18
The first three guys I interviewed were both bearded men working for some arbitrary hipster restaurants that have already seen their fifteen minutes of FoodFeed fame. Could they cook? Sure. Were they on drugs? Probably not. But when they couldn’t get past who I was and what happened to Benji, it felt less like I was interviewing them and more like they were interrogating me.
Before the interviews began, I Googled common interview questions for chefs and printed them out. Having made a decision from the heart about a certain chef before, I’m not willing to go totally off-script this time considering how that turned out. I’m learning, however, that asking “What dish best describes you?” over and over is as exhausting as listening to the answers. One more canned response containing the words beautifully composed or well-balanced and I’m skipping straight to “Let’s play Marry, Fuck, Kill...Celebrity Chef Edition.” It may not be on the recommended questions list but I feel like it could tell a lot about a person.
“Tabitha Johnson in the house,” I hear a deep woman’s voice say. My fourth interview is about to begin—and, I’m sure, end.
I turn and see a six-foot-five middle-aged woman with short, spiky brown hair and Coke-bottle glasses wheeling in a cooler like it’s a rolling duffel bag. She’s wearing a pantsuit that’s about to bust at the seams and Crocs. We shake hands. Her grip is firm as fuck.
“Let me just get this out of the way: I have absolutely no idea how to dress for these kinds of things,” she says, gesturing to her eclectic getup. “Plus, I’m butch. So I have no idea how to dress, period.” She laughs like Santa Claus and takes a seat.
Well, at least I already know there’s a zero percent chance of falling in love with her, so please, Tabitha, when can you start?
Kidding. Due Diligence Debbie continues by scanning through her résumé. It shows that her most recent position is listed as a private chef to the mayor, which tells me it’s highly unlikely that her hobbies include illegal activities or recreational drugs. But the downside here is that I feel like cooking for the mayor is a good gig, so why give it up to work for this shitty-salary, no-benefit hellhole (in comparison) called Here? I ask in more PC terms: “What makes you interested in joining our team?”
“Well, I work third shift at the Mayor’s Mansion. That’s midnight to 8:00 a.m. and the hours—and the cuisine, quite frankly—are just brutal. Making a pepperoni pizza at 2:00 a.m. and pouring cereal at seven doesn’t exactly allow me to hone my craft,” she explains.
“So what do you like to cook? You know, if you could make anything you wanted.”
“Hands down...my famous bleu cheese burger.”
A burger? Really? Does she realize we are trying to replace a guy who topped his spaghetti with parmesan mousse? I thought Angela vetted these people...
“With all due respect, Tabitha, I think your style—well, cooking style—may be a little rudimentary for Here,” I say, hoping that rudimentary means what I think it means.
“I figured that’s how you might react. Which is why I brought the cooler. Please, can I show you?”
She unzips her bag and in it are the ingredients to make her “famous” dish. I didn’t plan for there to be a practical part of this exam, but I like that she has taken it upon herself to really prove her worth. Plus, I haven’t eaten today so I don’t object.
I follow Tabitha back to the kitchen. Yes, that’s right. I follow her through a restaurant she’s never been to where I happen to be the owner. Her instinctual command over the space is impressive—it’s like she instantly understands the familiarity component that we want people to revel in when they walk through these doors.
Once back in the kitchen area, which is hardly set up yet (thanks, Benji), she sets out her knife roll and a few prep bowls, and heats a pan with a dollop of oil. Nothing about her screams Rachael Ray, but I’m drawn to watch her nonetheless.
“Sorry, our kitchen isn’t exactly up to snuff yet,” I explain as I prop myself up on a steel counter across from her.
“No worries. This doesn’t require any fancy equipment. Now here, smell this,” she says as she holds a garlic clove under my nostrils. “It’s from the best produce vendor in Chicago, Marcel & Sons.” She then brings the garlic back to her nose and inhales with a smile on her face and exhales with an “Ahhhhh.”
