Chapter 6

Normally, Tommy didn’t mind wearing his chef’s whites on the walk home. Tonight was the night before his first day off, though, and he wanted to get into civilian mode before hitting Jimmy’s Pub. He would get back to drinking less soon, but tonight merited celebration. 

Plus, he was having his first takeout from Olly’s—the Chicago Burger. Provolone cheese, then what else? Mustard, onions, tomatoes, relish, pickles, sport peppers, and celery salt. Tommy marveled at the simple genius of it.

A Chicago Burger and daiquiri at Jimmy’s Pub was a far cry from munching pig’s jowl and foie gras with other chefs at industry bars. That was fine by Tommy, who had been finding strange comfort in the skulking old freaks at Jimmy’s Pub. Somehow, Tommy felt that his own eyes would never get that sunken.

“You know how to make a real daiquiri?” he asked the bartender. 

“Better than Key West,” the giant drawled back. 

The TV had the news on, but the volume off. Tommy saw Lilypad, saw something in the chyron about murders. He watched as the B roll shifted to a YMCA in Englewood, a corner in Woodlawn, a Jewel in Rogers Park, a cell phone store in Hermosa. 

So much death in the city. Now, the one that he’d seen up close, the one that had blown up his life? It had been subsumed into a single, continuous news narrative. The news needed to keep people scared. Well, Tommy jumped every time he saw his old workplace on the TV.

Is that enough for you, you bloodthirsty maw, Tommy slurred to himself while gazing at his daiquiri. Nibble away at my sanity, why don’t you? Would you like a side of ketchup to dip my soul in?

Like all well-read pirates, Tommy always thought of Hemingway when he drank daiquiris. Making a real one was simple, but it was an art. Of course, no one made real ones anymore. Tommy thought of his first job, at Chili’s. The daiquiris there came out of a machine. Shipped to the restaurant as mixes. Disgusting, Tommy thought. 

“I kinda like them,” his GM would say. 

—

Tommy was the only kitchen staff that the GM didn’t call “José.” It was always “José we need four fries on 26,” “José we need salads on five,” “José I need two cajun alfredos.” He even called Kostas the busser José, and Kostas was Greek. But when it came to Tommy? It was “Tommy we got a Texas BBQ Burger and a Southwest Hatch Burger on eight.” 

Tommy had started as a busser. Worked his way up. That was in the past, though—he had some skill, and he wouldn’t mind a little recognition every now and then. But this GM? These corporate chains? There was no individuality here. No heart. Nothing distinguishing anyone as anything other than vessels for making a forgettable menu designed by someone who had never even set foot in their restaurant. Make me another Texas BBQ burger. 

One Sunday night, dinner had started slow enough that the GM sent Alex and Berto home at eight. Plus one or two front of house staff. Of course, things picked up at 8:30. Cut to the GM back in the kitchen, “you guys don’t get it, when you fuck up, I’m the one who has to deal with the customers!” “If the customer says ‘medium no pink’ on their burger? You fucking make it no fucking pink!” 

Tommy was on the grill, Mario sautée, and they pulled Armand off dishes to work the fryer. They’d done $800 in food this hour, not even counting the $400 in delivery orders. To Tommy, it was heroic work. Let the unwashed Chili’s customers complain. To the GM, the customer was always right. 

Things slowed down, but were still steady enough that it was bad timing when Tommy got called into the office. Tommy didn’t have any orders at the moment—he’d just cleared the last burgers, including a gnarly Texas BBQ Burger with extra cheese, extra sauce, and extra pickles—and he wanted to send Armand back to dish and drop the fry orders for margarita drinkers on table 11 himself. 

Dish would have to wait. As he walked back to the office, he saw the Dresden-esque rubble building up in the sink. Globs of sauce sticking to tragically nibbled-on ribs, heaps of ketchup covering disintegrating fries. Soggy, blue cheese-soaked iceberg lettuce and chipotle ranch on brioche buns. All we do here is cover food in goo, Tommy mused. 

In the office, Tommy saw where that heaping Texas BBQ Burger he’d just slathered together went. Next to the burger was a massive mound of mozzarella sticks the size of an order of fries. Next to the plate was the GM’s signature drink: two shots of watermelon tequila, two of Blue Curacao, splash of Sprite, float of mezcal, garnish with a lime. Next to that was a suspiciously amber-colored soda. 

