moved it over to the cutting board, and set it down in front of me.
He never flinched.
The other cooks cheered, hooted and roared at my utter humiliation.
Orders began to come in again and everyone went back to work, giggling
occasionally. But I knew. I was not going to be the Dreadnaught's broiler
man this year—that was for damn sure. (They ended up kicking me back
down to prep, one step above dishwasher on the food chain. ) I had been
shown up for the loudmouthed, useless little punk that I was. I was, I
learned later, a mal carne, meaning "bad meat" in Italian, referred to as
"Mel" for weeks after. I had been identified as a pretender, and an
obnoxious one at that.
I slunk home that night in my blue Pierre Cardin suit as if it was
sackcloth and ashes. I had not yet found a summer rental, so I was
sleeping over the walk-in in the back room at Spiritus Pizza. My
torment, my disgrace was complete.
After a few days of sulking and self-pity, I slowly, and with growing
determination, began to formulate a plan, a way to get back at my
tormentors. I would go to school, at the Culinary Institute of America—
they were the best in the country and certainly none of these P-town guys
had been there. I would apprentice in France. I would endure anything:
evil drunk chefs, crackpot owners, low pay, terrible working conditions;
I would let sadistic, bucket-headed French sous-chefs work me like a
Sherpa . . . but I would be back. I would do whatever was necessary to
become as good as, or better than, this Mario crew. I would have hands
like Tyrone's and I would break loudmouth punks like myself over the
wheel like they'd broken me. I'd show them.
INSIDE THE CIA
BURNING WITH A DESIRE for vengeance and vindication, I applied