She goes on to mince the clove in what feels like a nanosecond and then adds it to the hot oil.
“Three types of ground meat: brisket, pork and beef.” She points to each before dropping them all into a mixing bowl.
“One quail egg.” She holds it up like she’s showing me a bicentennial quarter, then cracks it into the meat. “It’s less runny than a chicken egg, but richer in flavor.”
Noted.
“Then you pull the garlic before it burns, and drop it right into the meat and egg mixture. People always add raw garlic to their ground beef. That makes no sense. The garlic flavor comes when it’s been sautéed, so that’s when I put it in. Now you mix it gently with your fingers, never with a spoon, and let the yolk of the quail egg be the glue. Like so.”
I hunch over the bowl to watch.
“It’s not every day I get to work meat with my hands, but when I do...” She nudges me with her elbow. “If you know what I mean.”
I love her sense of humor. It’s such a stark contrast from the way Benji would act behind a stove—yelling at everyone, head down, always so intense. I get that cooking at a busy restaurant is a serious operation, but confirming our chef is also a human being is a check in the positive column. At least it is to me.
“Okay, the pan is still hot from the oil, so I’m going to pour the meat into the pan.”
“Wait, don’t you have to first make them into patties?”
“Please, Allie. My burgers aren’t famous because they look like everyone else’s.”
She stirs the meat for about a minute until the individual pieces look like they amount to a nice medium rare. She pulls the meat, plates it, crumbles fresh bleu cheese on top and then unzips a few things she handmade before coming here: sourdough toast points, tomato jam and pickled onion. When everything is plated, it looks almost like a beef tartare.
She slides the plate toward me.
“Dig in.”
One bite in and I can tell I’ll be dreaming about this deconstructed burger later on. One bite is also all I need to realize I would spend $50 on this dish. Or if we served it as an app, $25—easily. There’s nothing glamorous about this woman, except for the fact she can create a polished, composed dish like it’s no one’s business. Which is why I need to beg her to take this job.
“Tabitha, this is incredible,” I say, and I mean it.
“I agree. Now can you see why it sucks that I’m stuck in a job that has me cutting crust off peanut butter and jellies for the mayor’s kids?”
“Yes, I can totally see that, and you’d have creative freedom in this kitchen—that I can promise. But I do have a question, and forgive me for being blunt. But...have you ever cooked for more than just four people—the mayor, his wife and their two kids?”
“You mean like the fifty-person catered lunch they call me in for three times a week in his office? Or his sister’s 300-person wedding at The Peninsula? Or how about—”
“Okay, okay. Got it.” My face is red with embarrassment for even asking. Of course Angela wouldn’t bring in someone whose experience capped at family dinnertime.
“Look, if you’re wondering if I know how to cook under stress, I don’t. Because I don’t get stressed. I get focused. And, yes, I’m proficient in how to pace my courses, order my product, things like that.”
“Quite honestly, you sound perfect for the job,” I say, not caring that I’m showing all my cards. “But I need to be frank with you. This is obviously a brand-new restaurant. Hours are going to be long, we’re going to attract obnoxious foodies and our build-out was expensive, meaning the salary may not even be worth it to you. Plus there’s the whole ‘Benji Zane thing.’”
“Who’s Benji Zane?”
“Seriously?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m kind of behind on pop culture. Any free time I have, I read Lord of the Rings fan fiction online. Wait, is he the host of Chopped? No, that doesn’t sound right...”
“Can you wait here for just a sec?” I ask Tabitha politely and hold up the one-second finger. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
I scurry out of the kitchen over to the office where Angela is holding up two forks.
“Right or left?” she asks.
“Left.”
“Thanks, that’s the one I was going to pick, too.”
“Angela, listen. I think I found our next chef. Clean pee test, not going to fall in love with her and top-notch amazing cook who works for the mayor.”
“Oh, yes. Tabitha Johnson. I remember her. What’s the catch?” she asks.
