Firstly, I have A New Essay in PopMatters
&
A New Story in God’s Cruel Joke
As well as another story and essay on deck, AND I was the subject of my first writerly interview, so here’s to this little hot streak.
While the new story was accepted, in working with the editors, one of the scenes was excised. They were right in suggesting its removal, but that does not mean I am not still partial to the scene, so rather than bury this particular darling, I have tweaked it slightly so that it can stand on its own here and maybe act as a little teaser for the upcoming release.
To claim the age of the pirate is over is to oust yourself as having never worked in a commercial kitchen. For me, the terrain is familiar, but each return takes its toll.
It is no small thing to enter a kitchen of which you are not a part, but there is a proper way to do it. The chemical guy may come only once a month, but he’s cool. Basically a part of the team. He gets it. The guys from Labat might be the worst part of the day, and there is, in the air, always the pretense of a standoff, two small teams pushed to the very edge of productivity, coming face-to-face, but in that there is also a mutual respect.
To enter a kitchen the wrong way is to lose your audience right off the bat. I know the potential power I carry within the title Mushroom Farmer. A sort of serene, blue collar sage. I have dressed the part in my earthy tones and rope hat with the handsome Toadstool Tannery company patch, and I have brought presents, small tokens, namely a pocketful of stickers and free samples, to distribute amongst the line cooks.
“Howdy,” I greet the young hostess as I adjust to the sudden dim lighting. It is cool and quiet within. I have timed this visit for the lull between meals
“Table for one?” the woman asks. A few of the servers are gathered around the hostess stand, their sections basically empty.
“Actually I’m here to see Martin. He’s expecting me,” I say with a tilt of my head to show the logo I’m sporting on my forehead.
It is a modern Italian restaurant, caught somewhere between fast casual and fine dining, and nestled in the shadow of a link of box stores, huddled at the far end of the parking lot just off the access road. Outside is pure sprawl, but within these walls there is a calmness broken only by the series of flat screen televisions mounted over the bar and in every corner. The plates are small, but not paying-for-the-experience small, and there is music playing softly, of the variety I have been trained to associate with Italy: a lot of string instruments accompanied by an organetto.
The hostess gives me a bit of a skeptical look, but complies. She leads me into the back. It is a small, neat kitchen. Most of the staff has turned to prep work during these off hours. The Specials blast tinny and distorted out of a cheap bluetooth speaker. The crew glances up at me, and I nod towards them. They return the greeting: acceptance.
“Hey guys,” I say. “I’m from Toadstool Tannery. We’re a local mushroom farm,” I explain as I slap the stack of stickers and a case of shrooms down on an unessential section of countertop. “Please, feel free to divvy up this box, take some home with you. There’s some booklets in there with cooking tips as well.”
The line cooks slowly stop what they are doing and come over to investigate. They are a bit suspicious at first, like feral cats unused to affection, but they are won over as I nudge the open box towards them, careful not to make any sudden movements. The bald troll heads stare up at them and the cooks grow excited with the possibilities.
“Man, are you for real?”
“Oh yeah. Unfortunately y’all’ll have to split that box, but yeah, it’s all yours.”
The best sign of a good line cook is that they become excited over quality product.
“Mama mia!” one exclaims. “There’d once’ve been a time I’d be pissed that these aren’t another kind of mushrooms, but, man, no one’s ever given me a box of free muggins and lion’s mane before. I appreciate that.”
“Mama mia!” the others begin to parrot as the conversation breaks down into increasingly stereotypical Italian proclamations. I bid adieu as the four fall into Mario impressions and Sopranos quotes, and find the chef around a corner. He is a short man with a bristly, nearly bald head, and a pink face that does not soften as he shakes my hand.
“Martin?” I confirm. He nods briskly. “We spoke on the phone. I work with Toadstool Tannery. I’ve come to drop by that sample box we talked about.”
“Mm,” Martin nods. I hold the cardboard box in my hands. It’s about the size of a child’s shoebox. I open it to show the product.
“Over here we have the oysters. Personally I love to use these to make shroom toast. You just roast them and then spread a bit of ricotta on top with some sprouts and a squeeze of lemon: Delicious, but that’s all included here in the handbook. Of course, you can feel free to get creative. You are the chef, after all. Anyway, here in the middle is the porcini…”
“I know what mushrooms look like,” Martin interrupts, reaching for the box.
“Ah, yes of course. Is this a bad time?”
“What might you consider a good time in the restaurant business?”
“I feel that. I’ve worked my fair share of kitchens. Well, I’ll just leave these for you and get out of your hair,” I say before I can catch myself, and instantly hear the irrepressible laughter coming loose in the kitchen. “Uh, please feel free to reach out with any questions you might have. And I’ll give you a call on Monday to check in.”
“Ch’mmm.”
“Right. Well thanks for your time,” I say and duck out of the conversation, past the kitchen, where the four line cooks are standing in a row, rigid in salute. I give them a quick one and exit to a bellowing chorus of “and a gabagool to you, sir!”