goddamn right I could do the job! I could train a schnauzer to knock out
a few hundred broiled steaks a day, wrap a few spuds in foil and make
floury clam chowder for customers who smoked cigars while they ate.
This gig would be ridiculously easy for me—practically free money. I
didn't say this, of course. That wouldn't be good.
I was closing in on the position. I could feel it. I cleverly volunteered
that my personal approach to cuisine was appreciation of fine
ingredients, that too much frou-frou on the plates, food too sculpted,
excessively garnished like that of many of my peers, was a distraction.
Owners usually like this rap. And by saying it, I had inoculated myself
against the "I'm too good for this place" issue. Oh yeah, I assured them,
all those squeeze-bottle Jackson Pollock designs on plates, the carved
veggies and the frizzled this-and-thats, they detracted from the natural
beauty of fine ingredients—a time-consuming and costly indulgence that
satisfied only the chef's ego. "Good food, honestly prepared," I repeated,
"doesn't need that silliness. If the ingredients are the best, and they're
prepared conscientiously, you don't need it," my tone implying that there
was something less than masculine—even gay—about dressing a hunk of
meat up like a goddamn birthday cake.
This was going down very well—until suddenly, things took a strange
and confusing turn. The owner leaned in close, and with unexpected
gravity, lowered his voice and asked what was clearly the Big Question.
His blue eyes searched the inner recesses of my skull as he asked it, his
thick brogue and a passing delivery truck obscuring the words. I didn't
hear. I asked the man to repeat the question, suddenly thrown completely
off my game. I listened intently this time, feeling suddenly at a
disadvantage, not wanting this guy to think I was hard of hearing—or
worse, having trouble with his accent.
"I'm sorry," I said, "What was that?"
"I asked," said the owner, slightly irritated, "What do you know about