Hunting and Gathering (25 page)

“What's that?”

“Purslane.”

“And this?”

“Baby spinach.”

“And that?”

“Arugula.”

“And this?”

“Ice plant. Fig marigold to you.”

“What a lovely name.”

“Where are you from, anyway?” asked her neighbor.

She didn't answer.

Then she cleaned the herbs and dried them one by one in absorbent paper. Her job was to put them into small stainless containers and cover them carefully with transparent wrap before distributing them into various cold boxes. She crushed walnuts and hazelnuts, peeled figs, rubbed an inordinate amount of chanterelles and rolled little mounds of butter between two ridged spatulas. She had to be careful not to make a mistake as she deposited one ball of unsalted butter and one of salted onto each saucer. At one point she was no longer sure and had to taste one with the tip of her knife. Yuck, she couldn't stand butter, so she was twice as careful from that point on. The waiters went on serving espresso coffees to whoever wanted one, and you could feel the pressure rising another notch with every passing minute.

 
Some of them didn't say a word, others swore in their beards and the boss acted like a speaking clock:

“Five twenty-eight, gentlemen . . . Six oh-three, gentlemen . . . Six seventeen, gentlemen . . .” As if his heart's desire was to totally stress them out.

 
Camille had nothing left to do so she leaned against her workbench, raising first one foot, then the other, to relieve her legs. The guy next to her was practicing making arabesques of sauce around a slice of foie gras on rectangular plates. With an airy gesture he would shake a little spoon and sigh as he inspected his zigzags. It never came out the way he wanted. And yet it looked lovely.

“What are you trying to do?”

“I don't know. Something a bit original.”

“Can I try?”

“Be my guest.”

“I'm afraid I'll spoil it.”

“No, no, go ahead, it's an old slice, it's just for practice.”

The first four attempts were hopeless, but by the fifth, she'd gotten the knack.

“Hey, that's really good, can you do it again?”

“No,” she laughed, “I really doubt that I could do it again. But . . . don't you have a pastry syringe? Or something like that?”

“Uh ...”

“You know, a little pouch with a piping socket?”

“We do. Have a look in the drawer.”

“Can you fill one for me?”

“To do what?”

“Just an idea, you'll see.”

She leaned over, stuck out her tongue and drew three little geese.

Her co-worker called the boss over to show it to him.

“What kind of bullshit is this? C'mon . . . we're not working for Disney here.”

He walked away, shaking his head.

Camille shrugged her shoulders sheepishly and went back to her salads.

 
“That is not cuisine. It's a gimmick,” grumbled the boss from the opposite end of the kitchen, “and you know the worst of it? You know what kills me? It's that those idiots, they just love stuff like that. Nowadays that's what they want: a gimmick! Oh, well, it is a holiday after all. Okay, mademoiselle, would you do me the honor of squirting your little farmyard onto sixty plates? On the fly.”

 
“Answer, ‘Yes, boss,' ” whispered Marc.

“Yes, boss!”

 
“I'll never make it,” moaned Camille.

“Just do one at a time.”

“On the left or on the right?”

“On the left, it makes more sense.”

“It looks a bit sick, no?”

“Nah, it's funny. Anyway, you have no choice now.”

“I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Rule number one. At least you'll have learned that. Here, this is the right sauce.”

“Why is it red?”

“Made from beets. Go on, I'll pass you the plates.”

They swapped places. She drew, he sliced the slab of foie gras, put it on the plate, sprinkled it with
fleur de sel
and coarsely crushed pepper, then handed the plate to a third guy, who added the salad as if he were working with gold leaf.

“What are they all doing?” asked Camille.

“They're going to eat. We'll go later. We have to open the ball, but we'll go down when it's their turn to take over. Will you help me with the oysters?”

“Do we have to shuck them?!”

“No, no, just make them look nice. Actually, did you peel the green apples?”

“Yes. They're over there. Oh shit, looks more like a turkey, this one.”

“Sorry. I'll stop talking.”

 
Franck walked by, scowling. He thought they were a bit too casual. Or rather too cheerful.

He wasn't too pleased with the whole goose business.

“Are we having fun yet?” he asked, ironic.

“Doing what we can . . .”

“Tell me, you don't have to heat it up, do you?”

 
“What did he mean by that?”

“Oh, it's a thing between us . . . The chefs who do the heating up feel like they've been entrusted with a supreme mission, so no matter how hard we work, they'll always look down on the likes of us. We don't deal with the heat. You know him well, Lestafier?”

“No.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

 
While the others had gone off to eat, two guys sluiced down the floor, then scraped it with a long rubber blade to make it dry faster. The boss was conversing with a very elegant man in his office.

“A customer already?”

“No, he's the maître d'.”

“Wow, he's well put together.”

“They're all good-looking, the ones who work on the floor. At the start of the workday, we're the ones who are clean and they go around vacuuming in their T-shirts and as the day goes on the roles switch: we start to stink and get grubby and they walk by fresh as daisies, with their impeccable hairdos and suits.”

 
Franck came to see her as she was doing her last row of plates.

“You can get going if you want.”

“Well, no, I don't feel like leaving now. It'd feel like I'm missing the show . . .”

“Have you got some work for her?”

“Have I! As much as she wants. She can take over the salamander.”

“What's that?” asked Camille.

“That thing over there, a sort of grill that goes up and down. You want to do the toast?”

“No problem. Uh, actually, would I have time for a cigarette?”

“Sure, go on down.”

Franck went with her.

“You okay?”

“Great. He's a really nice kid, Sébastien.”

“Yeah.”

She was silent.

“Why the long face?”

“Because . . . I wanted to speak to Philibert earlier on to wish him happy New Year and I got the brush-off from this snotty-nosed little girl.”

