Palmer
I finger the steak, tracing the marbled flecks of fat.
I observe it with steady concentration and follow each streak as if it were a roadmap, pointing me home.
A well-marbled steak is a beautiful thing.
It's perfection.
It's redemption.
Is it also salvation?
My mouth moistens as I think about the silky texture of melted fat.
The depth of flavor. The tenderness. The way it transcends a moment in time.
I grind salt and pepper over one side of the steak, and then flip it over to season the other side. Then I heat a cast iron skillet, and when it's at the desired temperature, I drop a pad of butter into its center. I watch as the butter circles, spins, and sizzles around the pan until it's a melted puddle.
Then I place the steak on top, listening to the hot skillet kiss the raw slab of red meat, slowly caramelizing it.
I've made my fortune in the restaurant business.
Flipping food. Perfecting my craft.
Making a name for myself.
But I want more.
I want to elevate the culinary landscape of New York City…and the clock's ticking faster than Julia Childs chopping an onion.
This restaurant here—The Pearl on Park—is a longtime dream come true. I've made my fortune through high-end cuisine—you know, the kind of food that requires three spoons and three forks just to eat? The kind of food accompanied by waiters in suits and white linens. I've become one of the most famous chefs in the world, running a chain of high-quality, extremely fancy restaurants.
You've probably seen me profiled in publications like Bon Appetite, Saveur, Food and Wine, Cooks Illustrated, and The Art of Eating.
I've made food that'll give you an orgasm as soon as it hits your tongue: beautifully crusted baguettes, fresh meat that'll make you moan, and warm cakes gooier than a woman begging for more.
But this restaurant is different.
I'm still creating dishes that are good, orgasmic good, but now I'm pushing boundaries. Salty, fatty, sweet—the kind of food that makes you want to sink your face in and say Fuck it, I'm eating this.
Maybe I'm stubborn, or stupid, or both, but truth is, you have to be all of those things and more to make it in the restaurant business.
You see all of these tools in this kitchen—the vacuum machines, the pH meters, the liquid nitrogen? I'm debunking cooking myths. I don't care what any other chef in this city is doing. If it's working for me, just get out of my way.
Watch me run my restaurant the way I want to run them.
I have no interest in what the chef is doing next door, or across the street, or even across the fucking globe. Why? Because the only thing that matters is my kitchen.
And this place here—these stainless steel appliances, the swanky Park Ave vibe, the top of the line table linens and décor—it's a longtime dream come true.
I look down at the steak, and spoon brown butter over it, basting it. It's now crusted and cooked to perfection, and I remove it from the skillet. The steak is caramelized around the edges with a beautiful brown crunch that I can't wait to place between my teeth.
If you visit The Pearl on Park, this'll be one of the best steaks you've ever had, I promise. It's one of the new dishes that I’m going to present.
I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.
"Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.
"You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.
Any other day, and this late at night, it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of those fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef—but not today.
I can’t waste my time. Not now.
"Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.
She walks over, and leans against the counter. I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.
"My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."
I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.
"Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.
"I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."
The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.
But suddenly, I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.
Instead, I close my eyes and remember the doctor’s appointment I had last week. The one where my dreams of cooking the best food in New York were born.
It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.
The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.
Something showed up on the MRI, the doctor said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.
"This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says, bringing me back to what’s in front of me.
That's exactly what I want to hear.
It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.
It's what I do. And I'm good at it.
I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.
I'm living large, and I know it. But I'm just getting started.
If you can handle the heat, go ahead…turn the page, and jump into the fire.
My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to give the world something they'll never forget.
Nicole
"Where are the vegetables?"
WHACK! THWAP!
Two line cooks look up at me. One shouts back, "We can't hear you, what?"
"I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.
WHACK!
WHACK!
THWAP!
The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge.
I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.
The line cooks shrug their shoulders.
"THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.
Danny, one of the two, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."
I look around the kitchen and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing.
How am I supposed to cook today?
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.
Stay calm, I repeat to myself.
"Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."
"Sorry, I figured you knew."
"It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it sorted."
I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.
Blue.
The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almost hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell."
I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes as she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories, it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest.
I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.
She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.
And believe me; none of this was easy.
In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.
But there was that dream.
A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.
Then one day, I simply made it happen.
All those pennies, the long hours, the exhaustion...I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.
It’s been a year now.
That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.
The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises. You can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside.
Thousands of people rush by the door every day, barely noticing this small bistro that seems to exist in a universe of its own; but for the few people that step inside, they have no choice but to leave the rush and frenzy of New York City outside.
There’s nothing fancy about The Old Tale. No glamorous logos, no overpriced menus or waiters wearing a suit and tie.
The wooden tables in the small dining area proudly display their age, and even the dim glow of the lights is a throwback to a time when restaurants and cafés weren’t supposed to be a natural extension of a shopping mall.
You could dig out this restaurant by its roots, slam it down in a crowded street from the 50s, and no one would bat an eye.
It doesn’t feel like a restaurant—it feels like home, a shelter from the cold embrace of a city that doesn’t remember your name.
But sometimes, you can’t fight the city; a small restaurant is just a small restaurant, after all. And now there’s the sound of drills and hammers, a backdrop to the hoarse shouts of construction workers pacing back and forth.
Sometimes it feels like I'm fighting against a rising tide that's whispering its warning—get out or we’ll drag you back with us.
That tide has a name: The Pearl on Park.
And it's going to completely change this neighborhood—bringing Park Ave into a working class corner. Its doors are still closed, but I can already feel the inevitable trot of progress. Soon enough, these streets will belong to expensive European cars, and boots and jeans will give way to polished shoes and creased dress pants.
Then the rents will go up, and The Old Tale will become a gnarled wreckage lying at the bottom of the ocean.
"Someone looks deep in thought." A voice breaks my concentration and pulls me into the present.
"I didn't see you come in. It's good to see you, Percy," I say, looking over to find a familiar face. "What are you doing here today?"
"Just enjoying some of this city's best cooking, is what I'm doing," he says.
I lean over and give him a hug. "You're too kind."
"And you're too humble," he says, returning the smile.
"Well, humble or not, I hope I can just survive The Pearl over there," I say, pointing across the street. "I mean, how can I compete with that?"
Percy shakes his head. "Don't worry about that place. Fancy flagstone tiles, porcelain dishes, and silver cutlery don't make a good restaurant."
"Maybe not...but it seems to help," I say with a laugh.
Percy Whitman is one of the biggest food critics in the city. He's known me ever since I opened The Old Tale, and if it weren't for his early, glowing reviews, I wouldn't be here today.
“I wouldn't worry about it," Percy says. He places both hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels as he says this, as if it's the most casual thing in the world. "Chef Palmer is a Grade-A asshole and even though I've never been to one of his restaurants, he's never impressed me much."
"I've heard he has talent," I say, not willing to believe that his presence in this neighborhood isn't going to be disruptive. "He's become a huge celebrity."
But Percy continues to shrug away my fears. "I doubt Palmer's all that."
"I guess we'll find out," I say.
"I plan to review every one of that asshole's restaurant’s, including The Pearl on Park," Percy says, and his face flushes pink as soon as the words leave his mouth. "You'll see."