Chapter 2

Chapter 2: 

Tommy thought it showed dedication, bringing his knife bag to a job interview. It showed that he cared for his own knives, that he cared for his craft. Yes, most kitchens had knives. For Tommy, though? What else was there to say—surgeons didn’t walk into the operating room with borrowed hands.

“So what I’m seeing is a few years bussing tables and washing dishes at some suburban Chili’s, you drop outta college once you start working the fry station, that leads you to CIA, those years slide you into Rick Bayless’s farm system at Frontera, then you land the head chef gig at Lilypad, which, from what I can tell, is a very pleasant Lakeview establishment. That about right?”

The man was a five foot five ball of old school Bridgeport Irish energy. Every time he said the word you it ended in trailing ah sounds and every th was like a mold of clay on the roof of his mouth. He had reading glasses down his nose and eyes that could only be described as regarding. 

Don’t bullshit a guy like this, Tommy knew, so he accepted this read along of his resumé as some sort of establishment of facts. “Yes sir,” Tommy said. “That’s my 20s.”

“So—what? You hit 30 and think to yourself, oh my God, what have I done with my life, I’ve wasted my youth accomplishing things, the only redemption lies frying up reubens for sad-sack White Sox fans? That it?”

“Well, I like to push myself. Try new things.”

“Uh huh. You get busted for drinking on the job or something? Get caught loading frozen steaks into your trunk?”

“No, nothing like that. Do people still do that stuff? I’ve only read about that in, like, Anthony Bourdain books.”

“Don’t play choir boy with me. You got the chops for higher heights than this, my friend. What the hell you doing here?”

“Okay, the truth is, it’s getting pretty serious with my girlfriend. We live up in Rogers Park, and we’re thinking we’re going to move in together, but her family’s down here. In McKinley Park. She wants to be closer to them. I told her I’d look at spots here.”

“That’s not the biggest lie a chef’s ever told me.”

There, he thought. Against his better judgment, he’d bullshitted the guy. Couldn’t help it. He took a swing, but it connected. Ball wasn’t outta the park, but he was at least rounding first. No way this guy could resist a resumé like his. 

Tommy tried to fend it off, but he was already fantasizing about reorganizing the layout of the salad line in his head. The current one wasn’t just inefficient, but against code. Walnuts in a nine pan, uncovered, and in the line cooler? They needed Tommy here. 

“Just wanna push yourself, huh?” 

“Like you said, I’ve done CIA. I’ve done Mexican for yuppies. I’ve done burgers and brunch for lakefront liberals. Maybe now’s the time I start slinging shepherd’s pie at guys reminiscing over the Carlton Fisk and Harold Baines days. Serve food to people who don’t know who Thomas Keller is.”

The guy regarded him over his glasses again. He regarded for so long that it started to feel like an outfielder had made a play on that ball. “Well, Thomas Patton,” he said. 

“Tommy, please.”

“Sure. We’ll be in touch.”

—

Outside was beginning-of-summer cloudless and windless and show-skin warm. Too bright as he walked out of the bar’s dark. It was hard to leave the bar without joining the Sunday afternoon whiskey sinners, but Tommy resisted alcohol’s siren song. 

He had to stop coming off so strong in interviews. That guy probably thought Thomas Keller was some alter ego Tommy’d given himself. 

Rent was due and his savings were trickling like a sputtering keg. To Tommy—what else was there to say? He knew there was a right way to do things, and a wrong way, and a lot of people chose the wrong way. Sometimes, people could sense that he knew that essential truth. They didn’t like it. 

He walked a couple blocks and thought about how nice a cigarette would be, but he had quit. Well. Sometimes when he was drinking. He had another interview on Thursday. Any problem can be solved. He just had to keep at it.