My Third Article
A girl wakes up and prepares her usual 1pm breakfast meal, a microwaved mug of Mollusca chowder. Her favorite. Though lately the dish has not brought her the same joy as the first 1634 instances she had prepared and consumed it.
She’d tried different brands, each premiumly preserved and canned. Some were slightly more enjoyable than others. Fewer sand grains trapped in the cheap rubbery bivalve flesh, or perhaps a bit more added smokey bacon flavor(contains no pork). It rarely seems to matter beyond the third can or so. The novelty of anything different can make a compelling (if poorly supported) case for culinary delicacy, but this escape is merely fleeting.
Resigned to her tepidding meal, she slurps down the broth so she can dump the gummy clams into the trash without soaking through the paper bag. She sits on her windowsill and sighs. Her stomach yearns for something else, but her pantry is bare. She cracks the window, perhaps huffing some car exhaust will dampen her appetite.
She sniffs cautiously at first, one can never be certain which scents will grace their nostrils when in the city. Today, the air is bright. No exhaust, no vomit or urine, not even clouds of cologne coming off vomit and urine soaked boozers waking up from their sidewalk slumbers.
Then, on a gust of wind, she smells something delicate, yet robust. Pungent, but soft and creamy. Bright, peppery…..clammy?
She sticks her head out further and snorts in like a vacuum caught on a rug.
IT IS!
It’s chowder. And it’s close.
She throws on a loose jacket and rushes to the street.
Where.
She sniffs the wind, and bolts up the block.
The smell grows stronger.
A new cafe on the corner. “Paulisimo’s Daily Selection,” reads a crisply strung banner above the door. Beneath it, a smaller banner with smaller font, “Chef’s choice, every day.”
Today’s, apparently, Clam Chowder.
She bursts through the doors, marches to the hostess and demands, “Hey um, can I have a seat? Or do I need like a reservation or something because I don’t have a reservation, but it doesn’t look like anyone else is in here and the soup smells really good and I’d really like to try some. Please.”
“Yeah, just like sit wherever you wan’.” The hostess does not break her eyes from the crossword puzzle she is blacking out all the squares of.
The girl squeaks, “Oh, um, ok. Great!” She then circles the empty cafe searching for the perfect seat. After three complete loops she settles cross legged in a corner booth, for some reason voluntarily straddling the seam between the cushions in the awkward far corner.
She softly shouts across the room to the hostess, “I’ll have the-”
“Yeah, I don’t take the orders, babe. Wait for the waiter.”
“Oh…ok. Sorry. Does he know I’m here?”
She twiddles her thumbs to pass the time, eventually settling into a trained gaze out the window. A row of starlings on a power line deposit a Pollock down the back of an old man’s overcoat. He hasn’t noticed.
A hand waves in front of her face and she is brought back to her table. She collects her present and realizes her waiter has arrived.
She starts, “I’d like to order-”
The waiter coughs slightly and gestures to the table, right in front of her. He had already placed a saucer and small cup of chowder at her setting. He asks, “Pepper?”
“Oh, yes please!” She had not seen him holding a pepper mill, but neither did she see him with the soup.
He digs in his apron and tosses a few previously dampened paper pepper packets onto her table and walks away without another word.
She dusts the pepper packets off the table and tucks them into the seam of the booth’s padding.
She sniffs her soup. It is, indeed, chowder. She takes her spoon and skims a dollop of stock off the top and blows it softly before slurping it into her mouth. She runs it over her tongue and examines it. Soft, thick like a good gravy, complex flavor; not overly fishy, a rich warmth that nourishes the soul.
She pounds the remainder of the soup like a relapsing partyholic. She calls for the waiter and demands, “Can I please have some more?”
“Sorry, last bowl. Crazy lunch rush, just missed it. The chef’s probably working on more now.”
“Can I watch him make it?! Please? It’s like totally the best chowder I’ve ever had, I gotta know his secret!”
“Oh I’m sure he’d love to show you.” The waiter’s tone reeks of sarcasm.
The girl stays seated.
“Are you gonna like, go?” The waiter points to the double doors leading to the kitchen.
