bread, and you will be gone by the time my first cook arrives in the
morning," were my instructions. I did not want him telling my garde-
manger guy that he was going to "make him his woman", or bragging
about some imaginary or real adventure at the "casa de putas" or singing
witlessly obscene and unfunny Christmas carols to the dishwashers, who
saw him as a near-Satanic apparition. Allowing Adam to work
unsupervised at night, however, meant that he would lift my reach-in
doors off the hinges to help himself to midnight snacks of T-bone steaks,
white truffle risotto and tomato salad-washed down, no doubt, with a
bottle of pilfered Dom Perignon now and again. But that was to be
expected. The bread. It was soooo good.
The first few months of Adam's employment were always the
honeymoon. He showed up pretty much on time, producing, one way or
the other, what was required. Then, when things were going well—the
customers commenting favorably on the product, his masters happy—
he'd start to enter a fugue state—"martyr mode"—where he'd begin
sulking, feeling put-upon, sorry for himself. All that work he was doing
by himself, all that fine Adam bread, was under-appreciated by his cruel
and insensitive overlords. He would begin trying to jack me up for more
money, demanding restitution for "expenses", taxis and "research". He'd
want new equipment, massive amounts of specialty baking goods, the
authorization to phone up companies and spend money autonomously. In
short, he'd become insufferable. When his demands weren't met, he'd
start slacking and not showing up for work.
The "feed the bitch" calls would become more frequent.
That's usually when I began buying bread out.
And that's when Adam, not eligible for unemployment benefits, would
go back to making sandwiches at the Yankee Doodle Deli, brunch—
cooking at West Side saloons, consulting to some crack-brained pizzeria
owner or novice restaurateur, freelancing for deadbeat caterers or just