“Hey, I'll call him for you.”

“No. They'll be having dinner now.”

“Let me take care of it.”

 
“Hello? Excuse me for disturbing you, Franck de Lestafier speaking, Philibert's fellow lodger . . . Yes . . . The very one . . . Very nice to talk to you, madame . . . Could I have a word with him, if you don't mind, it's about the boiler . . . Yes . . . Exactly . . . Au revoir, madame . . .”

 
He winked at Camille, and she smiled as she exhaled her smoke.

 
“Philou? Is that you, dear? Happy New Year, my love! I won't kiss you, but I'll pass you to your little princess. What? Hey, who gives a fuck about the boiler! Listen, have a good year, good health and lots of kisses to your sisters. Well . . . only the ones who have big tits, eh?”

 
Camille took the phone, squinting. No, there was nothing wrong with the boiler. Yes, a big hug to you too. No, Franck hadn't locked her away in a closet. Yes, so did she, she thought about him often. No, she hadn't gone for her blood test yet. Yes, you too, Philibert, happy New Year to you.

“He sounded good, didn't he?” added Franck.

“He only stuttered eight times.”

“That's what I mean.”

 
When they went back to their stations, the atmosphere had changed. Those who hadn't yet put on their toque set them carefully on their heads, and the chef leaned his belly against the serving hatch and folded his arms over it. You could have heard a pin drop.

“Gentlemen, to work.”

 
It was as if the temperature in the room was rising one degree per second. Everyone was suddenly busy, careful not to disturb his neighbor. Faces were tense. Stifled swear words ricocheted here and there. Some remained calm; others, like the Japanese fellow, seemed ready to implode.

 
Waiters stood single file by the serving hatch while the boss leaned over to inspect every plate. The boy next to him used a tiny sponge to wipe any finger marks or splashes of sauce from the edge of the plate, and when the boss nodded, a waiter, teeth clenched, would lift up the big silver tray.

 
Camille was doing the appetizers with Marc. She would put things down on a plate, some sort of chip or wedge of bark of a faintly reddish tint. She didn't dare ask any more questions. Then she added a few blades of chive.

“Keep moving, we don't have time for finishing touches this evening.”

She found a piece of string to hold up her pants, and swore because her paper toque was forever slipping down over her eyes. Her neighbor took a small stapler out of his knife box:

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

Then she listened to one of the waiters, who was explaining how to cut the slices of brioche sandwich loaf into triangles, removing the crust.

“How toasted do you want them?”

“Golden.”

“Go ahead, make me a sample. Show me exactly the color you want.”

“The color, the color . . . You can't tell by the color, it's a question of instinct . . .”

“Well, I'm a color sort of person, so please make me a sample, or I'll start to get stressed out.”

 
She took her assignment very seriously, and was never caught off guard. The waiters came for the toast, sliding each slice into the folds of a napkin. She would have liked a little compliment: “Oh, Camille, your toast is superb!” but what can you do . . .

 
She caught a glimpse of Franck, from behind as usual, busy at his stove, like a drummer at his drums: bang a lid here, bang a lid there, a spoonful here, a spoonful there. The tall skinny guy, who she had gathered was the number two, was constantly asking him questions to which Franck rarely replied, and only then by means of an onomatopoeia. All his pans were copper and he had to use a cloth to pick them up. From time to time he must have burned himself, for she often saw him lift his hand and shake it and then raise it to his mouth.

 
The boss was getting irritated. It wasn't going fast enough. It was going too fast. It wasn't hot enough. It was overcooked. “Concentrate, gentlemen, concentrate!” he said, again and again.

 
The more the activity at her own station seemed to taper off, the busier it got on the other side. It was really something to watch. She saw how they were sweating and rubbing their brows on their shoulders the way cats tend to do. Especially the fellow who was in charge of the rotisserie: he was bright scarlet and sucked on a bottle of water between each trip he made with his poultry. (Funny things with wings, some much smaller than a chicken and others twice as big.)

 
“We're dying in here . . . How hot is it now, do you reckon?”

“No idea. Over there by the stove must be at least a hundred, hundred and fifteen maybe? Those are the hardest jobs, physically. Here, take that over to the dishwasher. Be careful not to disturb anyone.”

 
Camille stared wide-eyed at the mountain of pans, baking trays, stew pots, stainless steel bowls, sieves and frying pans which stood piled in enormous dishwashing basins. Not a single white person around either, and the little guy she turned to merely took the implements from her hands, nodding his head. He obviously didn't speak a word of French. Camille stopped for a moment to gaze at him: every time she found herself face to face with someone who'd been uprooted from the other end of the earth, the little lights of her dime-store Mother Teresa self began to flash frenetically: where was he from? India? Pakistan? and what sort of life had he led to end up here? today? what boats? what trafficking? what hopes? at what cost? what had he had to give up, what were his fears? and the future? where did he live? with how many people? and where were his children?

When she understood that her presence was making him nervous, she left again, shaking her head.

 
“Where's he from, the dishwashing guy?”

“Madagascar.”

She had been wrong.

“Does he speak French?”

“Of course! He's been here for twenty years!”

Give it a rest, Mother Teresa.

 
She was tired. There was always some new thing to peel, chop, clean or put away. What a shit job . . . How did they manage to put up with it? What was the point of people stuffing their guts like this? They were going to burst! Two hundred and twenty euros, how much was that? Almost 1,500 francs. Shit. Think what else they could do with that money. If they were clever they could afford a little trip. To Italy, for example. Sit down at a sidewalk café, drift off to the conversation of those pretty girls raising their little cups of thick, black, too-sweet coffee to their lips and, surely, chatting about the same rubbish as girls do across the world.