{"id":162657699,"date":"2025-10-15T07:00:00","date_gmt":"2025-10-15T12:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/?p=162657699"},"modified":"2025-10-14T19:02:51","modified_gmt":"2025-10-15T00:02:51","slug":"chapter-13","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/?p=162657699","title":{"rendered":"Chapter 13"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

It was Sunday night, and Tommy was calm, level-headed. Almost too focused. Totally in the zone behind the grill. He flipped a pork chop. Exact<\/em> diamond hatch marks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was the night Tommy wished every week night could be. Not busy, but not slow, either. The back door was open to the alley, and warm summer air changed the harmony of the kitchen. Every order seemed to glide off his spatula like it had been given an extra bath in garlic butter, like their Choice-grade beef had secretly, in its spirit, lived the luxurious life of Kobe. The smells were stronger, the ranchero songs Mart\u00edn had playing hitting harder. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It hadn\u2019t hurt that Mart\u00edn, apparently feeling some sort of seasonal generosity of spirit, had bought the kitchen staff two 12-packs of 312 to drink throughout the shift. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three beers each wasn\u2019t enough to get anyone drunk over the course of dinner service, but it loosened everyone up. It was like they\u2019d stolen a celebration from a world that was stingy with the amount of good times you were allowed. Reggie kept singing to everything he pulled out of the fryer. Juan Carlos, watching a soccer game on his phone, was celebrating or groaning a little more loudly than usual. <\/em>Maria, the normally reserved and business-like busser, kept stealing glances at the game, too. According to her, the refs had missed roughly 75 penalties. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Tommy looked at the order screen and saw it. Parisian Burger\u2014medium well. LITE arugula. ADD lettuce. NO gr. Mushrooms. ADD tomato. ADD ketchup. Sw. Fries. SIDE gravy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only a very select few customers were allowed to customize orders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only one customer\u2019s order was so viscerally gaudy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy looked at the grill. The same one where he\u2019d just seared a perfectly medium rare skirt steak, basted it in compound butter, and plated it with an astonishing potato mash and greens. The same grill where he could toast a patty melt to golden brown perfection with his eyes closed just by listening to the bread closely enough. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The baseline burger in the order was a Parisian burger\u2014a complete symphony of flavors that was like Christmas morning for your tongue. The buns were lathered in garlic butter before they were toasted, then topped with a layer of seedy stone ground mustard. The bottom bun got a base of arugula, which was expected to wilt slightly after it was topped with grilled mushrooms. Finally, your Gruyere-topped burger patty joined the party. Parisian burger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Whatever was on the order screen was not a Parisian burger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Whatever was on the order screen was an abomination in the face of every soul who had ever cooked food, going back to Urk spit-roasting hunks of wooly mammoth over the cave fire or whatever. It was an affront to taste. It wasn\u2019t even bullshit. It was pure, uncut shit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy\u2019s body accepted the feeling that was coming before his brain realized what it was. All Tommy felt was calm, relieved even, when his body told him: fuck it<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He felt it with his entire body and consciousness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

You know what? No<\/em>, Tommy elaborated to himself. He visualized himself in the neighborhood, as a neighbor. I am the one who feeds people. This sandwich is on the menu this way for a reason<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey,\u201d he said to Mara and Amparo in the window. \u201cThat\u2019s Gerry out there, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho\u2019s Gerry?\u201d Mara asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGuy who owns the building,\u201d Amparo said. \u201cYeah that\u2019s him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen, I\u2019m just gonna make his Parisian burger the way it comes, okay?\u201d Tommy said. \u201cWe say no substitutions<\/em> on the menu, it means no substitutions<\/em>, right? Besides, that burger is art<\/em> on its own. Every time I make it his way? I feel like somewhere in the world, I\u2019m causing a car crash. Like, cosmically. If I make this burger the way he ordered it, some poor family in Nebraska is gonna have a fatal crash on the highway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou gotta go tell him,\u201d Amparo said. \u201cI\u2019m not doing your dirty work for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s his way?\u201d Mara asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLettuce, tomato, ketchup,\u201d Tommy said. \u201cMixing ketchup and stone ground mustard. Lettuce, to cut through the spiciness of arugula<\/em>. That\u2019s what he actually told me. You believe that shit? Yeah I\u2019ll go tell him. I don\u2019t give a fuck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy let his rage simmer and prepared the burger the proper way. Was he capable of making a thing so good it could fundamentally change a person? Probably. Well, maybe not fundamentally<\/em>, because Gerry was a landlord\u2014and therefore irredeemable\u2014but maybe he could teach this guy what food should taste like. The whole ticket was an affront to taste\u2014depriving the gruyere of mushrooms, the assault of ketchup\u2014but it was the temp that was the most heinous. Medium-well is the burger temp of tasteless fucks whose sole purpose in a restaurant is to harass servers and piss off cooks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy plated the burger, cooked medium. Dumped the steaming sweet potato fries into a bowl and tossed them with seasoning. Fucking gravy on the side? Not tonight. He’d give Gerry a bottle of ketchup as a compromise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As Tommy approached the table he felt the rage boil, but he pushed it down and put on his best FOH face. Gerry saw him and shouted at him across the restaurant. