. Whatever, chef.

She calls me chef when I’m being bossy. Or, in front of the staff. Everyone calls me chef. Otherwise, she says Vince. Sings Vince, really. Or Vincent when she’s pissed. Her tooth makes it sound like Vins-thent. I cry inside.

Did Meritage deliver yet?

No. Nothing’s come yet.

I have a surprise coming from them. You’ll have to do your skirt steak tonight – the one with the mushroom souffle.

Chinon?

Of course. It’s your birthday week – smiles.

She murders me. The hissing sound again.

Roxy is my yin. Or my yang. I dunno what all that means. She’s a badass. If you’ve never met a lesbian Mexican – stay clear. They’ll fucking destroy you. They’re the fiercest animal on the planet. And she’s mine. Her girlfriend is beautiful. A white chick. And Roxy protects her. Takes care of her. Loves her hard.

Roxy has been with her for 5 years. I think her name is Anne – dunno. I don’t talk to her. I’m afraid of what will happen to me. ‘Anne’ is from Vail – meaning, she has money, or at least her folks do. Her parents hated Roxy forever – but they’ve come around. They had to. Roxy and ‘Anne’ own a trailer up Valley. They can afford better, but that’s where they live. Roxy brings her dinner every night. I’m jealous of ‘Anne’.

The name on her I.D. says, Maria Hernandez Erasmo – But she insists on Roxy. I do whatever she says.

Roxy washed dishes for me when I opened – she killed it then too. We seat 40 – She’d keep up on dishes and all the pots that we left her before she came in. Then, she’d hang out and watch us cook during service. Running back and forth between the dish pit and the line. Watching. Learning. Roxy had goals. When your family depends on your paycheck – you hustle. Roxy hustled. She outworks me every day.

My dishwashers prep too. Peel potatoes. Clean mushrooms with a toothbrush. Cut pommes frites. Roxy cut her teeth doing that kind of shit. So, I made her a cook. She cried when I told her to put on an apron and grab a stack of towels. She knew what that meant. Her first night, she thought she had to run back and do dishes too. It took me two hours to figure out where she kept running off to. She dismissed the guy I hired in her place – So, I let her. That’s who Roxy is. I’ve never seen her cry since.

Two years later, Roxy is my sous. She gets food. Her English is way better than when I hired her. Her fire inspires me. I’m terrified of her. I don’t dare call her Maria Hernandez Erasmo.

She brings me a pineapple-upside-down cake for my birthday. She wrings her hands and hunches up her wide shoulders when she sets it on my desk.

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I’m going to Santa Fe for ten days. Can you look after Livi?

Look after, how?

She’ll stay at my house. I just want her to know your ‘available’.

What the fuck does she mean, ‘available’?

Available? Like, her dad is available?

Yes, like her dad is ‘available’.

Yes Sarah.

I’m writing a piece about spas in Santa Fe and it’s off-the-grid. Like, they don’t let us bring our cell phones.

I know what off-the-grid means. Who’s us?

Us. Like other writers, us.

Oh.

Don’t be an asshole Vince.

How am I being an asshole?

David is coming with me.

Ok.

So, you’re saying, Oh, like an asshole.

I’m not saying anything of the sort Sarah.

Anyway, can I be confident that you can look after her, or not?

Jesus Sarah, I said yes. You just drop shit on me and set me up to screw things up. When are you leaving?

I’m here now.

Olivia or Livi as we call her is my daughter. Her mom and I split when she was 16. She’s 20 now. Her mom and I had the restaurant together when we moved to Vail. We met when I worked in France. Her folks owned a culinary school for dip-shit Americans that would come to France on cruise ships. Her dad is French and taught (badly) French cuisine classes that no chef would ever attend. They were an excuse to drink wine and play with knives. They made a fortune. One of their clients was a guy that was trying to unload a restaurant that was a shit-hole breakfast joint in Vail. Sarah suggested to her parents that her new American boyfriend would be an ideal investment. So, they bought us a restaurant. I finished my stint with MPW and we moved to Vail.