“Oh, I thought-”
The waiter cuts her off with a sharp sigh and trudges to the front door. The hostess breaks momentarily from her crossword to sneer at him as he kicks open the front door and lights a cigarette.
The decorated old man furrows a glance at him and receives a loud “WHAT!” in return. The birds fly away, dropping one last stroke to their canvas, alerting the old man to his sudden stroke of bad luck. He throws his hands in frustration, the force inadvertently throwing his prosthetic right hand clattering across the cobblestones.
The waiter chuckles and flicks his cigarette butt in the general direction of the old man’s hand before walking left past the windows and out of the girl’s point of view. She dances her eyes about the room for a few casual moments before re-settling on the old man. He’s now hobbling towards his discarded hand, gripping his cane in his other prosthetic hand. His cane is cracked but repaired with a wafer of epoxy and a single layer of black electrical tape. Standing over his discarded right hand he bends over and tries to reach for it with his right hand, the one he is currently trying to retrieve. He realizes his error when his attempted grab knocks it a few inches further away. His cane rocks aggressively as he tries to reposition.
The girl hops to her feet. She turns and prances to the kitchen’s double doors. She hesitates for a moment, then, recklessly, she does what no one should ever do without knowing precisely what sort of chef they are intruding on. Especially when dealing with a French chef. She sticks her head through the double doors.
“Hello?”
Luckily for her, this is not one of those chefs. This chef is one that stares blissfully out a small window while expertly cutting the cheese. Or rather, cutting some cheese, with a knife.
Without turning he gasps “Ha!” on the inhale. He continues to cut the cheese while he greets her, “A visitor? Que bonito! Que, bonito?”
“Oh I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian. I just wanted to ask-”
The chef drops his grin along with his knife. He holds the counter and breathes in slowly before turning and reclaiming his smile. “I am not Italian, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I was simply asking if I had forgotten your Bonito flakes. Really though, the question is as irrelevant as your answer, as I have none to give and will not be making more.”
“Oh, that’s ok. I don’t even know what those are. I was just wondering if you could show me how you make it? The soup? Chowder. It’s like, way better than the kind I make at home. Oh, but if it’s like a secret or something could you just like make me some more and i’ll like turn around or close my eyes or something, I’d just really like-”
“NO! GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!”
“What? Oh sorry, I-”
“No,” the chef looks uncharacteristically embarrassed by his outburst. He straightens his apron, “I am sorry for my outburst. I deeply appreciate your compliments of my nourishment, but you are too late, The Chef has decided on a new dish.”
“Oh, pleeeeeeee-”
“NO! I WILL NOT BE TOLD WHAT TO COOK IN MY OWN KITCHEN ZIZ IS ZE CHEF’S CHOICE I DO NOT CHOICE TO MAKE CHOWDER ZAT IS FINAL!”
“I SAID I DON’T SPEAK ITALIAN! I JUST WANTED TO LEARN HOW YOU MAKE YOUR TASTY CHOWDER, IT IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE KIND I MAKE IN MY MICROWAVE AT HOME!”
The chef cycles through all five stages of grief, as well as several oscillations of disgust, pity, pure distilled depression, and inhuman levels of personal restraint.
He steadies himself, “You make your chowder how now?”
“In the microwave? It says it’s ok on the can.”
“Can….?”
“Yes.”
The chef contains himself. “I believe it is my duty to teach you better preparation. As I said, I will not be making more chowder tonight, but what I am preparing for the dinner service is appropriate for someone of your…skill level. Do you enjoy grilled cheese?”
“Yeah! I buy the two packs from the freezer aisle and make them in my toaster all the time!”
A blood vessel bursts in the chef’s right eye. “Please allow me to show you how to prepare one yourself. Only promise me to no longer emit the words toaster or microwave in my kitchen.”
“Is it gonna take a long time? I don’t like waiting more than three minutes to eat.”
The chef does not respond and instead resumes cutting the cheese. The girl lingers at the doors for a few moments before slinking in beside the chef.
The chef begins, “Now, I will show you the secret to a perfect cheese toastie. I will prepare three sandwiches and I would like you to guess the difference.”
