Monster's Chef (4 page)

I paused for a moment, wanting very much to tell him to fuck himself, that I didn't need this fucking job. However, I did need it. I needed to get back to a life that wasn't embarrassing. Oh, yeah, I needed this job in the worst way.

I allowed myself hope, a threadbare hope I kept in a sock drawer in the hidden closet in the back room of my confidence, the sad little hope that I could resurrect my career, that I wouldn't fuck up, that somehow, through some voodoo, I could make Elena want me again, that I wouldn't make my life a slow suicide, that I'd finally shake that fear that I was out to do myself in, that I couldn't trust myself.

I couldn't afford to tell anybody to fuck off, except for maybe myself.

“I told you everything, except for when I got drunk as an undergraduate and wore this coed's panties home on my head. I guess that could be considered a crime.”

Mr. Security gave me a look, a look of disdain, mild disgust. Then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, he smiled.

“I don't think I'll need to make note of that.”

That seemed to lighten the ultraserious moment.

“Good,” I said, and stood to leave.

“One more thing,” he said.

He handed me a paper bag. I looked inside and saw a plastic cup with a lid.

“We need a urine sample. If you're offered the job, you'll be subject to regular random drug tests.”

My pride sloughed off like a skin I didn't need. I dutifully took the paper bag and went into the restroom.

I was in luck. Someone had pinned the sports page above the urinal; the Giants were on a winning streak. Quite a few of the workers at the Lair must have to submit to this weekly ritual. I handed the warm container to Security and saw Bridget waving at me.

“Yes, he just came in. Do you want me to put him on?”

She gestured for me to sit down, her eyes flaring as though she'd toss a book at my head if I delayed for a second.

“Use the speakerphone.”

I nodded, confused as to who I was talking to and why.

“Hello?”

I heard breathing, kind of raspy. I grinned at how silly this felt.

“This is Monster.” His voice didn't have that ethereal quality I'd heard in those interviews on VH1. He sounded grounded, even a little hard.

“It's an honor to talk with you,” I said.

“What's your name again?”

“William Gibson.”

“Right, you're the cat who owned the restaurant in New York. You lost it because of drugs.”

“Yeah, that's about it.”

“It would be cool if we could hire you.”

“I would like that very much,” I said, wondering what would stop him if he wanted to hire me.

“But I need to ask you a question and you need to answer me honestly. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Good.”

I waited for him to ask the question, but he went back to that raspy breathing, as though he had a problem with his sinuses.

“Doyouthinkyoucanplayme?”

He blurted it out so fast, at first I couldn't make out what he said.

“Could you repeat that?”

“Ha!” he said, with a snort. Then he spelled it out for me. “Do . . . you . . . think . . . you . . . can . . . play . . . me?”

“What?”

“You know what I'm saying.”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

Monster paused as though he was ready to drop the bomb on me.

“You gonna play me? Are you gonna play me?”

“I pride myself on my professionalism. I don't take it lightly.”

“I'm not talking about that.”

I wanted to ask what was he talking about, but I figured that wouldn't get me hired.

“I'm a very loyal employee. That's how I've always been. It's second nature to me.”

“It's more than loyalty.”

“I'm not sure I understand what you're saying.”

“Then that means you're not down. I only hire down cats.”

I was beyond confused.

“I'll ask you once more. Are you gonna play me?”

“I don't intend to play you.”

Another pause and more raspy breathing.

“I'm supposed to believe you? I think you're lying. Tell me this, are you experienced?”

“What, in a Jimi Hendrix way?”

“Yeah, exactly. That's exactly what I'm saying. You've got to be down for me.”

My stomach sank. If he thought I was going to be getting loaded with him after dinner, that wasn't where my head was at. “I understand!” I said.

“Understand what?”

“What you said about being down.”

“Being down? What did I say about that?”

Now, my breathing was all raspy. Was he high? He had to be high; only people who were fucked up out of their minds but who thought they were under control talked like that.