“She doesn’t know who Benji Zane is,” I say.
“And that’s a bad thing because...”
“Because ‘Tabitha Johnson’ packs zero punch. Her name means nothing at all to anyone who we expect will be spending money eating dinner here. She’s not mentioned anywhere in FoodFeed, doesn’t come up on Google until the fourth page and loves Lord of the Rings. I’m just worried that if we hire her, we lose the draw.”
Angela starts cackling.
“This isn’t funny! She’s waiting for me to tell her if she got the job. Can you please offer up an opinion?”
“An opinion? No. But I can offer you the cold, hard truth. And that is that you, Allie Simon, are the draw. I put the press release out that you were stepping in as AGM three hours ago and the internet has been abuzz ever since.”
In an attempt to start moving on from Benji, I canceled all Google Alert notifications I had previously set for my name and his after I got back from Garfield Park last night. Without Angela telling me, I never would have stumbled upon said press release.
“I am?” I ask. “Why?”
“Because. You’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re likable. You went from an industry no-name to everyone’s favorite person to snap a selfie with on the street.”
“But that’s only because of Benji. And he’s not even around anymore. I’m sure everyone will be disappointed when they realize we aren’t together. In fact, they’ll demand I step down and go answer phones at a dentist’s office. I don’t belong in this industry without him.”
“Allie, do us all a favor. Shut up and go hire Tabitha Johnson. Would you, please? Tell her she’s got the job, then send her to my office for paperwork and next steps.”
Angela goes back to comparing forks. I’m genuinely impressed with her ability to dilute my concerns, but I still trust her. I walk back out with my marching orders.
“And, hey,” she calls. “I’ll see you in the late morning tomorrow, right?”
The color in my face drains thinking about what has to happen between my leaving now and coming back tomorrow. For as exhilarating as hiring Tabitha is, there’s another thing I need to do that will be just as impactful on my blood pressure: I’ve got to hand over my letter of resignation.
“Right,” I say, as if there’s a choice.
* * *
I have been dreading this moment since Angela ordered the hit on my job. It’s the last time I’m powering up my work computer...ever. And as soon as the screen comes alive, I’ll be IM-ing my boss to meet me in Conference Room B before his 9:30 a.m. meeting.
I grab a cup of water from the break room; my throat feels like a shag carpet in the desert. Stacey trots in from behind me to dump out yesterday’s coffee cup.
“What’s on the lunch menu today?” she asks, per usual.
“Nothing,” I say. Her face reacts as if I told her the world was flat.
“Oh, I get it. You two are having lunch together. That’s so cute. You guys are adorable. Want anything from Starbucks? I’m so over the coffee here.”
“No thanks,” I say. It was nice knowing you, though.
I’m holding the letter as I walk over to meet with Connor. My hands are sweating so profusely, the page is dampening and curling. I should have put it in an envelope. Or a waterproof Tupperware.
“Good morning, Allie. Come on in,” Connor says. He’s so nerdy and lovable. His red hair and dad bod are perfect complements to his button-down bowling shirt that hasn’t been fashionable since 1994.
“Just so you know, I didn’t forget about our review on Thursday so if that’s what this is about, just know it’s already on my calendar and I’m looking forward to it. And...you should be, too, if you know what I mean,” he hints with a smile.
This is gut-wrenching. The comfort of my routine. My coworkers. The work itself. It’s all about to become shrapnel as I detonate this bomb.
“Actually, Connor, it turns out I won’t need that review. Because I...I quit,” I say as I hand him the paper.
He crinkles every part of his face as he looks at the paper I’ve just handed him. It’s like I’ve subpoenaed him for court or something. I feel awful.
“What is this? I don’t understand. Is it about the promotion? You were going to get it, I swear.”
“No, it’s not about the promotion. And thanks, that would have been great.”
“Is it a money thing?”
Kind of.
“You know we’re on a salary freeze but I can see if I can get you an extra three percent or maybe a year-end bonus or something if that helps.”
