Bone in the Throat (12 page)

Twenty-One

T
HEY SAT
at one of the better tables, near a gurgling fountain in the garden patio at the rear of the restaurant. Bright green ivy grew on the trellises behind them, and there were yellow tulips everywhere. Wealthy old ladies chatted in small groups at the other tables.

"You need money," his mother said; a statement, not a question. The chef nodded, trying to smile sheepishly.

"Remember how we used to make breakfast?" asked the chef's mother, changing the subject. "In France?"

"With the chocolate?" asked the chef, grateful his mother wasn't chiding him about the money.

"Yes," she said, "with the baguette, the Normandy butter and the big bowl of hot chocolate. We'd serve it in those big blue bowls."

"I loved that," said the chef. "I miss it. Can't do it here, it's not the same."

"It's the butter," said his mother.

She was tall and thin and elegant in a dark blue dress and a single strand of pearls. Her silver hair was put up in a tight bun, giving her countenance a severe aspect. . . Her face was pale and white, offset by the single slash of dark red lipstick. She sat ramrod straight in her chair and, with two long, manicured fingertips, removed a piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. Without turning her head, she sensed the waiter's approach, and she extinguished the unfiltered Gitane in a cut-glass ashtray.

The waiter placed an oversize china plate in front of her, saying, "Madame." She inspected the carre d'agneau without moving her head or changing her expression. Three tiny rib chops, impeccably trimmed, were crisscrossed on a stripe of sauce in the middle of the plate. An arrangement of baby vegetables, tied into little bundles with blanched bits of leek, surrounded the lamb. The waiter came around the table and put the chef's turbot down in front of him.

"Look how many truffles they put," said his mother in her slight French accent.

The chef smiled broadly. "Is that cooked to your liking,
Maman
?" he asked her.

"Parfait," she responded. She liked it when he called her
Maman.

The waiter poured her a little more Côtes du Rhône, then lifted a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse from a silver ice-bucket and refilled the chef's glass. He asked the chef's mother, in French, if there was anything else she would care for. She dismissed him, also in French.

The chef picked up a big piece of black truffle from the top of his turbot with his fingers and popped it in his mouth.

"Oh! Michel!" protested his mother, "not with the hands!"

The chef shook his head and picked up his fork and took a first bite of fish.

"Is it all right? It's moist in the center? It's not cooked too much?" asked his mother, peering across the table.

"It's fine," said the chef. He picked up the oversize white-wine glass and drank half its contents.

"You just got your fish and you've almost finished your wine," she said.

"I can always drink the rest of yours," he said. "You've hardly touched it."

"And stop squirming in your chair like that. Why can't you get comfortable? Something is always eating you," she said.

"Sorry," said the chef.

"And you drink too much," she added.

"I don't drink like this on a regular basis," said the chef. "It's just good wine. I don't drink a lot of wine this good. I'm trying to make the most of it."

She nodded and took a delicate bite from the center of her lamb chop. "I wish you had ordered some meat. You don't look well."

"Maybe it's my liver.
Une crise de foie.
I left the window open last night. The drafts, the night air . . . "

His mother frowned. "Don't make fun of me, Michel. It's not funny. You don't look well. I worry."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," scowled the chef. "I'm just working too damn hard. Not enough sleep."

"You don't even have health insurance. That terrible man you work for can't even give his people, his chef, health insurance. It's disgraceful."

"He can't afford it right now," said the chef. "I can't afford it."

His mother shook her head disapprovingly. "You could have worked here maybe. I could ask my friends. I'm sure he treats his people correctly here. You should let me ask."

"I couldn't be the chef here," said the chef. "I want to be in charge. I need the money, I can't afford to be just a
commis."

"All right," she said. "Not here then, somewhere else, where you could be the chef. Like this."

The chef shook his head slowly. "I couldn't work like this . . . I can't get up at four in the morning and go down Fulton Street and put my nose in a bunch offish gills. I can't do fifteen, sixteen hours a day, six, seven days a week. And I'm just not that good to do this sort of food. Not as the chef anyway."

"That's a terrible defeatist attitude," said his mother. "You didn't always feel like this."

"Yeah, well, I'm getting older," said the chef.

"Exactly. Yes. You are getting older," said his mother. "And you still live like . . . like some sort of gypsy. Never enough money. Changing jobs, every two years another place, another apartment. No family, no insurance, you own nothing."

