Devil's Food (6 page)

“Where are you, honey? Why didn’t you call?”

“Couldn’t get to a phone.” Ross cleared his throat but the tone remained black. “I’m in Montreal.”

“For how long? Want me to come up?”

“No.”

His clipped, hard voice was beginning to frighten her. She immediately knew that Ross’s trouble wasn’t work related. “What’s
the matter?”

Perhaps he tried to clear his throat again. “We’ll talk about it later. I have to go now.”

“Wait! When will you get back?”

“Monday maybe. Marjorie will know.” He hung up.

Ross had never been cruel to his wife before; the effect was devastating. Oh God! Had he found out about Guy? Emily stared
at the bedroom ceiling as guilt seeped from head to stomach. Morning coffee did unpleasant things to her digestive tract.
Three hours later, she could still barely talk. Finally she called Ross’s secretary at home. “Good morning, Marjorie. Did
I wake you? I wonder if you could tell me where Ross is staying. I didn’t quite catch the hotel when he called this morning.”

“I haven’t spoken with him since he left.”

Damn! “Was this a consulting job?”

“I really couldn’t say.” Marjorie paused for effect. After a few seconds, realizing she might have overplayed her hand, she
added, “It could be a big project.”

“Thanks.” Emily hung up, finally aware that she was staring at a bottomless weekend, and that spending it alone might ruin
her. So she called her new employer at Diavolina. “Ward? You’re working early.”

“This is Saturday, dear. Every Romeo’s big night out.”

“Would you like me to come in today? My weekend plans just changed.”

“Hey, new blood in the kitchen! I’ll warn the troops.”

Emily showered and scrutinized her face in the bathroom mirror, wondering how to present the best first impression. Today
the raw materials were not promising. Her eyes looked wrinkled and small, like an elephant’s. Skin positively yellow, and
the
frown lines appeared to have been installed by machete. Applying too much makeup to this façade would be like wearing a bad
toupee; fakery verging on the comic. She curled her hair instead.

This was no morning to ride the torpid, bacterial subway. A haze redolent of carbon monoxide and dead fish already enveloped
Beacon Hill: as Emily crested Joy Street, she realized that this was the hot, sunny weekend that she and Ross had been waiting
for all summer. Once the sun cleared the Hancock Building, the faces of bypassing joggers deepened from pulsing, tomatoey
red to a brownish purple. Even the most self-conscious pedestrians were beginning to take off their jackets and sweaters.

Ward stood at the bar polishing glasses as Emily arrived at Diavolina. Her hair looked less anarchic today but she wore a
pearl in one ear and a gold ball in the other. Blood vessels furled like subcutaneous earthworms along her biceps. “Hello,
Major.”

“Water,” the new chef croaked, slumping over the oak counter. “Air-conditioning.”

Ward slid over a glass of water. “So what happened to your weekend?”

“My husband had to work,” Emily replied tersely, emptying the glass. She stood up before there could be any further questions.
“Okay, where’s that kitchen?”

“First things first. Zoltan! Get over here!” Ward shouted.

A black-haired man emerged from the kitchen. Across the dining room, he looked a hale forty. With each approaching step, however,
he aged a few years. By the time he reached the bar, Emily guessed she was staring at an eighty-year-old with a scalp full
of shoe polish. It was possible he spent half his time as a vampire bat. “I am Zoltan,” he announced. “The maître d’ You are
Emily.”

“He’s been here for centuries,” Ward said. “Knows everything. That doesn’t mean he’ll tell you everything, of course.” She
tucked her service towel under the counter. “Feeling brave?”

Emily stood up, nodding curtly to Zoltan, who was definitely
wearing mascara and orange-tinted makeup. The effect was oddly menacing, “Bombs away.”

“I told them to be on their best behavior today,” Ward said, leading Emily into a clean, modern kitchen, “Attention, animals!
This is our new head chef, Emily Major,”

Five men and women in white aprons looked up from their worktables, A young Caucasian with a crew cut, one earring, and gender-aspecific
tufts of blond facial hair stepped over. “Chef is really a sexist term, Ward. I thought we had agreed on food service manager.”

Emily smiled coolly. “I prefer Chef Major, if you don’t mind. What would you like me to call you?”

“Chess.”

“Short for Francesca,” Ward cut in. “She takes care of fruits, vegetables, and Martians.” Taking Emily’s elbow, Ward proceeded
to a rotund black man. “This is Mustapha, our pastry chef.”

