With the Fire on High(55)
“Chef Amadí,” I say, comfortable enough to ask something I’ve been wondering about. “One of the kids from school has your same last name, but with an ‘h.’ Ahmadi. I didn’t realize it was Spanish.”
“My family hails from Morocco,” Chef Amadí says. Her voice always sounds like it’s in song. I look at her. Her skin has a tinge of tan in it, but I wouldn’t have thought her anything other than a Spaniard. I slow my knife down and glance at her under my lashes.
“Oh, no. You probably can’t see it. I take after my father’s side, mostly Spanish. But Spain and all of the Iberian Peninsula has a huge influence of the Moors.”
I didn’t know a lot of this. I don’t know how to respond so I grab another tentacle and sprinkle it with oil.
“Chef Ayden says you have something special. An ‘affinity with the things that come from the dirt,’ he says. A master of spices. And coming from Ayden that means a lot. He doesn’t usually believe in natural inclinations. Only in working hard enough to make the hard work seem effortless. Is it true about you?”
I know my eyebrows look about ready to parachute off my face. “You mean the bay-leaf thing?”
“No more oil, that’s good.” She takes the bowl of marinated octopus from my hand, covers it with a red cloth, and puts it in the fridge. “The ‘bay-leaf thing’ is exactly what I mean. You’re new to Spain. From what your teacher tells me, not many of you have had exposure to world cuisines. Yet, you know a variety of herb that looks and smells slightly different when found outside of this region. I’m sure you’ve probably seen it in other ways. You’ve probably mixed spices together no one told you would go together. Cut a vegetable in a certain way that you believe will render it more flavorful. You know things that no one has taught you, sí?”
I shake my head no at her. ’Buela always said I had magic hands but I’ve never said it out loud about myself. And I don’t know if I believed it was magic as much as I believed I’m a really good cook. But she is right; most of my experimenting is with spices. “My aunt Sarah sends me recipes that I practice with. And I watch a lot on Food Network. Do you have that channel here? It’s really good. They have this show called Chopped—”
Chef Amadí puts down the rag she was wiping down the counter with and takes my hands in hers. Studies my palms. “Chef Ayden tells me you have a gift. If you don’t want to call it magic, fine. You have a gift and it’s probably changed the lives of people around you. When you cook, you are giving people a gift. Remember that.”
I pull my hands from hers. “What’s next?” I ask.
Chef Amadí purses her lips, then takes a breath and smiles. “You’re going to make hen for my guests. The restaurant opens for lunch in an hour and a half. We will call it the Monday special.”
Her words scurry over my heart like a barrio rat and I want to squeal out a horrified “Me?” But I keep my face calm and nod like I cook for dozens and dozens of people every day with a recipe I haven’t tried before.
She nods. “Take whatever spices you want, break down the bird in any form. We will serve it your way. Gallina à la Americana.”
She raises an eyebrow and I know it’s a challenge. She’s trying to see if I can hang. I adjust my chef’s hat and walk to the pantry. I don’t have to turn around to know that Chef Amadí is smiling.
“Gallina à la Afro-Boricua has a better ring to it.”
Game Time
Chef Amadí’s restaurant isn’t big. Only five or six tables, and she says usually only twenty to thirty patrons show up on a regular afternoon. She’s hired two local college students as her serving staff and cleanup crew. Both girls smile and wave at me but seem as shy to whip out their English as I am to try my Spanish.
I don’t think about talking to them for too long because I’ve got hen to prepare. I think about what Chef Ayden taught us in regard to the ratios needed, and although it takes me a bit, I calculate that we’ll need eight to ten pounds of hen. I’ve never had to prep that much meat at one time. I come up with a quick spice mix and make sure to keep as close to my recipe as possible so that the results are similar across the board.
When the bell rings over the entryway I wipe the back of my wrist across my sweat-speckled forehead. An hour and some change has passed in the blink of an eye. Chef Amadí winks at me and goes to greet the customers. It’s game time. The next four hours move at light speed, and when I look up to check the time, I’m covered in sweat and we are completely out of the special. We moved from lunch to early dinner about an hour ago but my shift with Chef Amadí spans noon to five p.m. She told me she’ll close for an hour and regroup, then open back up for dinner. I unbutton my jacket and take off my hat before stepping out into the dining room.
“Chef Amadí, the hen was just so good! There was something spicy, peppercorn or chili?” a patron asks. He is a big man with a protruding belly and multiple chins; his eyes sparkle and his cheeks are red, probably from the table wine. I like him as soon as he begins to compliment the special.
“Thank you, Don Alberto. It’s my sous chef’s recipe,” she says, and gestures toward me.
“Se?orita, delicioso. ?Qué te puedo decir? ?Me lambí los dedos!” he says, and I smile but other than a mumbled “Gracias, se?or,” I don’t say anything else. I also hope he didn’t really lick his fingers since he’s shaking my hand pretty hard and I’d rather not have his saliva all over me despite how much I like him.