piss or even something as luxurious as a deep breath, he would be buried in stainless steel and pottery.
It was endless!
And yet, and yet, Henry loved being here. He loved the feel of excitement in the kitchen. It was a rush. The energy level was high because it had to be. No one had the luxury of downtime. You just kept working, and the hours passed like minutes.
On his very first day, which now seemed so long ago, Rosalie threw him in with little training. True to her taciturn ways, she said, “Sink or swim, Henry,” then handed him a stack of towels and the manual for the dishwasher. “Do good there and we’ll break things up with busing tables.” Right now busing tables seemed like nirvana, the impossible dream.
Henry was grateful, absurdly so, for each of his two ten-minute breaks and his half-hour lunch. He took a second to glance behind him and was rewarded with seeing Carmela walking toward him, a stack of menus in her hands.
“Jesus,” she said. “Is that smile for me?”
“Uh-huh,” Henry said. He shoved one last load into the dishwasher. “It’s break time, right?”
“It’s lunchtime. And you’re not smiling at me because you’re happy to see me. You’re smiling because you finally get to sit down.” She laughed. “I know. Believe it or not, I was once in your shoes.”
“Really?” Henry moved over so that Juan Carlos, the young man who currently bused tables, now promoted out of dishwashing hell, took his place at the big machine.
“Oh yeah, Rosalie likes her staff to work their way up. Just a couple years ago, I was bubble dancin’ for my life.” She snickered.
Henry followed her back to a small area where a little porcelain-topped table sat with a couple of ladder-back chairs around it. He slumped into one of the seats.
“You’re not like a lot of the guys who work here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of them, soon as they get a break, they shoot out that back door. Smokin’.”
“Never took up that vice.”
“You’re young. There’s still time.” Carmela winked at him.
It felt good to just sit, to let his bones settle, his breathing and heart rate slow a bit. Carmela started away.
“What’s for family meal?” Family meal, Henry had learned, was what everyone called the dish they prepared each night for the staff to eat. It usually relied on using up products left from specials that week and produce that was still good—but not for long.
“Vito made some beans and greens. It’s in a pot on the back burner.” She started away again.
“Carmela?”
She whirled around. “What? I’m sure they’re already lined up at the hostess desk. I don’t want Rosalie on my ass.” She wiggled her eyebrows, so Henry knew she wasn’t too annoyed. “Antonio’s another story.”
“You and that bartender. Don’t be a home wrecker. But would you mind bringing me a bowl of the greens and beans?”
“Tsk. Spoiled rich boy. You want me to serve you?”
“I do.” Henry tried to put on his most endearing smile. “Would you mind?”
Carmela shook her head. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. Next time, you get it yourself, okay?”
She hurried away without waiting for a reassurance.
It wasn’t that Henry was being lazy. It was that he was afraid of the cook, Vito. Not really afraid, maybe. There was a whole mix of emotions, and Henry was just too tired to deal with them. He knew they’d be brought front and center if Henry leaned over the chef as he worked. Just the nearness of Vito caused Henry’s pulse to accelerate, in a way entirely different from how hard work caused it to jump.
He had to admit it—he had a little crush on Vito. And never was a man less deserving of his affection! But he couldn’t help it. Vito was everything Henry could imagine wanting in a man. Physically he was all male, rough-edged, dark, and exotic. His body was thick and solid, that of a linebacker, yet there was also something of the teddy bear, cuddly, although Vito’s
It was endless!
And yet, and yet, Henry loved being here. He loved the feel of excitement in the kitchen. It was a rush. The energy level was high because it had to be. No one had the luxury of downtime. You just kept working, and the hours passed like minutes.
On his very first day, which now seemed so long ago, Rosalie threw him in with little training. True to her taciturn ways, she said, “Sink or swim, Henry,” then handed him a stack of towels and the manual for the dishwasher. “Do good there and we’ll break things up with busing tables.” Right now busing tables seemed like nirvana, the impossible dream.
Henry was grateful, absurdly so, for each of his two ten-minute breaks and his half-hour lunch. He took a second to glance behind him and was rewarded with seeing Carmela walking toward him, a stack of menus in her hands.
“Jesus,” she said. “Is that smile for me?”
“Uh-huh,” Henry said. He shoved one last load into the dishwasher. “It’s break time, right?”
“It’s lunchtime. And you’re not smiling at me because you’re happy to see me. You’re smiling because you finally get to sit down.” She laughed. “I know. Believe it or not, I was once in your shoes.”
“Really?” Henry moved over so that Juan Carlos, the young man who currently bused tables, now promoted out of dishwashing hell, took his place at the big machine.
“Oh yeah, Rosalie likes her staff to work their way up. Just a couple years ago, I was bubble dancin’ for my life.” She snickered.
Henry followed her back to a small area where a little porcelain-topped table sat with a couple of ladder-back chairs around it. He slumped into one of the seats.
“You’re not like a lot of the guys who work here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of them, soon as they get a break, they shoot out that back door. Smokin’.”
“Never took up that vice.”
“You’re young. There’s still time.” Carmela winked at him.
It felt good to just sit, to let his bones settle, his breathing and heart rate slow a bit. Carmela started away.
“What’s for family meal?” Family meal, Henry had learned, was what everyone called the dish they prepared each night for the staff to eat. It usually relied on using up products left from specials that week and produce that was still good—but not for long.
“Vito made some beans and greens. It’s in a pot on the back burner.” She started away again.
“Carmela?”
She whirled around. “What? I’m sure they’re already lined up at the hostess desk. I don’t want Rosalie on my ass.” She wiggled her eyebrows, so Henry knew she wasn’t too annoyed. “Antonio’s another story.”
“You and that bartender. Don’t be a home wrecker. But would you mind bringing me a bowl of the greens and beans?”
“Tsk. Spoiled rich boy. You want me to serve you?”
“I do.” Henry tried to put on his most endearing smile. “Would you mind?”
Carmela shook her head. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. Next time, you get it yourself, okay?”
She hurried away without waiting for a reassurance.
It wasn’t that Henry was being lazy. It was that he was afraid of the cook, Vito. Not really afraid, maybe. There was a whole mix of emotions, and Henry was just too tired to deal with them. He knew they’d be brought front and center if Henry leaned over the chef as he worked. Just the nearness of Vito caused Henry’s pulse to accelerate, in a way entirely different from how hard work caused it to jump.
He had to admit it—he had a little crush on Vito. And never was a man less deserving of his affection! But he couldn’t help it. Vito was everything Henry could imagine wanting in a man. Physically he was all male, rough-edged, dark, and exotic. His body was thick and solid, that of a linebacker, yet there was also something of the teddy bear, cuddly, although Vito’s
Similar Books