Someone tittered in the corner. It was the murine fellow who had brought Emily’s food to the bar the other day. “Mustapha,”
he muttered. “Last month it was Dwight.”

Ward turned to the source of the comment. “You’ve already seen Klepp, the garde-manger.” Then she led Emily toward an Asian
who had been hacking chickens in half at the butcher block. “Here’s Yip Chick, the broiler cook.” Yip Chick lowered his head
slightly but never stopped cleaving poultry. Ward looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Byron?”

A soigné blond laden with butter and eggs walked out of the cooler. “My God!“he cried, halting. “What’s all this about?”

“This is Head Chef Major,” Ward announced. “She was able to begin working a few days early. Major, this is Byron, your first
mate. He’s been trying to keep us above water recently.”

Byron bent at the knee. “I’d shake hands, but I’m just loaded with butter. You may rub my rear end instead. Whoops! I guess
that’s sexual harassment, isn’t it! Pardon me!”

Ward sighed. “You’ll get used to him.”

Emily watched the cook delicately pile the blocks of butter at his station. “What are you making there, Byron?”

“Butter birds.”

“He makes little sculptures on Saturday night,” Klepp said in yet another accent that Emily could not place. “Puffs and shavings
for the bread basket. Terribly cute.”

“Stop picking on him because of his sexual orientation,” reprimanded Chess, the vegetable woman.

A cloud of steam suddenly billowed from the dishwashers. “Ah, I’ve forgotten someone,” Ward exclaimed. “Slavomir! Come here!”
The slight, elderly man wielding the water hoses either heard nothing or ignored everything. He seemed to be chanting to himself
as he ricocheted water off porcelain, creating a fine mist throughout the area. Ward led Emily to the corner. “Slavomir, this
is Emily, our new chef.”

“Hxxxi,” the man said absently. Then he looked over. “Ehhh!” he cried, dropping the hose.

Ward lunged for the dancing nozzle, finally managing to turn the water off. “He frightens easily,” she explained, tossing
Emily a towel. “And he doesn’t speak much English. Klepp can translate the Russian if absolutely necessary.”

“Klepp is Russian?”

“No, Estonian. He hates Russians.”

“Aha.” Emily’s drenched blouse adhered to her bra. “Have we missed anyone?”

“No, that about does it. You’ll meet the waiters and waitresses soon enough.”

“
Waitron
is the preferred term,” Chess called.

A curvaceous young woman entered the kitchen. Her black halter set off, among other things, a golden tan and slender neck.
She knew her face was attractive. “Good morning,” she called, sailing to the coffee machine. Those in her wake sensed a light,
spicy perfume.

“This is Lola,” Ward told Emily. “One of the wa—serving staff.”

“It would be criminal to call a woman like that a waitron,” Klepp mused. “Good morning, love. Try to sell a lot of asparagus
quiche for me today, would you?”

Ward looked at her watch, “Take it away, Major,” She returned to the dining room.

Except for the mutters of the dishwater and indefatigable chopping at the butcher block, the kitchen was silent for a few
moments after Ward had left. It was not a sympathetic silence and for a tiny second, Emily foresaw disaster here, “Please
go about your business,” she said finally. “Today I’ll just be observing.”

Byron leaped into action. “You need an apron, honey.” He lowered his voice. “Come to the locker room.”

Emily followed him out back, where the sous-chef removed a clean apron from a drawer. “Listen, sugar pie, this is the scoop,”
he said. “You’re going to have trouble with Francesca. She’s a bitch. Yip Chick swam over from China. He’ll be all right if
you let him steal an occasional side of beef. Mustapha burns about half the desserts he makes. Klepp is a homophobic maniac.
And Slavomir is a walking vodka bottle. He occasionally tries to drown himself in the dishwater.”

“Excellent,” Emily commented, tying her apron. “What about you?”

“I’m perfect, darling.” Pausing in front of a wall mirror, Byron adjusted his coiffure. “Cooking’s just a sideline. I’m really
an actor. People tell me I look like a blond Tom Cruise.”

Emily tried not to laugh. Byron was at least fifty years old. “No kidding.”

“I’m between soaps at the moment.” He admired his three-quarter profile in the mirror. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the
spitting image of Philippa Banks? Only your hair’s different.”

Smiling blandly, Emily went to the door. “What about Ward?”