“No, it’s not that either,” I say.
“Are you going somewhere else? I thought you were happy here, Allie.”
“No, it’s none of that,” I say. “I just, I need to quit. Right now.”
“Like, today? Is there anything—”
“Connor, let me stop you. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. I typed up a robust transition checklist and saved it on the C: drive. So please just let me go so I can pack up my cubicle and try to get out of here before Stacey gets back from coffee and Dionte comes in for the day.”
I can tell he’s equal parts dumbfounded and irritated. No two weeks’ notice and seemingly no talking me out of it.
“Allie, as you know, Daxa is a hire-and-fire-at-will company. I can’t make you stay. But my wife’s a social worker. And we talk about her patients sometimes. I know, HIPAA, but we do. And all the PTO you’ve taken, your impromptu mental health day, the bruise around your eye and now a swift letter of resignation two days before you knew you’d be getting the promotion you’ve been after for years...something’s going on. I don’t know what, but if you need to talk to my wife, I’d be happy to connect you two.”
I cry a little as I fight to keep the sloppy, horrible truth from pouring out of me in Conference Room B at 9:05. He’s one sentence away from saying “Blink twice if you need me to call the cops,” but thankfully I’m able to cut him off.
“I appreciate your concern, Connor. I really do. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and how you’ve believed in me and helped me grow in this role. You’re a really good boss and whoever you hire next is going to be lucky to be on this team.” I nod as I turn around and head for the door.
Inelegant as it may have been, it’s done and it feels like a friend of mine has died.
I get back to my apartment with my cubicle belongings and grab my mail before heading up. Arguably, I’ve been a little too preoccupied to check box #1004 these last few days so of course it’s overstuffed. I’m sure my mailman hates me.
Sifting through the mail upstairs, I see what looks to be a bill addressed to Benji. It’s like seeing a double rainbow because normally the money stuff comes to me. But alas, it’s from his cell phone provider and that’s one bill I never took over. He always paid it with his share of profits from the pop-ups. In fact, I distinctly remember handing him $86 on the thirteenth of every month so he could walk over to the Verizon store and take care of it. I’m convinced this is a letter to confirm what we already know: that the line has been disconnected.
I tear it open, because why not, and discover it’s a final letter from collections. He owes a whopping $760 in overages, late fees and dues. According to this document, he’s pocketed every cent I gave him that was meant to square up with Verizon. He’s also done a good job of checking the mail before I came home from work and intercepting any evidence that might have told me what he was really up to with this designated cash.
I call the number on the bill and politely tell them to stop sending letters to this address. I could have easily gone into exactly why, but the person who answered my call clearly doesn’t make enough money per hour for that. When I hang up, the silence and stillness in my apartment is too much to handle. I grab my keys and lock up.
* * *
“What’s this?”
“This is everything we need to do in the next thirty-seven days and how to do it. Do you want to look through it and pick something that interests you, or would you like me to just assign you a task?” Angela says as she slaps a binder down in front of me in the back office of Here.
I thumb through it. There’s probably 300 pages or more all printed, hole-punched and organized behind their respective tabs and sub tabs.
Ordering
- Liquor
- Food
- Supplies
Menus
- Food
- Drinks
Restaurant Setup
- Layout
- Furniture
Staff
- Scheduling
- HR
Systems...
And approximately a hundred other things that make absolutely no sense to me. I slam the book shut before I have an aneurysm, and slide it back her way.
“Dealer’s choice, Ang,” I say with a smile.
“Well, then...”
She opens the binder with her perfectly manicured nails—this time there’s just a touch of color to them like ballet slippers—to the exact page she’s thinking of on her first try, unclips the rings and pulls out a sheet of paper.
“Take a look at this. I had Tabitha put it together last night. It’s everything we need to order for opening and how much of each. Now this list isn’t going to change until the spring when we update our menu for the season, but the quantities we have to order will. For example, we’re going to do more covers—”
“Covers?”