“Tommy, my man,” the GM said with barbecue sauce on his chin. “You like a Jack and Coke, yeah? Brad made it a double.”

This, Tommy deserved. He was too tired to question it.

“Jesus, Tommy, I gotta tell you,” the GM said, half a barbecue sauce-drenched onion ring looping out of his lips and touching the bottom of his goatee. “Mmmmm,” he sucked the onion into his mouth in one go. “What we do here isn’t art. I get that. Make the same shit every damn day over and over. All these Josés, man, they’re good at what we need them to do. But you? When you make this Texas BBQ Burger? Goddamn, son. There’s something about it. You make it—you make it right.”

“Hey, thanks,” Tommy said. He sipped his drink. The cross section of that burger was even more horrifying than Tommy could’ve imagined when he was making it. The medium well center was like an unblinking black hole under a train wreck of cheese, bacon, bit-into pickle chips, and barbecue sauce that seemed to regenerate and grow thicker as more of the sandwich got eaten. 

Tommy watched as the GM dipped the burger in ketchup.  

“You know, I like my steaks medium rare,” the GM said. “As close to rare as you can get, but still medium rare, you feel me? That’s what a man eats. Ground beef, though. Gotta cook the shit outta that.”

Tommy thought that this man, who was at least approaching 50 years old and firmly from Deerfield or Palos Heights or wherever, shouldn’t be slipping into Blaccent every third sentence. He said, “for sure.”

“You’ve really been on it lately, Tommy. I see you. Listen, raises are coming up. I know you know that. Why else work hard, right?”

Here it was. Tommy had kept his mouth shut and looked the other way and made grill orders. Now his tacit acceptance of the GM’s barely-concealed preference for their shared whiteness would result in him getting an extra 75 cents, maybe a dollar an hour. 

“Look,” the GM said. “Standard’s 15 cents, maybe a quarter. But I think I can pull some strings. Get you an extra 50. Hey? Maybe even knock a quarter off one of these Josés, they won’t notice. What’s the one that, like, really doesn’t speak English?”

“Hey, I appreciate it,” Tommy said. “You don’t need to dock any of the guys, though.”

50 cents was an insult. 50 cents was 25% off food instead of just getting a shift meal. The implication that someone else would be making less made Tommy feel the same way as when a customer would complain about the long wait time for a well done steak. Scum, Tommy thought while gulping whiskey. 

“Nah man, these guys? I swear they’re, like, making the fajita pans too hot. Yeah, they’re reliable, but tricky. You know? You’re the guy in the kitchen I can trust. I mean it. You’re holding this whole fuckin restaurant together, Tommy! You deserve it.”

Tommy didn’t know what to say besides “okay.” He pushed out a “thank you,” but it made him hate himself. 

“Well cool, man, that’s all I needed,” the GM dipped a mozzarella stick in ketchup and ate the whole thing in one bite. “You want any of these mozz sticks?” He ate another.

“Thank you, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself! Well. Better get back to it. Grab another double Jack and Coke if you want.”

Tommy turned to go. His hand was on the door. 

“Oh Tommy, one more thing? Take this plate to dish for me?” 

The plate had the crust of a bun, four mozzarella sticks, and a Kilimanjaro of ketchup. Tommy flashed back to his dishwashing days. The way the smell never came out of his always-dry hands. The noise of scraping plates. The way the trash bags sagged and leaked. 

“No problem,” Tommy said. The GM’s plate was gross enough to feel personal. Like this was a waste level that a person should dispose of quietly, with shame. Tommy felt certain he could rip a cast iron out of the oven and smash the GM’s head in and not feel a thing. 

Dish was the same untouched disaster. In the kitchen, Armand was trying and failing to put together six orders of lava cakes. Mario had jumped on the fryer and was waist-deep in fries and mozzarella sticks for the late-night drinkers. 

“Fuck this,” Tommy said. He threw the whole plate in the trash. He walked to the bar and told Brad to send him a double Jack and Coke. When he got back to the kitchen, he was barking. “Armand, back to dish, amigo. I’ll take these cakes.”

