by Kirsti MacKenzie
Yeah, I remember him. Loudest guy on the line. He always looked like that, you know. The hair, the goatee, the chains. Rings on while he cooked, even when he put his hands on the food. The Sous used to scream at him for it and he’d just go my bad, chef, my bad.
We worked a Michelin-starred joint back in the day. People don’t know this, but the guy goes toe-to-toe with anyone in any kitchen around the world. You’d assume he’d be a personality hire, like the guy that’s kind of a dogshit player but real good in the locker room, but no. Mister Positivity can throw down. Chef used to get on his case because his uniform was always untucked or he wore sunglasses, like not even on top of his head, right on his nose, but Guy was the best cook we had and he knew it. First to clock in, last to leave. Can’t say shit.
Guy and I used to take smoke breaks out back and watch the fancy diners go in and out. Guy smokes his cigarettes real weird, pinched between three fingers, like he’s got a roach. He’d exhale into the wind and gesture big with the cigarette.
“These people,” he’d say. “Fuckin’ snobs.”
I’d shrug.
“They can front all they want,” he’d say. “Braised this, flambéed that.”
He’d point at a woman, dolled in heels and fur coat.
“What she wants—no, hombre, what she needs—is a big fat greasy one,” he’d say. “And I’m not talking your dick.”
Guy used to talk shit like this. I’ve seen him plate something like a FleurBurger 5000 and thumb his fuckin’ nose at it. The wagyu, the fois gras, the black truffle—doesn’t mean shit to Guy. He once put a Kraft single on the burger to fuck with Chef and got suspended without pay for a week. Guy smiled real big, thanked Chef for the vacation, and went on a bender so legendary they still talk about it back-of-house. Somebody said something about a Mexican donkey show, but don’t listen to that. People love to add these, I don’t know, details. Like a bad game of telephone.
“Let ‘em talk, hombre,” he’d say. “Don’t matter a lick to me.”
He said that, sure, but I knew it bothered him. He was sweet on one of the waitresses. Now, everyone was sweet on Rebecca, but Guy especially. We’d clock out and go to this greasy spoon off-Strip and drink black coffee and pick at cold fries and Guy would say jeez, how bout that girl, you know she eighty-sixed a regular for grabbing her ass tonight? Guy’s a big spender, too. Class, all the way, that Rebecca. I’d watch him blow a month’s worth of tips on three fingers of Macallan Lalique 57 just to sit and talk to her. Parked on the bar stool, kitchen clogs swinging beneath him, like a little boy. He was so happy just to be in her orbit, man.
Guy’s as pure a heart as they come, but he never had a shot with Rebecca. She was dating some club owner, real slick piece of shit. But that didn’t stop Guy from trying. Didn’t stop any of us, really. The owner had this policy of only hiring stone cold tens for front-of-house and if it was a house of tens, Rebecca was a twelve at least. Lots of the girls weren’t impressed with cooks but they did have a soft spot for Guy because he’d bring them little bites when they were hungover, lobster mac and cheese and chicken tacos and good old-fashioned cheeseburgers with some kind of sauce they swore cured everything that ailed ya. He never told any of us what was in it. Guys used to joke he’d jerk off in it but that’s cooks, for you.
“Love, hombres,” he’d say, smiling real big. “The secret ingredient should always be love.”
You’re laughing, but he’s just like that. You know. You’ve seen it. He believed in the underdogs, always. He’d pick the most dogshit guy on the line and take him under his wing. Give him a bullshit nickname, shout him out at staff meals, get him fucked up at parties. He’d have the girls from front-of-house plant little kisses on the cheeks of losers and nerds and virgins who’d sniffed more dishpit fumes than pussy. He was nice, is what I’m saying. That shit’s not an act. If you’re an underdog, or an oddball, he’s your biggest fan. Rebecca took her fifteen one day and watched him chirp a guy’s prep work, real bad julienne job, and leaned to my ear. She smelled like vanilla and cardamom.
“That guy will be the best cook within six months,” she said.
“You think?” I asked.
“Guy knows how to pick ‘em,” she said.
Sure enough. That’s the thing about being around Guy. He makes you better. You want to do better for him. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to say. Kitchens are no different than anywhere else. Get a couple of bad apples, guys with shit attitudes or coke problems, and they’ll tank the ship. Somebody like Guy, well. Rising tides lift all boats, I think the saying is. We were proud to know him even then. Before the TV deals, before the big red convertible, before Flavortown. Guy’s always been Guy, and everyone could use a Guy on the line.
That doesn’t mean life doesn’t get a brother down, though. I remember one night the club owner came to visit Rebecca on shift and they got in a real big fight, right in the middle of the restaurant. Left her in tears. Her manager was pissed, which made her even more upset. Guy caught wind of it and spent the rest of shift fuming over his station, barking orders and slamming things into sinks and sending dishes back if they weren’t perfect. I dragged him outside for a smoke break. We stood, hands in pockets, watching traffic pass under the neon explosion of The Strip.
“She’s better than this place,” he’d say. “You know she’s studying to be a therapist?”
“No shit,” I said.
“That’s the thing,” he said, waving his hand at The Strip. “This place is an illusion, man. You’re all better than it. The stars, the five courses, the French brigade. The beating heart of the country’s in the messiest fuckin’ kitchen you can imagine, hombre.”
“Mess,” I said. “Right.”
“Not mess, but, like,” he said, straining for the words. “Authenticity, man. Creature comfort. That’s all we really want. The rest is just nonsense. Like, don’t overthink it, you know?”
He was talking about food, but really, I think he meant something else. Like maybe what he could have been to her, had she given him a chance. Years later I’d turn on my TV and see him in diners across America working that underdog magic, grease dripping from his fingers, cheering ‘em on, like he does. And I wondered, I guess I hoped, that maybe he’d found someone to cheer him on, too. Not a Rebecca, but someone like her. Because everyone deserves that, you know? Like maybe he found someone to call while he was on the road, between the dives, someone who figured out what was in his special sauce, after all, because the road isn’t like a kitchen, a tv crew isn’t like the line, and it’s gotta be a lonely fuckin’ drive looking for Flavortown, and never really finding it.
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Kirsti MacKenzie (@KeersteeMack) is a writer and editor in chief of Major 7th Magazine. Her debut novel, BETTER TO BEG, is available from Sweet Trash/House of Vlad. You can read the rest here.
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