“Asses in chairs. We’re going to have more of those on the weekends, so we’ll be ordering more product on Fridays and Saturdays. We’ll dial down our order on Tuesday so we don’t have waste. Make sense? It’s simple supply and demand, really.”
“Yeah, I think I get it. What do you need me to do with it, though?”
“Cool your jets. I’m getting to it, woman. I need you to source vendors for each of the ingredients, put in the order for opening night with them and then set them up in our bookkeeping system so we can pay them when they invoice us.”
Upon first glance, I’m familiar with most of the items on the list. Broccoli, strawberries, onions...
“Can’t we just get these things at Costco?”
“Really? Really, Allie? This isn’t Thanksgiving dinner. We order vegetables from the produce guy, meat from a butcher, fish from the fish guy, tea from the tea seller, and so on and so forth. We need the freshest ingredients possible, delivered to our door the morning before service. Do you see eggs on that list?”
With my pointer finger as my guide, I scan the list and spot them about halfway down. Tabitha is requesting forty-six dozen.
“Yes, right here,” I say.
“Okay, so that means I want the chicken to have literally shit that egg out an hour before it winds up at our door. We want to shop local, we want to keep our relationships strong and we want the best of the best available no matter what. We don’t need to be losing business to Applebee’s because a diner finds a piece of wilted lettuce in their salad.”
She’s playing with the emerald pendant on her necklace as she shoots the order at me.
“Alright, alright. I get it. So how do I find these vendors?”
Finding Tabitha was easy when Angela did all the research and left me just five to pick from. But something tells me this is going to be more needle-in-the-haystack and less Restaurant 101.
“You’re going to need to research. I know who’s the best in the ’burbs, but not so much in the city. I assume everyone decent is in the Fulton Market.”
The Fulton Market is an industrial neighborhood just a few streets north of the West Loop. It’s pretty much just produce warehouse after warehouse along a cobbled street that’s laced with forklifts and fish guts.
“I will say, however,” she continues, “that the trick is finding one vendor that’s solid, then asking them who they recommend for all the rest. It’s insider knowledge that way, word of mouth. Oh, and another piece of advice: don’t let them bully you with the menu. Tell them it’s already set in stone. Vendors will always try to get you to change your offerings based on what they want to push, which is either shit that goes bad quickly, or the real expensive stuff. I’m counting on you to stay strong.”
I make a fist with my hand and pound my chest to show my allegiance to Tabitha’s menu.
“Speaking of, turn to page 98—there’s a copy of the working menu. This isn’t what the customers will see, but it details how everything’s made and what exactly is in everything. That way if a person with a nut allergy wants to go hard-as-a-motherfucker on our sweet potato mash, our servers will be able to warn them there are pecans in it before someone goes into anaphylactic shock on our restaurant floor.”
“I will learn to recite in my sleep,” I say.
“Good. Now I’ve got to go supervise the hanging of our sign outside. I just got a text that it arrived early...so that marks one thing that’s actually going to plan!” She claps with excitement and puts her jacket on.
Then she tosses me a ring with three keys on it.
“Back door, front door, walk-in fridge and freezer...you’ll figure out which is which.”
She leaves me alone in the office and I just stare at the keys in the palm of my hand. It’s like somebody asked me to hold their baby and then took off running. I’m overwhelmed to say the least, but I’m afraid of what Angela will do if she mistakes my paralysis for slacking. So I throw the keys in my purse and focus on my assignment.
I begin with the first ingredient on the to-order list: garlic. This is an easy one because I recall being in the kitchen yesterday with Tabitha as she prepared her test meal. The clove of garlic she held in front of my nose was so fragrant, but where did she get it? I know she mentioned it...something “& Sons”?
I punch what I can remember into a search bar and Google does the rest for me. Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with a guy named Jared from Marcel & Sons. He offers to swing by for a meet and greet, complete with a lesson on how to submit my order online and a complimentary apple tasting. Because apparently that’s a thing. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.
