How much longer can he linger here in Belleville?
*
Fate intervenes in the form of a cardboard box of San Marzano tomatoes that someone left in a damp spot. The case, weakened by moisture, breaks open. The cans drop in quick succession on the line cook’s foot, ill-protected in flip-flops of all things. The poor guy might have survived the broken toe, but not the index finger sliced open by the knife he inadvertently grabbed as he fell. The owner—Mr. C, although Adam has yet to learn what the “C” is for—puts up a sign looking for temporary help. Cath says the boss can cook, in a pinch, but he prefers not to in the summer. Hard to figure what he does with his days given how ghostly pale he is.
So Adam’s after-school job in “Uncle” Claude’s diner in San Mateo, his time at the CIA—Culinary Institute of America, not the spy agency—is going to save this gig. He also spent a season cooking on a rich guy’s yacht, but his instincts tell him not to share that part of his résumé.
Mr. C takes the help wanted sign down after talking to Adam for five minutes. He says he’ll do most of the cooking, use Adam for the scut work, but he’s lazy and by the third day, he’s letting Adam do everything.
Customers begin saying nice things about the food. Adam, who can’t phone anything in, pushes Mr. C to upgrade some of his suppliers. To let him use local produce when possible, although it’s still early for tomatoes, and spend a little extra on the things that matter, like beef and seafood. Cheap chicken is fine; people who order a chicken sandwich in a place like this have no taste buds. Besides, the locals seldom order chicken. Adam can’t figure if this is out of fealty to the Kiwanis, who sell barbecue by the roadside on weekends, or because this is chicken country. You drive past those long, low coops, inhale—it puts you off chicken, all due respect, Mr. Perdue.
Business picks up, which is good for everyone. Mr. C needs both waitresses most nights, one for lunch. The tips are bigger.
And through it all, Adam keeps it mild and professional with the new barmaid, “Polly Costello.”
“Polly want a cracker,” he says, shaking a bag of oyster crackers at her, deliberately being cornpone. It doesn’t get a smile. “Is Polly short for something?”
“No,” she says.
They don’t speak again, beyond the shorthand of short-order speak—Adam and Eve on a raft, et cetera. Their first real conversation begins with an argument over a steak. Customer orders it medium rare, then complains it’s too red.
“That’s what medium rare is,” he tells her, maybe with a little more heat than the situation requires. “Medium has some pink. If there’s no hint of pink, it’s on its way to being medium well. Truly rare is closer to blue, maybe a bluish purple.”
“The customer is always right,” she says.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I believe that the customer leaves the tip and the tip is my real pay. So the customer is my boss.”
And you’re not, she’s telling him. Like a little kid: You’re not the boss of me.
“But I’m here day in, day out. Your customer will only be as happy as my food makes him.”
“The food was shitty before you got here. It will be shitty after you leave. I’m not worried about the food.”
“So you think my food is good?” He can’t help feeling a little flattered.
“I didn’t say that. It’s not as bad as it was. It’s okay. I wouldn’t know. I don’t eat meat.”
“I can make you a nice salad.”
“I don’t eat salad.”
“You don’t eat meat, you don’t eat salad. What do you eat?”
She doesn’t bother to answer. “Look, please cook it a little more. Is that so hard?”
“That’s all I needed to hear. ‘Please.’ Was that so hard?”
The kitchen closes at 9:30, the bar goes to 11:00, but Adam, a neat freak who obsesses over the hood, needs that long to clean and prep for the next day. When Polly closes the register at 10:55, he slides a plate across the bar to her. It’s the most perfect grilled cheese and tomato sandwich that ever was. The brown stripes on the buttery white bread are so perfectly symmetrical they could have been put there by a painter. Inside, there is finely chopped bacon, his own secret. Fry the bacon, then chop it. Otherwise, it tears up the sandwich as you bite, fights the cheese, gets stuck in your teeth. He mixes it with some bacon paste, calculating there may be a day when he wants to add this to the menu; the version he prepares for Polly is about as practical as a hand-whittled clothespin. On the side: fries made from fresh potatoes, not the ones in the freezer, blanched in 250-degree oil, then sprinkled with rosemary. A cup of ketchup, but also a cup of homemade aioli, although he’ll call it mayo on the board. With good fries, you want mayo.
She eats without commentary. She eats every bite, though.
“There was bacon in there,” he says.
“I know,” she says. “You testing me?”
“My sister’s a vegetarian and she says she misses bacon every day.”
“I didn’t say I was a vegetarian. I said I didn’t eat meat.”
“I just thought I knew what you would like.”
“You thought that, huh?” She eats a french fry.
The bus boy–dishwasher, Jorge, is working in the back, a cramped space overwhelmed by the beat-up Wolf with six burners, a broken salamander, a deep fryer that Adam loves, and a microwave he detests, but relies on more than he likes to admit. They’re not really alone. Adam reminds himself. They’re not alone.