Monster's Chef (3 page)

“How so?”

Bridget sucked her teeth. “You haven't heard all of that rubbish about him?”

“No, I really don't keep up with the music scene.”

“He made all those bubblegum pop songs. You got to wonder about people like that,” Asha muttered. “And he had that pet koala hanging around his neck.”

“He's got rid of the koala, that was a big mistake,” Bridget said, with perfect seriousness.

“I'm not sure about this. What do people say about him? Is there any truth to it?”

Bridget laughed. “I'm not going to go into it. People say all kinds of things about him. You'd think he bathes in the blood of little boys, that kind of
National Enquirer
bullshit.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Well, it's hard to explain,” she said, softly, as though she was wary of being overheard. “Monster isn't really someone I see a lot of. He is a great employer in that he's very generous. But mostly he's on the road or holed up in the Lair—that's what he wants us to call it. It's really his encampment, the inner grounds of his mansion and the gardens where most staff aren't allowed. I think that's how those horrible stories of Monster get out. Disgruntled former employees spread rumors when they really don't know what goes on in the Lair. Anyway, if you're really interested, I'll fly you out to interview. Asha can come with you. I'll show you Solvang, and there's this wonderful little Danish bakery. You'll love the pastries.”

“I'm not sure of what he wants. Will I be his personal chef, or will I be running the kitchen for everyone there?”

“You know, I couldn't tell you at this point. With Monster you go with the flow; he'll fill in the blanks, he always does.”

Bridget shrugged and put her head on Asha's shoulder.

Business was done for the evening.

 

ENGLISH PEA SOUP WITH MORELS

SERVES 4

   
4 teaspoons unsalted butter, plus more as needed for the shallot and garlic

   
3 cipolline onions, peeled and “brunoised”

   
1 small carrot, peeled and cut into ½-inch diamonds

   
2 teaspoons Maldon salt or flaky sea salt

   
½ cup dry white wine

   
Five-finger pinch of chopped tarragon leaves, plus torn leaves for finishing

   
4 cups smoked ham hock broth, plus more for deglazing

   
Two 10-ounce packages premium frozen baby peas

   
Extra-virgin olive oil (EVOO)

   
4 tablespoons crème fraîche

   
1 shallot, peeled and “brunoised”

   
1 clove garlic, minced

   
Freshly ground black pepper

   
1 pound fresh morel mushrooms

Put 4 teaspoons butter in a large lidded pot over medium heat. When the butter starts to froth, add the onions, carrot, and salt and stir. Cover the pot and cook, stirring, until the onions are soft and creamy (without color) and the carrot is tender but firm, about 15 minutes.

Add the wine and bring to a boil. Let the wine boil until it is reduced by three-fourths, about 5 minutes. Add the pinch of chopped tarragon and 4 cups of the broth. Bring the liquid to a boil and add the peas. At this point the carrot should be cooked. Take out three-fourths of it and reserve for texture after blending. Continue cooking the peas at a simmer until they are warmed through and tender, making sure they don't lose all their green color, about 5 minutes.

Blend the mixture in batches until smooth; you will have a bright green puree. Return the puree to the large pot; add the reserved carrot pieces. Cook at a very gentle simmer for about 5 minutes, just to let the flavors develop. Season with salt to taste.

Add a generous drizzle of EVOO and several torn tarragon leaves. Then add the crème fraîche in dollops from a squeeze bottle.

In a separate pan, cook the shallots and garlic in the additional butter over medium heat. Add salt and pepper. Add the morels and slow-roast over the heat. Deglaze the pan with a ladleful of stock.

Serve the soup from the pot, with small bowls of shallots, garlic, and morels on the side.

CHAPTER TWO

ASHA WORE SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL. SHE
told me the name, but I immediately forgot. Whatever it was, I liked it, a kind of purple pantsuit with fringe around the waist and cuffs. Bridget was in black again, straight leather, suitable for nightlife in the big city but fucking silly on a brilliant, beautiful day in Solvang. Bridget was just as schoolgirl-giddy to have Asha near as I remembered. “You are too wedded to that job,” I heard Bridget say. Asha shrugged.