"I've always got you, right?" he said with a smile.

"Yes. For now. I won't always be here," she said. "I won't be here to help forever. Don't they pay you at your job?"

"They pay me," said the chef. "It's just everything is so expensive, you know. And I owe people money."

"You always owe people money. It's terrible to owe money. I don't owe anybody anything. I don't know how you live like that. And your friends, they look like a . . . like a motorcycle gang, not
cuisiniers
—"

The chef laughed and hurried to change the subject.

They ate quietly. His mother methodically stripped the last bits of fat from the lamb, leaving three thin white rib bones on an otherwise empty plate. The busboy appeared and removed the plates. The waiter pushed a cheese cart alongside the table. The chef's mother reached into her purse for her glasses and, perching them at the end of her nose, leaned over to inspect the cheese. After a moment's reflection she chose a runny-looking Pont l'Eveque. The chef, without looking, requested a wedge each of St. Andre and Camembert.

"I guess we like soft cheeses," said the chef.

"The cheese here is not the same. They ruin it for export," said his mother.

"They pasteurize it," said the chef.

"It's not the same," said his mother.

"Maybe you should live in France."

"Then how could I help you when you get in trouble. Who would give you money for your debts. Besides, I could not go back. It's a communist country now," she said.

"Socialist," corrected the chef.

"The same thing. De Gaulle should have put them all in prison. After the war."

The chef's mother took a last bite of cheese, dotted her mouth with the point of a napkin, and leaned forward. "Do you use a condom?" she asked.

Shocked, the chef tilted his head. "What?"

"When you, when you go out with your friends, maybe to meet a girl, some girl. Do you use a condom? I've been reading articles in the magazine."

"Yes,
Maman,"
said the chef, embarrassed. He glanced at the surrounding tables to see if anyone else had heard. The old ladies at the next table were busy drinking martinis and commenting on the busboy's buttocks.

"Well, that is something. That's good. You should always use one," said his mother, satisfied.

"What have you been watching, Oprah or something?" asked the chef.

"What is Oprah?" inquired his mother.

"Forget it. Joke," said the chef.

"Qu'est ce que vous voulez comme dessert, madame?"
inquired the waiter as the busboy whisked the cheese plates off the table. The chef's mother strained to see the dessert cart.

"Tell bucket-head to bring the cart closer," said the chef, slightly tipsy.

"SSSH! Ça suffit!"

The waiter had already moved over to the cart and was bringing it alongside the table. The chef's mother carefully scrutinized each item on the three-tiered pastry cart. "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Paris-Brest. Will you look, Michel, Paris-Brest. Remember?" She pointed a finger, and the waiter cut and served a portion. "Gimme one a those, too," said the chef to the waiter. When the waiter disappeared, his mother scolded him. "You shouldn't speak like that. I eat here every week."

"I'm sorry, Ma. Just enjoying myself. Loosen up. I'm having a good time, see?" said the chef.

"You like the dessert? You remember the last time we had it?" she asked.

"In Chagny? It was that place with all the dogs, right?"

"Yes. Chez Denis. Paris-Brest is absolutely my favorite. They made it so well. This is also excellent. Do you like it?"

"It's great," said the chef, shoveling an enormous mouthful into his face, creme Chantilly gathering at the corners of his mouth. "This was a great meal. Outstanding."

"And I suppose I'm paying for it," said his mother.

"Well," said the chef.

"And you said you need money," said his mother, reaching into her purse. She handed him a check for a thousand dollars, written in her spidery, old-lady scrawl. "I'm only giving you this if you promise to get a haircut. You look like a cannibal like that." She held onto one end of the check. "And make sure they trim your sideburns, I don't want people thinking you are, you are some sort of terrorist."

"Sure,
Maman"
said the chef. She released the check.

The chef put his soiled napkin over his empty dessert plate and sat back in his chair. Andre, the chef and owner of the restaurant, came over to the table to pay his respects. He wore a spotless white chef's coat with Chinese buttons and the French tricolor adorning the collar. His name was embroidered over the chest pocket in flawless blue script, his starched toque piled high up over his head. He spoke in French for a few moments with the chef's mother, inquiring about the meal and her health. They discussed mutual friends.

She turned to the chef and in English said, "Andre, allow me to present my son, Michel. He is a chef also." The chef sat up in his chair and extended his hand. He wanted to die.