“Is it the bread?”
“No. Please-”
“Is it the cheese?”
“Restrain yourself, child! I haven’t even buttered the bread yet!”
“Is it the butter?”
“You need to learn to enjoy the process.” The chef shushes any further comments from the girl until he has prepared three sets of buttered bread with cheese. “Ok, now watch carefully.” He sets three dials on the stove and warms the pans.
The girl watches as intently as she can, but her eyes wander the immaculately clean kitchen. Pans heating and toasting bread are only slightly more intriguing than watching paint dry.
She becomes lost observing a row of 16 subtly different spoons hung on the wall beside her. Without thought she asks, “Are they done yet? It only takes a couple minutes when I use my toas-” The girl bites her lips and looks wide eyed at the chef. “Toas…toas….toes go on your feet!”
One of the sandwiches begins to smoke, prompting the chef to flip it onto a plate and slice it in half diagonally. “The first one is done, this one represents your impatience. Taste it, tell me how you feel.”
The girl picks up her half of the blackened grilled cheese. She takes a bite, “Bitter and unfinished. It’s burnt and the cheese isn’t even melted, I could have made this at home.”
“Precisely.”
“Guh, then what’s the point? I thought you were making The Best cheese toastie?”
“I am, trust the process.” The chef chucks his half into the trash bin behind him. A blind over the shoulder toss, no rim; a chef is always in perfect control of his environment.
“I am losing interest in this,” the girl says, wobbling on her stool that is most definitely not allowed in this kitchen.
The chef points with his spatula, “Where did you get that stool?”
The girl looks up at him and shrugs her shoulders, her blank expression unfazed by the chef’s hardened glare.
The sound of cheese bubbling in a pan breaks the chef from his gaze. Still furrowing his brows at the stool he slops the deflated sandwich on the girl’s plate, electing not to cut this one. The bread is not burnt, this time only slightly yellowed.
The chef relaxes on the whole stool problem and urges the girl to taste, “Thoughts?”
The girl takes a bite. “The bread is soggy and all the cheese melted and squeezed out. I could have made this by sitting on it.”
“Precisely.”
“Alright, alright, just give me the last one Doc, but the prognosis ain’t lookin good.”
The chef, who is, coincidentally, a licensed MD, gingerly lifts a corner of the grilling cheese with his trusty spatula. “Nearly there, a moment’s patience, Prudence.”
“My name’s not Prudence,” says the girl.
“I gathered,” says the chef.
“....is it ready yet?”
“No.”
“Is it ready yet?”
“No.”
“Is it ready yet?”
The chef lifts the sandwich from the hot pan and checks the bottom, “Yes!”
“Gees, finally, it better be frickin’ amazing.”
“You remember I’m doing this for free right?” The chef cuts the sandwich diagonally and places the knife further away on the table.
“Customer’s always right, bub.”
“Exceedingly rarely,” the chef lets out a great sigh. “Here, eat this.”
The girl wrinkles her brow as she takes a tentative bite from the middle of the cheese sandwich.
“Holy shit.”
“Mhmm.”
“This is fucking amazing. Golden brown lightly crispy bread, ooey gooey cheese. My brain is melting in joy. How.”
“Surely you can compile the answer.”
“Compile? I thought you were teaching me how to cook.”
“Using what you’ve learned from the previous sandwiches, how might this one have been prepared?”
“I haven’t learned anything.”
The chef sighs, “The first one was cooked on what?”
“The stove.”
“I meant what temperature setting.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“What temperature setting was the first one cooked on?”
“High.”
“And it tasted?”
“Bad.”
“Well done. And the second?”
“Low?”
“Correct, and it tasted…?”
“Bad!”
“Spot on! Are you following now?”
“Not even remotely.”
The chef checks his watch and shakes his head.
The girl taps her hands against the legs of the stool, “So uh, can you get like to the punchline? I’ve got some other stuffs to do.”
The chef holds a deep breath then lets it out through very pursed lips, “Fine.”
The girl leans forward on her stool, her hands tapping faster.
The chef clears his throat, “The third one’s on Medium.”