stay ahead of their latest creditors, the latest unforgiving developments
of market forces and broken equipment, unreliable cooks and menacing
moneylenders. I don't know. I know I didn't do the best job for some of
them, though I did the best I could have done—at the time.
The cooks who've passed through my kitchens? I know where most of
them have gone; I'm more likely to keep in touch, as I might need some
of them again. The brilliant Dimitri has been out of the life for years—
and doesn't return my phone calls. I don't recall doing anything too bad
to Dimitri, other than dragging him to New York. But I suspect he
doesn't want to get tempted should I call with an unusual offer. "Hey,
Dimitri! This gig would be perfect for you! It'll be just like old times."
They make movies about that, the old bank robbers getting together for
one final score. Dimitri knows better than that. He must.
My old friend from high school, Sam, is still in the business. He's still
bouncing around. He does very nicely catering and doing part-time
mercenary work at various bistros around town, married now to a lovely
and hugely talented pastry chef. I see him often.
Adam Real-Last-Name-Unknown has held a steady job at a prestigious
caterer for almost two years now, and seems to be doing very well. Patti
Jackson (from my Pino interlude) works down the street, with a hunky-
looking assistant I can well picture her referring to by saying, "Have him
washed and oiled and delivered to my chambers!" Beth the Grill Bitch
works for private clients now, feeding Atkins Diet to wealthy jumbos.
She eats at Les Halles often and is considered to be a visiting celebrity in
my kitchen—especially when she demonstrates some new karate moves
and sleeper holds for my awed crew.
Manuel, the pasta cook I stole from Pino, and who worked with me at
Sullivan's, enduring the late night sounds of Steven penetrating his
girlfriend, is back in Ecuador, finishing work for his degree in
engineering.