my date with the chef
I park under the umbrella of a palm tree. Lucky me, finding this spot. Right in front of some house with blue chipped paint. Unmown lawn. Impeccably early I am, before my phone will buzz with a text—“I’m here.” I want to be the first to declare it.
I am here.
It’s raining. Soft plummet, string lights blurring into groups of yellow blobs. You can almost convince yourself you’re in some nook of Amsterdam. Small town in Vermont, taste-dependent. Not a beach town full of stoners. Almost romantic.
I walk up to the restaurant. Crowded, small line of people in front of a host stand. I put our name on the waiting list, get a confirmation text. He walks up, beanie covering some unknown mess of brown. Soft smile. Friendly eyes. Hoodie. Gives me a hug, routine. We stand in a spot out front where the rain still hits our arms every once in a while. Chatting politely while we stand there. Hate that I have to check my phone. Unsure how much time has passed. Never quite thirty minutes like they say. Or maybe it was twenty.
The host sits us at a bench table. Outside, heat lamp cowering over us. Another pair on the end. I figure they’re a tad older than us. The menu is large, overwhelming. I look up at him expectantly, as if he has something profound to say about mid-priced pho. Idiot.
Eye contact. Small talk. Wondering when to look down at my menu. Are you ready to order? Kind waitress, bless her heart. This happens at least two more times. Finally—pork broth for him, chicken for me.
Waiter leaves with the menus. Eyes circle down. I look at the edges of a black ink tattoo running over his lower forearm.
How many do you have?
A few.
We talk about New Orleans, unconventional foods. I tell him my uncle made me try alligator once. Eating the animal I fear the most. Bizarre. He rolls up his sleeve, shows me a stitched gator wrapping around his wrist. Grins cleverly. I imagine looking at its chilling eyes, etched scales, for the rest of my life. Already knowing it won’t be the rest of my life.
How’d you get into cooking?
I actually started as a bus boy. Went to community college for a couple of years. School wasn’t really my thing.
I lean forward. Mesmerized. Wondering why non-academics have this allure over me. Real life. Tell me more. His history. The usual. Got out of the LA burbs as quickly as possible. Not for him. Ended up north.
You heard of Eureka? Humboldt County?
Last time I was in Eureka was with my ex, two tech junkies escaping the city. Ate at some seafood restaurant. Wonder if he’d laugh at our 24-year-old culinary choices. Recounts his time up north as if living amid the tallest trees in the world in your twenties is commonplace. Five whole years of life to him. Playground to me.
What did you do all day?
Make food. Join forces. He means the restaurant people. Bonds. Laughs in between anecdotes. Waitress comes back and sets two bowls of soup in front of us. Steam drifts from the surface. Pours some chili oil in his.
What is your book about? We discussed this before the date, lightly. Glimpse into the soul, what one chooses to right about.
Nostalgia. Teen boys running around doing dumb shit. Mostly about growing up. He seems uncertain. Not of its essence, but of sharing it with me.
I smile, encouraging.
But yeah. I try to work on it now and then. Been over eight years now.
I nod. He picks up his chopsticks. We eat silently for a few moments.
What’s your dream? I look up at him. Hopeful.
With food?
I nod. Not sure what I meant.
I guess to try working in another city. Philly’s cool. Maybe New York. Other food scenes, I reckon. Like I’m some expert.
Would you ever start a restaurant?
He laughs. No, I don’t know. Might be too boring. Truth is. I just want to cook all day.
Check paid. Walks me back to my car. Another hug. Hope to see you again. Hope to experience your worldview again.
Mind wanders on the drive home. Back to Tristan, who on our first date, freely gifted me one of life’s greatest pleasures: allowing me to live in New York without having to live in New York. Like rewatching Sex and the City or looking at pictures of brownstones in Brooklyn or skimming the admissions page of The New School. A case of second-hand magic. You won’t believe these Europeans who didn’t tip. Runs me through exotic Mediterranean dishes on the menu. This and that.
Then, there was the other Tristan who ran across the street, barely even looking both ways, outside some beer garden back in Houston. Summer after first year, back at home. Hot as hell. Violent humidity. Told me to roll down my window. Practically ignored me at the restaurant for two weeks straight after that night, bruised ego. Stood at the host stand like I didn’t even care. Bartender more interesting, Mexican restaurant off Main Street. Early twenties tastes.
Certain chutzpah these men have. Can’t be replicated when you sit at a desk. Monitors screaming at you, it’s nothing. I knew which beer the manager was on. Summer nights of 2016. (At least four since five.) I toss my interest in restaurant men between my hands like it’s a rubber band ball. Maybe one day, pieces of it will snap. I hold on to their words like an old blanket. Free dopamine hit off their stories as if we’re gossiping about old enemies from high school. Stupid jeal–I can’t even use the word. They don’t know what I’m revisiting. They don’t know what I know.
And what do I know?
Certainly nothing about sliding floors and slammed doors. Ignoring my phone for six hours straight because my hands are covered in flour and grease. Knees ache. Voice of an angry man shouting at me across the prep table. Throw up in section seven. Rich man misperceiving a well-done steak. Camaraderie amid the chaos. Counting dollars. Taking checks. Time we smoked in my boss’s backyard. Time Gary told me he was fresh out the slammer while I refilled a Sprite at the drink station. Took it back to the table to some teenagers who wouldn’t even tip. Mad at me anyway. My tardiness.
Through those doors. Rises and falls, ebbs and flows. The continuum of a day. Each a separate story. Lens into the world, not that you ever know what world it is. Never know what you’re waking up to. Type of uncertainty you can’t wish for. And why would anyone want to? I wrap my hands more tightly around the steering wheel. Car bought with my annual bonus. Mind traveling back. You always remember the scents. Frying grease, fresh cooked meat. You always remember. Feeling of a dollar bill, crinkled. Pay day. The lives that piece of paper has lived. Can’t say the same for my 401K. Doesn’t even matter anymore.
Certainly these are things I’ll never know again.