“Long as you down for me it's all true. You know what I'm saying,” he said, excitedly.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding, even though I knew he couldn't see me unless he had a hidden camera. That I wouldn't put past him.

“Are you gonna poison me?” he blurted, surprising the hell out of me. Of all the crazy-assed things I've been asked in my life, this surprised me into stupid silence.

“I've never poisoned anyone,” I said, with conviction.

More raspy breathing.

“You're not gonna put anything sick into my food?”

“Sick?”

“Are you going to poison me?”

“I can't say you'll love everything I'll cook, but I can guarantee I'll never poison you.”

“Ha, you funny. I'll get back to you.”

The speakerphone went silent.

Bridget looked at me with suspicion.

“Did you have any idea what you were saying?”

I nodded without conviction.

“Monster likes people to be straight with him.”

“I was being straight. What, I didn't sound straight?”

Bridget snorted.

“I don't think you knew what you were saying. You were willing to say anything to get him to hire you.”

I never did like this Bridget, and she didn't like me. If it weren't for Asha, I'm sure she wouldn't have had anything to do with me. I didn't have a problem with that except for the fact that I did need this job.

“I don't see what the problem is. We seem to have hit it off.”

“First of all, that wasn't Monster.”

“Huh? Who was it?”

“Monster's assistant.”

“Assistant? He sounds like a thug high on something.”

“Well, he is a thug. He calls himself Thug. That's his name as far as you're concerned.”

I felt tricked. It wasn't right and Bridget needed to know how I felt.

“Bridget, you know I need this job, but obviously you don't feel good about me applying for it. Am I wasting my time?”

Bridget looked surprised, as if I had just come out of left field with that. She wouldn't look me in the eye.

“Is it Asha? You promised her something and now you don't want to deliver?”

Bridget ran her hands through her hair, still avoiding my eyes.

“You might want this job, I know you need it, but once you get out there, it's different. I'm always looking for employees. It's a fucking strain. The lawyers, God, I talk to so many lawyers.”

“That's big of you, trying to spare me some grief.”

Finally, our eyes met. She looked like a woman who'd had enough.

“I've got my share of problems. I'll admit that. You're right. Asha really wants this for you.”

“You don't think I'm capable?”

She shook her head.

“It's not that at all. I don't want to have to answer to Asha when it's over.”

“What do you mean ‘when it's over'? What do you have to answer for?”

“I might be a little jealous about how much she likes you, but it's not all jealousy. I just don't want her blaming me when everything goes to hell.”

I stood up to leave. I was through with this shit.

“I finished that diversion program with no problems. You know that.”

“Oh, this isn't about you. It's about Monster, and it's about why I want to quit this job. I don't want to be responsible for the shit that happens.”

“Quit this job? I don't get you at all! You bring me in, then decide I'm not right for the position, and then you tell me you're gonna quit.”

“Don't get so pissed off. If I get the call that he wants to offer you the job, I'm not going to disagree. I'm not that kind of bitch. I'm just being up front. You need to know what you're getting into.”

“What are you talking about? What am I getting into?”

“You'll see. You'll have to see how this place works. You'll know soon enough if you've got the stomach for it.”

The phone rang and she snatched it up with a crisp “Bridget here.”

I walked outside before hearing the verdict: Would I live or die? Was I hired, or was I flying back to the halfway house to finish probation? At that moment I just wanted to feel the sun on my skin, whatever the hell happened.

 

GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES WITH ROASTED SWEET POTATO

SERVES 4

   
2 sweet potatoes

   
Extra-virgin olive oil (EVOO), as needed for brushing

   
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

   
4 tablespoons unsalted butter

   
3 cipolline onions, peeled and julienned

   
3 teaspoons brown sugar

   
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

   
¼ pound Brie, chilled

   
¼ pound fontina

   
8 slices potato bread

   
Whole-grain mustard

Peel the sweet potatoes, slice into 2-inch rounds, brush with EVOO, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Bake in a 375°F oven until fork-tender, about 15 minutes. Set aside.

