Odd Orchid #1

The heat on the line can be unbearable at times. When its ninety-five degrees outside and you're surrounded by a jungle of asphalt, the city can be a bit warm standing above a cook top with a half-dozen open gas flames. With a dusty alley behind us, we could never afford to keep the fans blowing in for fear that all kinds of scum would blow on top of the dishes while they were on the hot plate. Instead, we had one of those giant earth mover fans blowing air outward, creating a somewhat decent draft, although I always suspect it was mainly to cover up our swearing so the guests couldn't hear the fucks, shits, and son-of-a-bitches.

What can I say, chefs are an apathetic type, cooks a bit more so. Three-quarters of us are alcoholics; nearly all of us are chain smokers. The whole restaurant is its own little family.

The bartenders are the ones starved for attention. Mousse up your hair, get a tan, wear a low cut shirt. You control the action, and everyone worships you, hoping that they can be the lucky person to take you home at night.

The chefs are people with daddy issues. You need the affirmation of your peers, and can't wait to be the one running the show, so you can turn around and treat your staff the same way your dead beat father treated you. We're a family. One big fucked up family.

I always tell others that I became a chef because I love cooking. But the truth is that its all I've ever known. Growing up, my father was too enraptured by the bottle to ever be at home. And when he was around, we usually found ourselves running into open doors and falling down the stairs a lot. Whenever my mom was too weak from getting the shit beat out of her, I was the one who had to take care of Charlotte. I started out cooking that blue boxed macaroni and cheese when I was five. It was crunchy and gritty, but it was still something . I threw some gummy bears in it one time, because Charlotte wouldn't stop crying after seeing Mom get slapped by my father with one of those thick, beige plastic phones. Seeing the gummy bears swimming in the almost neon murky cheese made her smile.

That's how I learned to cook. It was a matter of survival for Char and I. My mom spent sixteen hours a day working, and my father was never home. He may have been drunk in a ditch, or strung out somewhere on pills. It didn't matter to me, all I knew was that he wasn't at home. He never made it to my first peanut league baseball game. All the other dads were there, shagging fly balls with their sons. The other boys would show off their new baseball gloves, and would tell me about how their dads rubbed toothpaste all over the glove, wrapped it in rubber bands, and ran over it with the family car to break it in. My glove was brand new, too, but it was stiff and looked unused.

I wanted him to be around so that the first time I learned to shave, he would be standing next to me. His dark green jar of aftershave always sat in the lower corner of our medicine cabinet. In case he ever showed up. When I was young enough to still have hope, I'd put some of his aftershave into my tiny hands then run upstairs and jump into bed. I'd rub the aftershave into my pillow, so that I could smell it as I fell asleep each night. My own little way of having Dad put me to bed.

Eventually, I conquered all of the family recipes, no matter if they were the Italian ones of my father's family, or the Mediterranean ones of my mother's. Bologna became ham, which eventually became prosciutto. My abandonment as a child and love of cooking made moving into a restaurant logical. It was always open to the cooks, and I got to turn some of those old family recipes into success stories at Tony's.

Last night, we were finishing up with our boring, uninspired orders of Fettuccini Alfredo and Chicken Parmesan, when one of our bartenders came in and said that we had a late one. Typical Friday night, some half-drunk loser waddles into the restaurant at 10:15 and says that he wants some stupid meatballs or something. When the order came in, it sort of stopped me for a minute. "Asiago Broccoli Florentina." Not on the menu, but one of my favorites from growing up.
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1 lb. bow tie pasta
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 lb. broccoli florettes
3 cloves of minced garlic
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 cup freshly grated asiago cheese

Heat olive oil and garlic over medium-low heat. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the broccoli to the boiling water and cook for one minute. Remove broccoli from water and pat dry, then add the broccoli to the garlic and olive oil, stirring every few minutes. Bring the water back to a boil and add the pasta, cooking until al dente. Strain the pasta, then add to the pan with garlic and olive oil. Add 3/4 cup of the cheese and stir until lightly melted. Plate the pasta with additional asiago cheese added on top.
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It cooks pretty quickly, so I got it onto the hot plate in maybe seven or eight minutes. I went back to cleaning up some of the dishes and wiping down the grill, when I turned around and the dish was still sitting there, steam rolling off the top of it under the bright red heat lamp. The servers must've already left. I grabbed the plate and kicked one side of the double doors open and made my way to the bar. Waiting there, hunched over, was a frail old man, shaking a little bit. He smelled of sweat, no doubt from how hot the city was.

The bartender had already laid down a white napkin in front of him. When I set the plate down, the old man looked up with tears soaking his eyes.

With a smile crossing his lips he said, "You've grown up nice, Isaac."

I turned around and walked back towards the kitchen. I had dishes to wash.