JOYOUS PALLET AND LONESOME TONGUE

by Ernest Hui

It was terminal. Twenty-five year old Eric Mortimer did not get any actual confirmation but he knew it was terminal. He could already feel the sickness growing inside of his guts and his heart. This is the kind of sickness that you either get better or you don’t, burning you alive on the inside while leaving your body husk-like and your mind broken. It didn't help when his girlfriend jumped the ship days before Christmas. It also didn't help when his manager, Antonio, disproved being dumped by some gold digger was in any case, a real life problem. This was why Eric got a terminal case of Quarter-life Crisis… at least it was what the Internet said.

            Eric got off work late like everyday. He was the head chef of a French restaurant called Verdun, small diner with not many seats and with food priced honestly too high, Eric did not complain.. Everything seemed to be a routine, go to work, pan seared scallops with cauliflower puree seasoned with a dash of curry, foie gras on filet mignon with red wine sauce, chocolate lava cake with a dollop of house-made cherry ice cream, go home.

However, instead of turning left and straight back to that lonely apartment of his at the end of the street from where he worked, he turned right. He needed a drink. It was not like a little bit of alcohol would cure his sickness. At least it would ease a little pain.

            He arrived at a bar called Prima Donna. A neat little bar tucked tightly at the corner of the street. The bar was dimly lit and everything was made of dark chestnut wood, which added to the whole darkness vibe of the place, and yet there was a certain charm and warmth to such a rustic place.

            Eric slowly moved to the bar, which was made of stone and glass. He settled at the corner. Only a few people wandering in this small locale, so he figured that he would not need to interact with anyone. He was tired anyways.

            “I am Rebecca. How may I help you?” the bartender walked towards Eric from behind the bar.

            “A Mojito, please.” said Eric.

            “Sure thing.” replied the bartender and she turned around. The pudgy woman bounced across to the other side of the bar and returned with some mint leaves and basil. Even with her heels on, she had a hard time reaching for the white rum on the shelf.

            “Aren’t you a little bit depressing for such a happy drink?” said the bartender as she shoveled crushed ice into a mixer, which she proceed to pour a copious amount of rum and syrup into.

            “Rum and Coke, then.” Eric sassed, “much more depressing.”

            “Come on now, I am not getting you some shitty college drink.”

The short woman smiled awkwardly and crushed a few wedges of lime. Eric thought it was probably some kind of intimidation from the fascinatingly blond bartender for getting back at his boorishness.

Just a few shake with a small jet of soda and the drink was done. The bartender slid Eric the alcohol.

Eric took a sip and felt the burning sensation of the alcohol crept up from his stomach and into his throat. He exhaled a wad of hot air and looked the resting bartender.

“Can you water this down a bit with some soda? It’s too strong for me.”

“Oh, sorry.” Rebecca took the glass, “I thought you are trying to get at least a little bit tipsy.”

“I am trying to. But I hate the taste.”

“So, you want to get shit-faced, but you hate the taste of alcohol.” The bartender pumped more soda into the now overflowing glass of beverage, bits of leaves and ice dropped onto the floor, ruining its original beautifully decorated look. Eric could hear the irony of her tone.

“I am not sure, I have never gotten truly drunk before.” Eric whined, “I don't really get to get drunk because of my job.”

“What do you do?”

“I am a chef. Head chef of Verdun.”

“Oh, that French restaurant next to the antique shop.” said the blonde, “I have never been there before, can’t afford it… But I’ve heard some good things about that place.”

“You must have missed our recent review, then.” The young man took a huge mouthful from the glass, his eyes felt like they were going to pop-out from his skull as he recite one of the line from the review, “young Chef Eric Mortimer’s commendable eagerness to please does not live up to his inexperience and short-lived glory.”

“That’s a weird way to review food.”

“Critics like to play with words, I guess. It makes them feel smart.”

“Don’t let them affect you, man. Critics are just fucking losers.”

“No they aren’t.” the chef denied, “but I don’t really mind what they say. In their eyes, I am just not Michelin-star-worthy. But they can’t deny that I make the best beef short ribs in town, topped with sautéed mushroom and crispy pancetta and a bit of chopped parsley, on a bed of creamy grits. Tricky dish to do, I braised them for two and a half hours, no more, no less; until they are tender enough with just a little bit of bite, like beef cheek. People always think they can just braise them hours after hours, but it will just become a mushy, greasy goop after hour four.”

“That sounds amazing.” the bartender shrugged and refilled Eric’s glass with soda on the one hand and white rum on the other.

It was about two thirty at night when young Eric watched Rebecca’s medium-length blond hair bounced about as her turned and look at the clock.

“I am going for a smoke break, wanna join?” offered the bartender.

“I don’t smoke.”

Eric stopped Rebecca as she tried to leave the bar.