Heat 2 tablespoons butter in a 12-inch heavy nonstick skillet over moderately high heat. When the butter is foamy, add the onions, salt, ½ teaspoon black pepper, sugar, and vinegar and cook until the onions are caramelized, about 8 minutes. Set aside and let cool to room temperature.

Remove and discard the cheese rinds. Mix the cheeses and divide the mixture among 4 slices of the potato bread, using about
¼
cup per slice. Layer the sweet potato rounds on top of the cheese. Spread the remaining 4 slices of bread with the mustard and the onion mixture and place (mustard side down) on top of each sandwich.

Heat 1 tablespoon butter in a clean skillet over moderate heat until it starts to foam. Then cook 2 sandwiches, without turning them over, until the undersides are golden brown, about 3 minutes. Transfer the sandwiches to a cutting board. Heat 1 tablespoon butter in the skillet until foaming starts, then return the sandwiches to the skillet, browned sides up, and cook 3 minutes more. Transfer them back to the cutting board when cooked. Repeat with the remaining 2 sandwiches.

Trim off the crusts and cut each sandwich into fourths.

Optional: Top each piece with a drop of truffle oil.

CHAPTER THREE

SOMETIMES I THINK I HEAR HIM CALLING
, a sibilant whisper from a satin-lined oak coffin hidden below the subbasement in a tomb so cold he'd be able to see his rancid breath if he actually had breath. “Living Food, that's what I'm feeling,” he says.

Because he's feeling it, I'm feeling it, and that's why I'm drinking that Santa Ynez Sauvignon Blanc. I'm liking it more than I should.

Backsliding. No more of this drinking after work, getting silly, having flights of fancy that do me no good. I've still got to deal with Living Food, no matter how silly it is to consider cooking without fire an earthshaking invention. Really, you'd think most reasonable people would agree that cooking is a good thing, a good invention, and we should feel good about it. Maybe Monster remembered something about predigestion in high school biology and it confused and disgusted him. Probably, though, it's the influence of a gastronomic guru who put him on the road to bliss through the chewing of fresh ginger. Who am I to stand in the way of his path to enlightenment?

Monster is a freak, a freakish freak, but he's not a creature-feature villain, no matter how wine might insinuate that. No.

He's a self-invented American, freakishly fascinating in his attempt at reinvention, and because of it, his self-invention, his desire to live like something out of a cautionary tale of how outrageously wrong famous people go, doesn't necessarily make him unique, just as unique as crazy wealth and an addiction to television can make him. I bet as a kid he rushed home to watch
Dark Shadows
with a chaser of
The Brady Bunch
, which explains some of it—the blond children running around like chickens shooed about by giddy parents. Really, it's not Monster or the kids I wonder about; it's the parents. What must they be like? What do they want for themselves, for their children?

I'm sure they have lawyers on speed dial, ready and waiting for something actionable. Maybe that's Monster's real value, pulling back the curtain on the banality of human perversity—give somebody like him enough money and power and see what gets revealed.

He's fucking crazy, but it's okay.

Everyone here knows it. It's common knowledge, living up here on the mountain. When will the townspeople realize what's up and break out the torches and pitchforks and march on Monster's Lair? Isn't it inevitable?

I have another glass of wine and try to return my attention to the task at hand: planning Monster's meals for the week. I figured when I first saw him that the last thing he would be concerned about is eating, figuring him as a man who lived on meth and Twinkies and maybe Diet Coke, because these folks bathe themselves in Diet Coke. For a man over six feet, he must weigh a hundred twenty pounds, and that's if he hasn't evacuated his bowels. Considering what he wants to eat, he'd be better served by hiring a botanist than a personal chef. “Living Food” isn't something a cook makes. No, give a kid mud, wheat, and water and whatever and let him go at it.