treated like a pasha: free snackies, maybe some free desserts, a visit
from the chef, fawning, personal service—in short, the kind of warm
welcome and name recognition all of us beaten-down, working-class
slobs crave when going out to dinner.
ADAM REAL-LAST-NAME-UNKNOWN
THE KITCHEN PHONE RANG, followed by a beep, the little green light
indicating that the hostess at the front desk had a call for me.
"Yeah?" I said, covering one ear so I could understand what she was
saying over the radio and the clatter of pots and the noise of the
dishwasher.
"Call for the chef," she said. "Line two."
I pressed the red flashing light, signaled for Steven at the grill to turn
down the radio.
"Feed the bitch!" said the voice on the phone. "Feed the bitch or she'll
die!"
It was Adam.
What he wanted me to do—what he was telling me—was that he was too
drunk, too tired, too lazy, too involved in some squalid personal
circumstances to come in and feed his starter: a massive, foaming,
barely contained heap of fermenting grapes, flour, water, sugar and yeast
which even now was pushing up the weighted-down lid of a 35-gallon
Lexan container and spilling over on the work table where it was stored.
"Adam, we're busy here!" I protested.
"Tell him I'm not doing it," yelled Steven from the line. He'd been
expecting this call. "Tell him I'm letting her die if he doesn't get his ass