"Would you care for some Tongue en Madère?" I'd ask through clenched
teeth, my face a rictus of faux cheer as I'd have to repeat and repeat for
the hard-of-hearing captains of industry who ate the same spread of
sauce-disguised leftovers every lunch and for whom the hot entree was
clearly the highlight of their day. "Boiled beef with horseradish sauce,
sir?" I'd chirp. "And would you care for a steamed potato with that?"
The Irish waitresses who worked the Luncheon Club with me were more
like nurses after years of this. They had nicknames for our regulars:
"Dribbling Dick" for one ninety-year-old who had a hard time keeping
his food in his mouth, "Stinky" for an apparently incontinent banker,
"Shakey Pete" for the guy who needed his food cut for him, and so on.
There were famous names in banking and industry with us every day, all
New York laid out below us beyond the floor-to-ceiling picture windows
—eating garbage at the top of the world.
Since shanking Luis, I'd been increasingly considered to be a person of
substance. The chef, an affable, blue-eyed Italian named Quinto, now felt
free to take full advantage of my youth, my resilience and my
willingness to work for minimum wage. After coming in at seven, taking
care of my retirement village upstairs in the Club, breaking down the
buffet (and saving what I could for re-use tomorrow), I was now
regularly called on to stick around and help prep for the massive night-
time banquets and cocktail parties. Absenteeism being rampant in our
little corner of the Worker's Paradise, Local 6, I was taken aside more
and more at the last minute and asked to remain until midnight, filling in
on the hot line. I worked grill station, sauté, fish station—at first only as
a commis, hunting and fetching, covering the cooks on breaks, reloading
reach-ins, straining sauces, mopping brows, running numbers to the
house bookie, collecting bets, and so on. But in no time I was working
stations alone, and keeping up my end nicely.
I made thousands and thousands of baby quiches for parties, and gristly
little kebabs from the tough, nearly inedible chain that runs along the