Sarah was pregnant with Livi already and we married that Spring. I’m not sure where my head was. Sarah was a fantastic fuck. So, I fell in love with her, quickly. I do that. I gravitate to the surface and not the deep. Or I did then. Sarah was in love with the idea of us. She does that. And now she hates me. I get that too.

Livi skied. Like going-to-the-Olympics skiing. That was until the accident. I’ve tried to stop drinking a couple of times.

When we divorced, I was lonely in my house. I’m guessing Sarah was too. Or else she wouldn’t have fucked a bartender 20 years younger than her. Livi caught her. She found him dead on the bathroom floor. He snorted the rail of oxycodone that Livi lined up for herself before she passed out from the three bottles of Chardonnay, she drank the night before.

Livi broke her back that winter. Falling from a fucking ski lift that stopped suddenly. Beyond tragic. Her dream was over. And so was mine.

Sarah got her real estate license, was a yoga instructor, and tried writing a book about some Harry Potter shit on an iceberg…I dunno. She wouldn’t talk about it or to me for a long time. We were beyond crisis mode.

We had a terrible divorce. Sarah got everything. Her parents funded her lawyers. I rented an apartment and was awarded a shit-hole restaurant that she wanted nothing to do with. $183K in debt, I cooked.

I buried myself into work. I do that. I cried every night. I drank myself to sleep every night. I wallowed in my own shit. Self-pity either kills you or it doesn’t. I cooked to prove to myself that I was alive. That I was still…something. I did the best food I’ve ever made back then. We got a Michelin Star. Prisha helped. Her guidance did that. My anger did that.

Three skirt! Two mid-rare, one medium!

One bass!

Fire risotto!

Pick up one carbonara, two skirt, and

where the fuck is the gelato?

Oui chef!

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Audie is on the phone

Ok, tell him one sec

Audie, chef is with someone right now. Can you hold, or would you prefer for him to ring you? I’ll let him know. Thank you, Audie.

What’s that about?

Aspen

What about Aspen?

Stop it.

I don’t want to embarrass us.

Vins-thent!

Why the fuck would they want me...us?

Because you’re important Vince. The restaurant is important. Don’t be a selfish arse! Doing things that are good for you give us a chance to have some good publicity! That helps us all; you know that.

We have good….

We most certainly do! And I intend to keep it that way!

Even her heels sound beautiful – even when she’s marching away from me.

-Hiss-

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I piss in the shower.

I never drink enough water, so it burns like a bitch. It smells like coffee, or asparagus

if we served it that night.

The water is always hot as fuck – the grease under my nails never comes out.

The calluses on my heels are permanent at this point. Sarah never slept by me and kicked my feet off her because of them. She always said it was because I was too hot.

I need a haircut. I shave in the shower at the end of the night because I’m too exhausted in the morning.

I brush my teeth at night and in the morning because I’m not a fucking imbecile.

My eyes are bloodshot. I can see them because I have a mirror in the shower – for the shaving part.

When I piss at work, or anywhere for that matter, I sit. Because hey, a chair! Any chance to sit – I take. I always remove my shirt too – not sure why.

I floss every day. My back right molar is bugging me.

Roxy’s cousin needed a job, so she busses at the restaurant and cleans my house twice a week. No one makes my bed better than her. It’s always great to have fresh sheets on the bed. She empties the dishwasher and waters the plants. Sometimes she brings tamales and puts them in the freezer for me.

I burnt myself on a pan handle that I forgot on an open burner. I hate burns. I’d rather cut myself everyday than burn myself once a year. It’s on my palm. I bite a small hole on the rising blister and spit out the puss. I bit too big of a hole, so now I have to pull the whole thing off. That’s gonna blow tomorrow. I also have fresh towels – every shower.

I’d jerk off – but my hand hurts, and I’m tired.

I make a Scotch. Watch Charlie Rose. And go to bed.

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Today is my birthday. I forgot until I saw the messages on my phone. It’s 8:30. I’m usually up at 5:30. My birthday-self didn’t set the alarm last night. I still woke up at 5:30. Peed. Crawled back into bed, and here I am.

It’s Thursday. The light woke me. It’s very quiet outside. It snowed. The world is so very quiet when it snows.