Twenty-Two

T
HOUGH THE DINING ROOM
was empty, the bar was still busy. A large group from Long Island was arguing loudly at the corner of the zinc bar. A drunk, one of the bar regulars, in a Yankee warm-up jacket slouched over his scotch, tearing little pieces off of the cocktail napkin under his drink. He rolled them into little balls and tossed them one after the other into the trash can under the register on the other side of the bar. Two lovers, both overweight and overdressed, groped each other at the other end. The woman had her tongue in the man's ear, and he was perspiring heavily and wriggling in his seat. Hector, the busboy, was on the pay phone, speaking to his family in Mexico on a stolen credit card number. He had been on over an hour, and Tommy watched him in the mirror from his place at the crowded bar. Tommy was drinking vodka, half sitting, half standing, one buttock perched on the tall bar stool. He felt something slide onto the other half of the bar stool and turned to face Stephanie. She had changed into her street clothes and taken her hair out of the clip, and she smelled of perfume. She leaned her long mane of wavy brown hair on his shoulder and sighed.

"Hey, Steph," said Tommy. "How'd you do tonight?"

"I would have done okay if it wasn't for those Canadians," she said.

"They stiff you?" Tommy asked.

"Just about," said Stephanie. "Five dollars on an eighty-dollar check."

"You still shoulda had a pretty good night."

Stephanie just shrugged innocently and called the bartender over for a drink. She ordered a Stoli Sea Breeze. When the drink arrived, she took a long sip, turned to Tommy, and giggled conspiratorially. "So, Tommy, I hear you're fucking Cheryl. Is that right?"

Tommy's ears turned red. "Who said that?"

"I heard from somebody," said Stephanie with a smile.

"A gentleman doesn't tell," said Tommy.

"So you
are
fucking her," said Stephanie, flashing an even bigger smile through abundant lips. She took another long hit on her drink. "So how long has this been going on, you dog?"

"I still want to know who's been talking to you," said Tommy. "You tell me and I'll tell you. Was it the chef?"

"Michael?" exclaimed Stephanie. "Michael knew—and didn't tell me? I'll kill him! I tell him everything that goes on on the floor . . .
everything.
And he's been holding out on me with something like this? Ooooh, I'm gonna kill him!" She finished her drink and ordered another. Tommy ordered another vodka for himself.

"No, it wasn't Michael," she said. "It was Harvey."

"Harvey?" said Tommy. "What the hell does he know?"

"He called me in the office yesterday and asked me if you and Cheryl were bing-bonging," said Stephanie. "He didn't tell me. He asked. But that got me thinking about things."

"That's how he said it? Bing-bonging? He said that?" asked Tommy.

"Nah," said Stephanie. "He asked if you were seeing each other. Harvey's got serious hots for Cheryl."

"You are fucking shitting me," said Tommy.

"Nope. He loves her. He wants to get in her pants so bad it's not even funny. He's always mooning over her. Why do you think she gets all the good shifts? He's totally in love with her. Gonzo. Why do you think he had them put the cappuccino machine so low on that shelf? So every time Cheryl's steaming milk, he can look at her ass.

"She does have a nice ass," said Tommy, lighting a cigarette. He was looking down Stephanie's leotard . . .

"Can I get one of those?" asked Stephanie. "The whole place was bummin' off me all night, I don't have any left."

"Sure," said Tommy. He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. He leaned toward her and cupped his hand around the match. "Thanks," said Stephanie.

"So, you have to tell me now. I told you. How long have you been seeing Cheryl?" she asked.

"Why don't you ask her. I admit I've been seeing her, okay? Anything else you want to know, why don't you ask her," said Tommy.

"Oh, I can't do that," said Stephanie. "I ask her that, she'll think I want to fuck you."

"Stephanie," said Tommy, "you already did fuck me."

"Oh, that," said Stephanie. "A blow job in the bathroom isn't exactly a torrid weekend in the Poconos."

"Maybe not," said Tommy. He looked up at the bartender, who was hovering near them, and said, "Stop listening in on my fucking conversation, alright?"

The bartender smiled. "Sure, Tommy, sure. Sorry."

"He's the biggest gossip in the place. Like an old woman," said Stephanie. She leaned close to Tommy and whispered in his ear, "I hear he's hung like a hamster."

The bartender moved away, shaking his head. Tommy took a sip of his drink. "So Harvey's got hots for Cheryl," he said, beginning to feel the effects of the vodka.