“You know I trained to be a social worker. It's what I wanted to do, and I'm happy with my life,” she said to Bridget. It was the same thing she said to me when I asked why she was so content to run a halfway house. I guess Asha was sincere in what she said to people; I admired that, and how rare it was.

At the Danish bakery that Bridget was so high on, I lingered over stale strudel while the girls stepped outside to admire bachelor's buttons and Mexican primrose growing along the road. They held hands, and I saw Bridget lean toward Asha to sneak a kiss. I hoped this Bridget knew what kind of woman she had in Asha, a human being of the first order, but that was too much to hope for. I didn't get a good feeling from Bridget. She probably thought Asha was hot and exotic, the domestic equivalent of an incendiary foreign affair without the bother of having a passport renewed. Maybe I was jealous, but I knew I was right about this Bridget and her bitch nature.

I was supposed to be put up somewhere spectacular, a woodsy resort over in the hills, with an amazing restaurant and a wonderful chef I was supposed to know. Bridget mentioned more than a half dozen times just how excited she was to take us to this paradise, but something happened to the reservation or the charge card, and plans had changed.

As we drove downhill, back to the valley, I thought we'd all be staying at Pea Soup Andersen's Inn—she mentioned that it was campy and fun—but Bridget couldn't wait to drop me off. Even so, she took the time to remind me that Monster liked prospective employees to be an hour early for interviews, to expect her to be two hours early, and with unctuous sincerity she mentioned again just how important it was to make a good impression. Oh, yes, he'd be there, he wouldn't speak and I wasn't to speak to him, but he'd be highly involved in the process.

Flow.

Monster could flow in any moment and seal the deal, but I couldn't expect that.

Of course, I'd have an in, but really, it was up to me to seize the initiative.

Dragging Asha behind her, Bridget turned her rental around and roared back to the Santa Ynez Inn. Seems Bridget had made sure the Santa Ynez Inn had one room available.

I had a bowl of very salty green soup and ate all the crackers in the cracker holder. I thought of ordering a beer; then I wanted a gin and tonic, then decided just a couple of hits off of a crack pipe would do the trick. I had another bowl of very salty green soup and found the room Bridget had reserved for me.

I turned on the television and flipped around. I watched rap videos for a while until it became painful, all of that booty shaking and with me not having got laid in almost a year. I couldn't help fantasizing being a third wheel between Asha and Bridget; maybe they would suddenly want to experiment and include me. Yeah, I couldn't sustain that fantasy; too improbable even for a hopeless optimist.

The next day Bridget was late, which meant I would probably be late. I had been up since five in the morning, so nervous about how the day would go that I went for a walk, even though a fog had rolled in, concealing Pea Soup Andersen's Inn to the point that it was difficult to know what direction to go in. I was lost almost immediately, and had to get directions from the surfer dude behind the counter at the 7-Eleven. Then I remembered I needed new razors and shaving cream.

I meandered a bit, eventually finding my way back to the hotel and my room to shave my head with the precision of an anxious man with nothing else to do.

Instinct.

It was obvious what Monster thought of himself. Look at how hard he had worked to eradicate the last vestiges of identifiable color from his life and skin.

I wouldn't let him hold that over me. Lack of melanin never held me back; actually, it was a kick, a key to acceptance that never had to be explained. Never deny it, but why let them form the question? Don't make them question their own generosity; don't make them consider the intangibles. What does it mean to hire a black man? Is it the opposite of hiring a white man, the same? Don't ask and I won't tell you.

I don't know.

I know this that Monster bolts up from night terrors, chest heaving as he rushes to the mirror to see if that bleach/chemical peel/skin brightener bled off, shed, absorbed away, or simply vanished.

Bet he lives in mortal fear of a stray BB, the living nightmare of the paralyzing threat of a nappy head.