The shadows in my house are very strange at this hour. I’m rarely here at this time of day. I

hear the clock in the living room ticking. I’m anxious. I have a fear of being tardy – late. I hate late.

My bed smells like lavender. Roxy’s cousin washes the sheets with smell-good detergent. It’s something I would never buy for myself. I get sick of the same smell over and over. But it’s nice today. I move my leg to the other side of the bed. It’s shockingly cold.

The shower feels good – hot.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My truck is cold and the smoke from my cigarette combined with my exhale fills the cabin. It’s cold as fuck. It revives my senses, and my snot freezes when I inhale. I run the windshield wipers and the snow puffs away. Sweeping away without any frozen remainder. It was too cold to melt and freeze on the glass. It’s my favorite kind of snow. I pull away down the road, gun the gas, and the snow explodes off my truck.

I stop and get flowers for the shop. Prisha has set up a standing order for us. I’ll call so she doesn’t make the trip. There’s a man that I get lamb from on Thursday, so I swing by there too.

My egg lady broke her hip, and her piece-of-shit son never answers my phone calls. I think he’s avoiding me because I didn’t pay a bill or some shit. He’s confused. We always pay. Money hasn’t been an issue since we got a star. His name is Gene. Fuck Gene. His mom’s name is Gloria. It’s too cold to stop by there anyways. I do miss her eggs. We make pasta and gelato from them. The eggs are glorious.

My phone rings

Are you awake, birthday boy?

I had forgotten to call her.

I’m on my way in. I got the flowers, so don’t worry about that.

Well well, that was nice of you. Thank you, birthday boy.

Thank you Prisha.

For what?

Telling me happy birthday.

I didn’t tell you anything of the sort.

I know what you meant.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello Audie, its Vince

I was under the assumption that I would receive a call from you on Monday when I rang you.

Your precious Prisha certainly alerted you of my interest in a conversation.

She did. I’ve been busy. I apologize.

Audie is a food critic for the Rocky Mountain News. He’s a huge supporter of my restaurant, and me. He’s also a pest. His expectation for our gratitude is unreasonable at times. Although he never says it, it’s clear when he’s unimpressed. He’s British. He’s never without a bowtie, vest, corduroy pants, a weathered belt and terribly worn shoes. His hair is long and parted on the side where his bangs are long, so he impulsively sweeps his fingers through them to pull it away from his face. It’s graying too. He’s a tall, good-looking guy. As you can imagine, his teeth are beyond crooked and tarnished with who knows what. He’s a giant in our industry. The former food editor for Culinary Vanity – Audie knows is shit. His wine knowledge is on par with most anyone in the world. Prisha idolizes him. She should, whenever she asks him for advice, he never pulls rank on her. He’s a good ally. A pest, but an ally.

So, what’s the verdict chef? Will you be my date to this orgy?

You mean Aspen?

Don’t be coy Vincent.

What do you want from me Audie? I have a restaurant to run and we’re in season.

You have a star, Vincent. Not coming assures yourself zero stars next year. Besides, Prisha deserves this almost as much as you.

I don’t like those people, Audie.

They don’t like each other, good man. The competitive spirit always brings out the worst in human beings! Especially the losers. Envy is ugly…but it sure keeps things interesting!

He let out his trademark Ho! Ho! Ha!! and blew his nose.

Then you’ll come. It’s settled. You and Prisha will stay at the Quorum. I have your rooms booked already. I’ve rented you a Range Rover as well. No sense uncovering your cowboy persona via your cowboy vehicle. Prisha deserves better than that. I’ll see you in a week. And hung up.

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We’re booked.

I saw that. Are you going to start a wait list?

I have room at the bar for anyone walking in, but that’s it.

Ok. I talked to Audie. Do you still think we should go?

What!!?? Yes Vincent!

The cooks all turn their heads.

It’s important, chef. We should go.

I agree. Ok, then. I’ll firm up the schedule with Roxy…

Oh, I’ve already talked with her. She’s fine. The kitchen will be fine. The restaurant will be fine….let’s go!

Tears were welling up in her big black eyes. She spun around on her big black heels and floated to the podium trying to look busy straightening menus.

Roxy looked up from making tortellini and beamed.