“She’s working out some problems through weight lifting. Need I say more?”

“No thank you. How about a tour of the premises?”

Byron led Emily down a tiled hallway. “Where did you work before, Maje?”

“Cafe Presto. Near Quincy Market.”

“Oh! Is that the place that wins those awards all the time?”

“Yes.’ Emily followed him into a cool, dark room smelling of earth and spices. She walked slowly past the well-stocked shelves,
stopping in front of a crate of mushrooms. “Chanterelles,” she said, sniffing. “Where are they from?”

“A monastery. The monks pick them in the woods and bring them here. Actually, only one brings them in. He’s quite cute. Much
too cute to be a monk. Such a waste.”

Emily eyed a small basket. “Peace Power Farm. Never heard of it. Where’s Hale, Massachusetts?”

“Midstate, I think. They supply milk, butter, herbs, and the rankest goat cheese in creation. The delivery woman makes Ward
look like a cream puff.”

“When’s she coming in next?”

“Monday. So is the monk.”

Emily and Byron returned to the kitchen. Several of the serving staff had arrived and were chatting with Lola at the coffee
machine. “New dictator,” Byron called, “Leo’s replacement.” They waved.

Emily ambled to the pastry chef, who was removing a few cakes from the oven. “How’s everything over here, Mustapha?”

They both stared at his dark, fissured handiwork. “Something’s wrong with this oven,” he said after a moment.

The nearly black cakes looked fused to the pans. Emily resisted an urge to ask where Mustapha kept his crowbar. “What are
you making?”

“Burnt Molasses Cake. It’s a secret recipe from my family.”

“Can you serve them this way?”

“They’re supposed to be a little burned. Otherwise the flavors don’t come out.”

Emily looked into the refrigerator. “I saw something called Chocolate Morgue on the menu. Could you tell me a little about
it?”

“It’s chocolate. Eat too much and you’ll die.”

“I see. Carry on.” Emily left the pastry station and went to Chess, who was dicing eggplant. “Ratatouille?”

“Pastitsio,” Chess said, sliding the eggplant into a large pot.

“Meatless. I hope you don’t mind if I just call you Emily. The word
chef
is deeply offensive to me.”

“Chef is gender neutral.”

“But it implies that certain workers are more important than others. We’re trying to make this a nonprejudicial work area.”

Emily placed the lid on the eggplant pot. “Let’s get something straight, Francesca. My name’s Chef Major. I am now the boss
here. You are not my equal. If you don’t like that, then leave.”

“Yeah!” cheered Klepp, stowing a few quiches into his oven.

Across the way, a modest altercation between Byron and Slavomir suddenly blossomed into an opera. “Wash it over again!”the
sous-chef screamed as the dishwasher spewed a river of Russian at his tormentor.

“I’m not going to translate that, Byron-Boy,” Klepp said. “But it’s anatomically accurate.”

Emily strode to the dishwasher, catching Slavomir’s hand before he launched a cup. “What’s the problem here, Byron?” she asked.

The sous-chef showed her a white dish. “Look at that.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You’re not looking at the right angle. See that smear?”

“No. Stop this nonsense.” As Emily put the plate on the outgoing stack, the dishwasher’s ranting intensified. “What’s he saying,
Klepp?” she called.

“He says you’re a devil.”

No one even tut-tutted in her defense. After a moment, Emily turned to Byron. “I’d like a complete inventory of provisions.
Now.”

She watched him stomp off, then went to the broiler, where Yip Chick was thwacking poultry with his cleaver. “How’s everything
here?”

Yip Chick immediately stopped and gazed fixedly at her forehead. “Don’t stand so close, lady,” Mustapha called. “It makes
him nervous.”

Emily stepped backward, thought a moment, then went out to the dining room. She found Ward at the bar watching a college
football game with a few customers, “What’s the verdict, Chef?“Ward asked, finally noticing her,

“I quit,” Emily ignored Ward’s little laugh. “They’re lunatics.”

“I told you they might be difficult. But give me specifics. Were you insulted?”

“Not directly.”

“Disobeyed?”

“No.”

“Are they incompetent?”

“Probably not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“They detest each other. And me,” Emily said. “How’d it get that way?”

“What can I tell you? This is nineties America.” Ward polished a few wineglasses with her service towel. “Come on, give it
a try. I’ll back you up.”

“I’m a chef, not the UN Peacekeeping Force.”

“One week. Then you can decide. Please.”