“Bad news chef?” Mario asked. 

“Let’s just get through la noche, amigo,” Tommy said. 

Eventually, they did. Eventually, Mario was in the frigid outside, smoking a cigarette. Eventually, Armand was putting the broom back in the closet, and Tommy was locking the front door behind him as he joined Mario. Tommy’s heart hadn’t stopped racing. He opened the door again, stuck his head in the cool breeze to try to reset himself. It didn’t work.

He’d had Brad hide two more double Jack and Cokes under the register before he left. 

“GM said you could have all these?” Brad had asked. 

“No,” Tommy said. 

“Am I charging you for any of them?”

“No.”

He’d drank one during prep. Instead of slurry and loose, Tommy could feel himself getting stronger. Like every sip of whiskey made his veins and muscles bulge. He’d all but forgotten the raise. If anyone had asked, Tommy probably couldn’t remember all the shit he was mad about, either. All he knew was that shit was unacceptable. That shit wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Now the restaurant was quiet, and he sipped his last double Jack and Coke at the bar. When he finished, he walked back to dish and hand-washed his glass. No point in Brad or Armand having a hard time tomorrow. 

The office door was partially open. The light was on, and Tommy heard a low rumbling. For a minute, he hoped that some unholy monster—maybe made of food waste—had risen up from the ground. Devoured the GM and was waiting to make his next meal. But no, the rumbling could only be the GM’s snoring.

His head was slumped over the keyboard. Another glass of that blue shit cocktail, watery and dripping condensation, next to the mousepad. Tommy wanted to leave him there, let him wake up at 3 a.m. or whenever, but the last time he did that, the GM had called him yelling about “you and me gotta look out for each other in this business, you understand?” 

So Tommy roused him, or tried to. He ended up tossing the mumbling drunk’s arm over his shoulder and walking him out to the back. Hoping for a jolt from chilled night air. All Tommy needed to do was get him to his car. If he was lucky, he’d be on a bus before the GM was swerving on the streets. 

“Hoo, Tommy, my man,” the GM said, eyes bulging. They were near his personal parking spot, in the back by the dumpsters. The night was empty. They were outside city limits. Anyone still awake was a 30-minute bus ride away. “Thanks, buddy.”

Tommy took this as a cue that the man could walk. He was wrong. 

The GM was down on his hands and knees, laughing and shaking his head. He was having a great time. 

There was a brick next to Tommy’s foot. He picked it up and bashed the GM on the back of the skull. The nameless drunk dropped faster than an order of fries. 

Tommy stood stunned over his kill for a minute. His heart was in his ears. Like someone had hit the rewind button, the booze switched from feeling like a powerup to feeling like he’d been splashed in mud. The night reminded him it was cold. Tommy looked down at the brick and was glad to realize he was wearing gloves. 

Mugging. Gone wrong. The voice came from some far-off corner of Tommy’s brain. He reached in the GM’s back pocket and grabbed his wallet. The white inside of the pocket stayed upturned and made the sad dead man look sadder and deader. 

With the strength of a man who carries cast irons around all day, Tommy lifted the GM up and tossed him in the dumpster. 

He searched himself, asking if he did that because it was what a mugger would do, or because he, Tommy, thought the man belonged in a dumpster. 

He decided he didn’t care what the answer was. 

The bus tracker on Tommy’s phone said the bus was 22 minutes away. Either he missed the normal 1:21 a.m. bus, or it wasn’t running. The world is made of annoyances, Tommy thought. Either these customers who want their burgers burnt and their pasta gummy, or the CTA can’t run a goddamn bus on time.

As Tommy walked to the bus stop, he checked the wallet—three different credit cards and no cash. Just another way nothing that night went Tommy’s way. 

—

Tommy realized he’d eaten all but two bites of his Chicago burger without tasting it. Drunk down his daiquiri and was somehow on a second one. The chilled lime tasted so good. He considered his tongue. The remnants of mustardy burger. Vinegar bite of relish and spicy sport peppers. 

Tommy took a huge last bite, and chewed carefully. Savored the pillowy bun, felt all the ingredients in present tense. Then he downed his fresh daiquiri in one go, and signaled for another.