Sweetbitter(29)

“Fuck brunch forever.” Scott moaned. “Where’s Ariel?”

“She’s dining room today. Sorry you’re stuck with me.”

“Get Ariel, I need her treats.”

“Treats?”

“It’s an emergency,” he yelled.

“Okay, okay, I’ll find her.”

She was standing at the service bar having an espresso and talking to Jake.

“Hey Ariel,” I said, turning to the side so he wouldn’t think I was trying to look at him. “Scott needs you. In the kitchen.”

“We’re in a war,” she said. She was beaten up around the eyes, but fairly fresh for someone who’d only slept a few hours.

“Whatever,” I said. I wished my hair was down so my neck and cheek weren’t so vulnerable. Jake in the mornings, before service, precaffeine rush, bags under his eyes. Not interested, I told him with the angle of my head. “He just said it was an emergency.”

She went into the kitchen like she was ready for a showdown but Scott was abject. He leaned over his station with his head in his hands.

“What’s up Baby Chef?” Usually they would start fighting, he especially hated that name, but he moaned instead.

“I need help.”

“Apologize for hitting on her.”

“Ariel, I wasn’t. I swear. That girl loves cock, I can’t help it.”

“Bye-bye,” she said and stuck up her middle finger, the nail painted black.

She turned to leave and he yelled, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I will never look at her again, I have a small dick, I’m insecure, I’m untalented, I’m stupid, I will cook you whatever you want for breakfast.”

She stopped.

“Steak salad. And dessert. And whatever new girl wants.”

“Fine. Hand them over.”

“You’re disgusting. But you’re not untalented. I want to be fair about this.” She clapped her hands. “Okay, beverages first.”

Sundays had a candid feeling. There were no laws, no stakes. Howard and Chef were both off, as was most of the senior staff. Scott ran the kitchen and Jake was the most senior on the floor. It was his only day shift, and it was clear he was in a fog for the entire service. It was also Simone’s day off. The people who remained on this pared-down crew were usually mildly hungover at best, actively ill at worst.

Ariel pulled down a stack of clean quart containers and headed into the wine cellar. Those quarts, which once housed minced garlic, shallot vinaigrette, aioli, tuna salad, shredded Gruyère, they came back as “beverages.”

“It’s just Sancerre on ice, splash of soda and lemon. Stick a straw in it and it looks like seltzer.”

“I need the treats, Ari, I could’ve had Skipper make beverages.”

“Skipper?” she asked me.

“Barbie’s little sister.” I shook my head. “I’ve given up. Each one is better than the last.”

She had a handful of blue pills.

“Two for you because you’re huge, and we will split one because we are tiny.” She broke a pill in half and handed it to me.

“I haven’t eaten,” I said. “Also, what is it?”

“Adderall. Fixes everything. Obviously.”

Obviously. I took my half and sucked on my straw. I felt dizzy as soon as I swallowed. It wasn’t noon yet.

“Delicious.”

Scott gulped his down in two sucks and handed the quart back to her. He was sweating, breathing hard, and I had a vision of him collapsing during service, a bear keeling over.

“Refill, refill.”

“You’re going to have to teach Skip how to do this stuff—I have work to do,” Ariel said, but took the quarts and headed back into the wine cellar.

“What do you want?” Scott looked at me sideways.

“What?”

“What. Do. You. Want. To eat.”

“Um.” At my hesitation he moved on to other tasks and I saw the precious opportunity slipping away. “What’s in the omelet?”

“I have zero fucking idea, what do you want in the omelet?”

“Chanterelles,” I said.

Scott made a disapproving grunt but didn’t deny me. He reached into the lowboy and started cracking mottled brown eggs into a clear bowl. He turned up the heat under a small black skillet. The yolks were a vivid, livid orange.

“They’re nuclear,” I said, leaning in to watch. Last night’s booze radiated off him. But Scott’s tattooed hands took flight from muscle memory: he frothed the eggs with a fork in two swipes, touched his finger to the pan to feel the heat. He turned the flame down and slid the eggs in, he dipped his hand into the salt and flung it, he tipped the pan to all the points on a compass, letting the wet egg slide under the set edges.

The chanterelles had been prepped earlier, they were waiting, wet and caramelized. He spooned them into the middle. He rolled the eggs, using only the tine of a fork and the movement of the pan. It was all one motion. The skin of the omelet was flawless.

Ariel came up with new beverages for us. Her eyes flashed when she saw my omelet and we dug into it from opposite ends. I sipped my wine through a straw. I saw whole peaceful countries built on perfect omelets and white wine spritzers. Nations at war drinking before noon and then napping.