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOho! I’m getting the VIP treatment tonight! Chef Tommy bringing out my dinner!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood evening, Gerry. Here’s your Parisian burger. I made it special for ya, but couldn’t do the substitutions. Policy of the menu and the kitchen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn’t order the Parisian burger, Tommy. I ordered the Gerry Special. Which your new girl didn\u2019t know about, by the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy forced a laugh. Decided not to give away Mara\u2019s name. \u201cWe don’t have that one on the menu yet, but I really do think you’ll enjoy this. And just in case you need a little help, here’s your old pal: ketchup.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy turned and walked away before Gerry could say more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy returned to the grill, feeling satisfied. Almost believing that the burger really might change Gerry’s mind. He had barely tied his apron when the swinging kitchen doors kicked and Gerry came in, holding his plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey man, you can’t\u2014\u201d Juan Carlos started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can go anywhere I want in my<\/em> building<\/em>.\u201d Gerry dropped the entire plate into the trashcan. \u201cAnd I can order whatever fucking burger I want. I’ll put it in the goddamn lease if I have to, but I will never be insulted like that again. You hear me, burger boy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He had enough sense to keep his distance from Tommy\u2014currently holding his chef\u2019s knife\u2014but the challenge was clear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mart\u00edn stepped in. His eyes were as soft as Tommy had ever seen them. His voice otherworldly with gentleness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course we’ll make the burger, Mr. Gerry. Give us a few minutes and we’ll have it out to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kitchen resumed operations. Mart\u00edn told Tommy to take five, that he\u2019d watch the grill a minute. Then Mart\u00edn started in, making Gerry\u2019s burger. Tommy drank a beer in the alley, came back to the kitchen. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A couple orders went out. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the orders stopped coming in. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then it was time for closing prep. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry, Tommy,\u201d Mart\u00edn finally said. \u201cI hate that prick, too, but you know. Sometimes you gotta pick your battles, guero.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They were out of beer. After what felt like a long time, Mart\u00edn turned the ranchero music back on. When that didn\u2019t stop the air from feeling like it was raining thumbtacks, Mart\u00edn disappeared out the back door. Came back with one more six pack. Disappeared into his office. Came back with a pint of tequila. A pint minus a poured shot sitting on Mart\u00edn\u2019s desk. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to finish up in the office,\u201d he said. \u201cThen I\u2019m going to have a round or two at Squire\u2019s, if anyone wants to join.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tommy went back to butterflying chicken breasts. At one point, Amparo and Mara came back to the office to turn their receipts in. They disappeared back to front of house for a while. Tommy finished the chicken. Amparo and Mara came back in, both changed into different shirts. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou coming out, Tommy?\u201d Mara asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After Gerry\u2019s outburst, Tommy felt a wave of something like calm come over him. It wasn\u2019t that his arm went numb, but when he diced onions? He couldn\u2019t tell where his shoulder began and the knife hitting the board ended. No one had touched the music dial\u2014Tommy checked\u2014but the music was quieter. Tommy wasn\u2019t sure what to do with this strange focus. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, I\u2019ll have a couple rounds,\u201d he said to Mara.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It was Sunday night, and Tommy was calm, level-headed. Almost too focused. Totally in the zone behind the grill. He flipped a pork chop. Exact diamond hatch marks. It was […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":162657656,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[168],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-162657699","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-behind-with-knife"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/162657699","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=162657699"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/162657699\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":162657700,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/162657699\/revisions\/162657700"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/162657656"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=162657699"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=162657699"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.lazyandentitled.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=162657699"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}