"I told her to take advantage. She should get her teeth bonded. You know Rachel?"

"That's the short one with the nose ring?"

"Yeah. She had all her teeth capped and a couple a root canals and it cost her like fifty bucks," said Stephanie.

"But, he's not practicing anymore," said Tommy.

"He isn't. It's his partner who does it. Harvey can set it up. Rachel had a couple a drinks with him and bingo—movie star teeth."

"That's really fucking squalid, man," said Tommy.

"I wouldn't do it," said Stephanie. "Not for that."

"You'd just tell Cheryl to do it," said Tommy.

"I was kidding," she replied.

Tommy finished his drink and ordered another. Stephanie snuggled closer to him. "Soooo," she said. "How long have you been seeing her?"

"A couple months, alright. Happy now? I didn't want everybody in the place to know," said Tommy.

"I think that's so cute," said Stephanie. "Restaurant Romance. Secret Affair. And nobody knew."

"It's nobody's business," said Tommy.

Stephanie ran her finger around the top of her glass. "I hear Harvey's going to bring in some musicians for brunch," she said.

"I heard that too," said Tommy.

"What do you think?"

"I think I don't like it. Our paychecks are bouncing and he's hiring a bunch of musicians. I don't get it."

"You see the fish tank in the window? What do you think of that?"

"Oh, god," said Tommy. "That's a fucking abortion. I can't believe he spent money on that. That costs a lot of money. He's gotta pay somebody to come in and clean it, there's the chemicals, the pumps, the filters, the little bubblers. And it looks like shit."

"It's hard to keep tropicals," said Stephanie. "I had a fish once. The water's got to be just right, you gotta check the pH all the time. It's a lot of work."

"Business sucks, he's having a hard time making the nut, and he goes out and spends all this money on a bunch of fuckin' fish. Then he's gotta pay some fuckin mook to come in and clean it. I just don't see where we get any return on it."

"He says it'll bring people in," said Stephanie.

"That's what he says about every stupid idea he gets. 'It'll bring 'em in.' Buncha dead fish floating in a tank in the window, that'll really bring 'em in," said Tommy bitterly.

"I don't mind them. I think they're pretty," said Stephanie.

"The chef wants to poison them when nobody's looking," said Tommy. "He hates that tank worse than I do."

Stephanie looked concerned. "He wouldn't really do that, would he? It's not their fault. The fish didn't do anything."

"He says it reminds him of those seafood joints with the lobster tanks. You know, 'See 'Em Swim. Pick Your Lobster.' He hates it."

Stephanie shuddered. Tommy could feel it travel through his body. "But, he wouldn't hurt the fish?" she asked.

"No, he wouldn't do that," said Tommy.

" 'Cause if he's gonna do that, let me know first. Maybe I can get Harvey to get rid of it. Maybe he'll let me have them. I'll take care of them," said Stephanie.

"Stephanie, you're such a softie. This is a side of you I've never seen," said Tommy.

"There's lots of sides of me you haven't seen yet," said Stephanie. "So, where's Cheryl? Waiting for you back at your place like the little woman?"

"Yeah, right. Can you see that?" said Tommy. "She's out visiting her folks in Rhode Island."

"Mmmm," said Stephanie thoughtfully. "How fortuitous." She slid her hand down Tommy's legs and squeezed his inner thigh.

"Cut it out," said Tommy, not too convincingly.

"You're blushing!" said a delighted Stephanie. She moved her hand up into his crotch and squeezed.

She led Tommy across the empty dining room and through the waiter station. They stumbled drunkenly down the stairs and through the swinging kitchen doors. The cooks were all gone. Big Mohammed was the only person in the kitchen. He was mopping behind the line, listening to Egyptian pop songs on the cassette player.

"Will he keep his mouth shut?" she asked.

"Big Mo'?" said Tommy. "I think so."

Tommy and Stephanie passed through the kitchen and down the hall to the dry goods area. Stephanie got up on tiptoe and unscrewed the lightbulb over the baking supplies. She grinned at Tommy and pulled a pair of sky blue panties with little pink stars down around her knees. She kissed Tommy briefly, just brushing her lips across his, then she turned her back to him, hiked up her skirt and bent over, resting her elbows on a pile of fifty-pound flour sacks. Tommy put his hand up between her legs and dropped his pants.