* * *
“Well, I sincerely apologize if I offended you by assuming you would also sell coffee...Yes, I am now fully aware of the differences between tea and coffee. Thank you very much.”
I’m trying to wrap a less-than-pleasant conversation with a tea vendor when in walks who I assume is the produce guy. He’s carrying a box with some apples, paperwork and a clipboard sticking out of it. I wave hello to him and gesture to Angela’s empty chair and desk as a place he can unpack for a few.
“Okay, I’m not an idiot so you can stop talking to me like one...You’re right, I did hear that you had the best tea selection in Chicago, but I don’t appreciate your tone with me, sir. So you know what? You can just cancel the entire order and I’ll find someone else...Yes. Cancel the whole thing...Oh, I will. Don’t you worry.”
I slam the receiver down in a fit of rage.
“Are they all like this?” I ask the stranger who just heard me lose my shit on the phone.
“You mean are all vendors pompous assholes? Yes. For the most part. Let me guess, that was Gary Schweitz at the Tea Seller?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“He’s a bit of a diva. Hates when people assume he’s a one-stop coffee/tea shop. Why don’t you try The Tea Lady...she’s much more flexible and has great coffee, too. She sources from Dark Matter roasters so it’s all local. Maria Montenegro is her name.”
I scribble it down so I can Google her later and then realize I haven’t yet caught the name of the person who threw out the helpful suggestion.
“Thanks for that. I’ll give her a buzz. And hi, I’m Allie Simon. You are?”
He wipes apple residue on his jeans and walks closer to shake my hand. “Jared Marcel, Marcel & Sons produce. I come in peace.” He holds the infamous StarTrek/Spock fingers up.
“And also with...an apple tasting.”
I still haven’t eaten today, which explains the fact that the seemingly bland, albeit healthy, offering is making my mouth water right now. I get up and follow him back over to Angela’s desk, where he’s set up a charcuterie-like selection of apple slices and dips.
“Gala. Fuji. Honeycrisp. They’re in season right now and you cannot beat the flavor on them. I’d start there.”
I pick up a slice of his recommended favorite and bite into it. It’s just an apple. A snack I’ve had a thousand times in my life. But this one sends little tingles all through my mouth like pops of lightning.
“Holy shit, that’s good,” I say. “I mean, those apples have a lovely tasting profile. Can we order some of them?”
“Absolutely,” says Jared. “But let me see a copy of your working menu first so I can make sure it fits with something your chef is already planning on serving. While I’d love for you to order 3,000 Honeycrisps, I’m not going to sell you a product you can’t use. It’s just not my style. Got a copy of that menu for me?”
I pull open the binder Angela made to the page with Tabitha’s menu draft and slide it his way for review. He turns his baseball hat backward for a better view, then hunches over the page and begins studying it.
In the quiet moment, I take this man in. He appears to be not much older than thirty and a Ben Affleck (circa Armegeddon) look-alike. After the day I’ve had chatting with snobby vendors, it’s refreshing to share just five minutes with a non-judgy industry professional. I was beginning to think people like Jared did not exist in this world.
“Okay, cool. So if you see here, Allie, your chef has a salad under the ‘greens’ section with spinach and seasonal fruit, but it doesn’t specify what kind of fruit. I see no reason why you shouldn’t suggest that it be sliced Honeycrisp—at least for the duration of the season. Want me to show you how to put in an order? It’s really simple, actually.”
“That’d be great,” I say. “And don’t let me forget, I also need to order a bunch of mackerel after we’re done with the apples.”
“Okay, well, that’s actually not a fruit or vegetable. But you’re in luck, because I have the number for a great fish guy, too.”
Embarrassing as it is to not know my food groups, it’s obvious Tabitha was right about Marcel & Sons being the best. This guy is good—and he’s being good to me. One vendor down, probably ten more to go.