At home, Tommy had a system. He didn’t eat anything too complex. He relied plenty on frozen vegetables and frozen fish. But he refused to eat poorly—anything could be improved with a quick sauce or fresh herbs. He refused to waste—bones and scraps going into stock, leftovers turned into omelets or a variable-ingredient dish he called Refrigerator Fried Rice. He loaded his dishwasher every night, which was getting easier now that he was drinking less. It was a point of pride that his system closed with cleanliness.
A steak? A takeout burger? No. Tommy was celebrating his new job with ramen. The internet was littered with hacks to upgrade instant ramen. Tommy knew better than all that. Life didn’t have to be hard, but life required paying attention. Too many people don’t get that. On the stove, two pots of water were coming to a boil. A stainless steel skillet waited. On the counter, six eggs were learning about room temperature. He only needed one for his dinner tonight, but why not prep for the next couple days? That’s thinking ahead. On one board, he sliced bok choy into ribbons. On another, he peeled shrimp.
The local news was filled with nothing but bodies. A shooting in Englewood, a shooting in Woodlawn, a shooting in River North, a shooting in Rogers Park. Tommy hated that shit. But Movies From The New Hollywood Movement, a hit-or-miss but nevertheless curated movie marathon featuring Actually Good Movies, Not Just The Latest Marvel Bullshit, was starting after the news.
He loved cable TV.
Tommy didn’t—what else was there to say? Tommy didn’t believe in streaming.
The local news is fearmongering, he thought. The local news wants you scared.
Tommy was above that. He wasn’t scared of his neighbors. He felt good about his role in the community, being one who feeds. All he asked was for a little appreciation of said role.
Out of the corner of his eye, familiar-looking B roll. The chyron mentioned Lakeview. He recognized the sign for a family-owned dental practice.
The chyron mentioned a murder.
Sure enough, there was Lilypad. Where Tommy had worked until very recently.
Police tape and flashing lights surrounded the exterior. He was used to seeing it filled with mimosa-sipping brunch guests. The chyron mentioned murder.
Tommy tried to keep calm and continued peeling shrimp. Shells limp and split, still attached to the gray tail. Soon, he’d have three of his stove’s four burners going. Maybe most home cooks would freak out, but three burners was amateur hour for Tommy.
The pot was boiling. He chucked the shells and tails in. Covered and set the microwave timer for five minutes. Turned the burner on medium high under his skillet. Put the eggs in the other pot, set a phone timer for six and half minutes. He sliced a scallion on the bias, long ovals falling on the board graceful as napping dancers. When the shrimp timer went off, he fished the tails out of the water and into the compost bin. Everything returns to nature when it’s finished. Some of the shrimp stock got poured into a mason jar to cool—it’d be good for three days, so would the bok choy. Slightly less than two cups remained in the pot. He reached into his freezer, found packages of frozen garlic and frozen ginger. Tony Bourdain’s voice rang in his head: if you don’t peel your own garlic, you don’t deserve garlic. Well, Tony, they’ve made advancements in frozen food technology since 2000, man. He added three cubes of each to the broth, before turning the burner back on. The eggs he transferred from boil to ice bath. The oil in the pan was just beginning to smoke, and he added the whites of the bok choy. He added the shrimp, seasoned with black pepper. Two and a half minutes, flipped the shrimp, added another cube of both garlic and ginger to the stainless steel. Two and a half minutes, making sure everything got coated in the aromatics.
In the meantime, his broth was boiling. Shrimpy, garlicky, gingery.
Package instructions said three minutes, but Tommy liked bite on his noodles. He added about half the soy sauce-flavored seasoning packet to the broth. Slid the dried noodle square out of its blue container. Dropped the noodles in, set a phone timer for 90 seconds. Waited 30 seconds, tossed the bok choy greens in. The shrimp and bok choy whites finished, and he scraped the mixture into a bowl. Seconds later, the noodles and bok choy greens finished, and he poured the soup over the shrimp. Peeled an egg, dropped it in. Finally, he garnished with scallions.
The whole enterprise was so quick that he still had to sit through commercials before New Hollywood started. Aromatic steam off the bowl slithered up his neck. Sometimes, he wondered if the neighbors on his floor could smell his cooking. Well. He knew they could smell his cooking, but he wondered what they thought of it. He wanted to say you’re welcome.
Bok choy blanched, shrimp seared but not overdone, scallions and noodles biting exactly right, soft-boiled egg yolk the correct creaminess, but something was off. A feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t him—the ramen was good, he’d made sure of it. It was the news that was off. Talking about his old work. The people there, they didn’t understand what food meant. Not really. The customers snapping Instagram shots, leaving Yelp reviews only when they’re pissed off. The bosses and their sycophants, always designing mile-high breakfast sandwiches that looked nice on the Gram, but tasted like mismatched mush in a brioche bun.
No. That wasn’t right. There was something wrong there, at Lilypad. To Tommy—what else was there to say? The desire for clout felt sinful, a crime against the Culinary Gods. When has an exclusive club ever been his dream? He’d read Thomas Keller’s books and thought no thanks. He had seen The Menu, not to mention seen the real-life kitchens of places like that. He was shocked more people like Ralph Fiennes in The Menu didn’t happen in real life.
So many people wanted to be seen enjoying food, rather than actually enjoy food.
If people didn’t care so much about being seen as superior to others, the Michelin star system wouldn’t exist.
It would be the humble prep cook who would be the appreciated genius.
Tommy tried to settle into the movie, but he kept eating during the film and only remembering to pay attention at commercials. The food was great, of course it was, but he was frustrated at his wandering mind. He loaded his dishwasher, scrubbed the stainless steel.
A particular aroma of garlic and dish soap hit his nostrils. Sent him back to his first kitchen job, washing dishes at a Chili’s in the burbs. The noise of the dishwasher—a vision of globs of ketchup.
A half-bitten onion ring.
Jet spray on washing plates.
Then there was blood.
Just a flash, but it shook Tommy up. He had to remind himself that he was holding a scrub brush, not a knife. He held knives so often. It was a cliché to say that his knives were an extension of his body, but just like medium rare ribeye and whiskey neat, clichés became clichés for a reason.
He remembered all those afternoon drinks. It wasn’t his old work on the news making him feel bad. It was a hangover trying to sneak in an early start.
Tommy didn’t keep much of a bar at home, just the basics: white, spiced, and dark rum, for drinking and cooking; Campari for summer afternoons; tequila blanco for cocktails and a small flask of very good Mezcal an old coworker had brought him from Mexico; brandy for cooking; Buffalo Trace bourbon for Old Fashioneds and sipping on special occasions; Jack Daniel’s and Jameson for regular drinking; New Amsterdam gin and vodka; sweet and dry vermouth; Angostura, lemon, and orange bitters; and a bottle of red wine for cooking.
Now was a good time for a cocktail. Since this was still a special occasion—getting a job and all—Tommy muddled some sugar and bitters. Poured more Buffalo Trace than a bartender would over some pebbly apartment freezer ice. Gave it a little stir. Perfect Old Fashioned.
He patted his knife bag. A home base to reorient himself.
The couch was cozy, the summer air drifted in, and the cocktail was good. Who could know what was going on in this movie, but Tommy made himself appreciate the cinematography.
He drank two Old Fashioneds before falling asleep.