lying around his apartment. He'd print up another résumé, another tissue
of lies, invariably with another last name, and he'd start all over. And
sooner or later, I'd call him again . . . or Sears would, and Adam Real-
Last-Name-Unknown would be back in the saddle again.
Adam can surprise you. He gets along well with my wife. He's actually
polite in stretches. For the last few years (something of a record for
Adam), he's been working for a very fine caterer and apparently doing
good work there. I turned on public access cable one night to see Adam,
in chef's whites, exchanging witty banter with a late-night cable host and
guests, holding his own very nicely. He was delightful and funny and fast
on his feet, and he had an impressive display of baked goods laid out on
a table to sample. He's still making bread and pizzas for Jimmy Sears.
For some time, I have heard no tales of violent assaults or thirteen-dollar
whorehouses or near overdoses. So maybe he really has cleaned up his
act.
God knows, a man who can make those perfect rough-slashed boules of
sourdough and Tuscan country bread deserves his place in the sun.
Somewhere.
He's the best at what he does, after all. The finest bread I've ever had.
And the most expensive: in human cost, aggravation and worry. Hiring
Adam Real-Last-Name-Unknown was always a trade-off-with God or
Satan, I don't know—but it was usually worth it. Bread is the staff of
life. And Adam, the unlikely source.
Something else God has to answer for.
DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN RESOURCES
A GOOD FRIEND OF mine, about a year into his first chef's job, had a
problem with one of his cooks. This particularly rotten bastard had been
giving my friend a ride for quite a while: showing up late, not showing