me first? Me and Carlos gonna punch two holes in your neck and bump
dicks in the middle!" Doogie cringes, laughs nervously and scurries out
on to the floor, trailing muttered apologies.
"Chef," says Omar, looking guilty, "no más tomates . . ."
My jaw drops, and I see white.
I ordered tomatoes. I had thought that tomatoes had arrived—then
remember I broke up the order between three companies. I call Segundo
on the intercom, tell him to come up horita. I'm also furious with Omar
for waiting until we're out of tomatoes to tell me there are no more.
"What the fuck is going on?" I ask Segundo, who slouches in the
doorway like a convict in the exercise yard. "No Baldor," he says,
causing me to erupt in a blind, smoking rage. Baldor, though a superb
produce purveyor, has been late twice in recent weeks, prompting me to
make some very uncivil telephone calls to their people—and worse,
forcing me to do business with another, lesser company until they got the
message and began delivering earlier. Now, with no tomatoes, and no
delivery, and the rush building, I'm furious. I call Baldor and start
screaming right away: "What kind of glue-sniffing, crackhead
mesomorphs you got working for you? You don't have an order for me?
What?! I called the shit in myself . . . I spoke to a human! I didn't even
leave it on the tape! And you're telling me you don't have my order? I
got three fucking produce companies! THREE! AND IT'S ALWAYS
YOU THAT FUCKS ME IN THE ASS!" I hang up, pull a few pans off
the flame, load up some more mussels, sauce a duck, arrange a few
pheasants, and check my clipboard. I'm in the middle of telling
Cachundo to run across the street to Park Bistro and ask the chef there if
we can borrow some tomatoes when I see, from my neat columns of
checked-off items on my clipboard, that in fact I ordered the tomatoes
from another company, that I didn't order anything from Baldor. I have
no time to feel bad about my mistake—that'll come later. After