Cool.

Even if he has a black man detector, he'll never see me coming. I don't just pass; I slip by on the strength of the fact that I can. Maybe it's self-loathing, but I never had the energy for too much of that. I am what I am: the son of two African-American parents who were light enough to pass as white if they cared to. They didn't because they were proud of who they were and embraced their African-Americanness. Monster, though, doesn't do passing. He thunders by, shouting to the world, “See me! I'm not like them, I'm you!”

He hides in plain sight, and I guess I do too. Race explains nothing about his insanity, or my blundering into acceptance and not wanting to rock the boat. Probably, in that sense, we're brothers under the skin.

Bridget showed two hours late, a woman in desperate need of a toilet but without a bit of an apology other than a curt “Monster rescheduled” before she hauled ass to the bathroom.

“Where's Asha?” I asked after she returned. I needed to see a friendly face, and Bridget wasn't it.

“Sleeping in. She needs it,” Bridget said, with a hint of a leer, and I disliked her even more. It still ain't polite to hit it and strut. As much as I admired and liked Asha, I couldn't understand her taste in women.

Bridget sped to the 101 and headed east, back toward Santa Barbara. Another stunningly beautiful day; from the freeway I could see the Pacific lurking behind the hammock of hills, and when we started to climb and banked west, I saw surfers, black stick figures on breaking waves.

Then Bridget turned east and we headed into the Santa Ynez valley.

At an access road Bridget drove for another twenty minutes or so, until an official-looking craftsman bungalow came into view. Near the bungalow was an impressive gate, maybe ten feet high, blocking a well-maintained road.

A man in a gray uniform with a cap like that of a highway patrolman from the forties leaned into the window and thrust a clipboard into my hands. On the clipboard was a document that went on for four pages. I hadn't got through the first page before Bridget tapped me on the shoulder.

“It's a release. You can't interview without signing it.”

“Give me a minute. I like to read before I sign.”

She sighed and watched with narrowed eyes as I hastily flipped through the document.

“Done? Good. Now, sign.”

I signed and handed the clipboard back to the security guard.

Bridget burned rubber on the way out, as though she had to make up lost time, but I thought we were early. About a mile later she stopped at another bungalow, just as gray and official-looking as the last one, but with two very busy men sorting through packages stacked in the driveway. Bridget waved to them and headed inside and pointed to an oversize leather chair by a window. I sat down as she flipped through more paperwork. The interior of the bungalow resembled the layout of a nicely appointed law office. I remembered wanting to buy those heavy brass lamps with the handblown leaded glass for the restaurant, but gave up when I couldn't get a reasonable price.

“Wait here. The head of Security will be by in a few minutes to begin the interview. Then, afterward, maybe Monster will be ready to ask you a few questions.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and tried to look calm as I waited for my life to resume.

A door opened. A tall man entered, dressed in the uniform that all these guys sported, as though they could change your oil, carry your luggage, or arrest you. All of them were trim, tall, and white; did Monster hire every washed-out Mormon FBI agent he could find?

Bridget handed him a ream of paper, and he walked over to me with his hand out and paused, squinting as though he recognized me and he wasn't happy about it.

“Mr. Gibson, my name is Timothy Steele. I run Security here at the Lair. I wonder if you could clarify a few things.”

“Sure, I'll do my best.”

“You were arrested for attempting to buy a controlled substance. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“What was the controlled substance?”

“Heroin, to smoke. Usually it was cocaine, but the time I was arrested it was heroin.”

He paused for a moment and thumbed through the documentation on the clipboard, then returned his unblinking attention to me.

“You don't have any prior arrests?”

“Nope. I've lived a pretty straight life, other than my recent drug experience. I've received the best treatment and diversion therapy possible, and I've been clean for a year.”

“That's good to hear, but you should know that we do an ongoing security check on all employees. If at some point we discover that you concealed any aspect of your personal history, no matter the relevance, you will be terminated immediately.”