“Hey, uh…” the chef stuttered, “Can you close the tab for me?”

“Sure.” the bartender replied with a hint of disappointment.

There was an exchange of pen, bills and cards when Eric stopped Rebecca the second time.

“You should come and have dinner or something if you have time.” Eric suggested, “It’s on me.”

“Sounds cool.”

***

            Christmas services were always hard and stressful, but Eric enjoyed it somewhat, knowing that he brought so much joy and satisfaction to many. He also got to make one of his favorite dishes, roasted goose with crispy skin, stuffed with herbs like rosemary, thyme and an ingenious addition of dried lavender, sided with typical maple sweet potatoes and arugula-fennel salad to balance out the richness of the goose fat. The chef thought that this was what Christmas ought to smell, all warm and fuzzy like.

Holidays were over quickly, and he finally got to rest for a bit, at least until New Years’ Eve. His arms were aching from all the chopping, tossing and rubbing food while his throat was sore from all the yelling in the kitchen.

Eric fondled his keys and locked the front door. He was the last to leave the restaurant. The cold air hurt his nose a little. He did not have enough clothes on the tackle the snowy night.

Lamps did not help illuminate the street but they were bright enough for Eric to see someone walking alone across the road. With a little bit of effort did he recognise it was Rebecca from Prima Donna, Rebecca was wearing a huge maroon coat and smoking a cigarette. The smoke from the cigarette blended with the condensations from her breath.

“Hey!” Eric ran over to the woman’s side of the road.

It took her a second to recognise Eric but she still remembered the chef who can’t drink.

“Oh hey. What are you doing here?” asked Rebecca.

“I just locked my restaurant, ready to head home.” Eric explained, “shouldn’t you at the bar right now?”

“Um…” Rebecca stuttered, and said with a hint of hardship, “I got fired.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. The manager fired me because I couldn't be at the bar during Christmas.” she took a drag and exhaled, “I just wanted to be with my kids during Christmas, y’know?”

            “Sounds tough.” replied Eric reflexively.

            “Turns out they went skiing with their dad during the holidays. My Ex-husband truly is a piece of shit.” Rebecca continued, “Only the one you used to fuck knows exactly how to push you buttons.”

            The idea of having children never came across Eric’s mind, in fact he even did not have the time to think about settling down due to the fact that he was already so busy managing his restaurant and his crew. This was probably one of the reasons his girlfriend left him: commitment issues. At least this was what Eric chose to believe, not because that wolfish new boyfriend being richer and generally better looking.

Mary was always a gold digger.

            “Don't you think it was dangerous to be out this late?”

            “Oh, cut you cavalry bullshit. I’ve been doing fine for 30 years of my life.” the ex-bartender took another drag from her cigarette, “I just don’t want stay in my motel room. It gets awfully lonely when you keep watching Friends reruns.”

            Eric did not know what to say. All he wanted to do was to not stand in this dark, creepy street under this frigid weather. He could leave at any moment, and yet he thought he should not let this miserable woman keep walking on the sidewalk, she might freeze, or get mugged.

            He spoke without a second thought.

            “Are you hungry?”

            “Sure, what do you got?”

            “I think I might be able to cook you something at my place.”

            “Trying to get me home already?” Rebecca chuckled, “at least buy me a drink first, young man.”

            “That’s not what I mean.”

            “Just teasing you. I know you are not that kind of guy, you are practically a monk.” she took a final drag from the smoke and flicked it onto some bits of snow. “Okay, but only if you cook me something real good.”

            “That’s not a problem.” Eric said confidently. “It is my job after all.”

            Eric and Rebecca walked down the street and took a left. They did not talk much, only an occasional complain and shiver under the cold weather.

            Eventually, they arrived at an old apartment building with red bricks and fire escape and everything. They moved into the entrance and passed the snoring security guard.

            Eric’s apartment was located on the top floor, which required quite a climb of some narrow staircases. His manager gave him this apartment as an opening gift. The fat man quickly regretted his choice as he realized that he had to actually climb all these stairs to meet his head chef. Antonio used to joke about how climbing these stairs was harder than going to the moon, he stopped coming due to his breathing problem.

            The Chef turned his keys and opened the front door.

            “Wow.” Rebecca exclaimed as the central heated air brushed against her face. She was surprised about how nice the apartment looked comparing to the flimsy, filthy exterior. Everything was modern yet rustic: L-shaped studded leather sofa, patterned carpet, large television set with a plasma screen so big that made everything showing seemed low-resolution. The kitchen with marble tabletop and wooden cabinets caught her attention; she had never seen so many different kinds of knives, pots, pans and trays, it was a chef’s kitchen after all.

            Everything except the kitchen seemed barely used.

            “My ex-girlfriend decorated it,” said Eric, “she said I should have all of these to enjoy and relax coming back from work. It was back when I was still a sous chef, my work just kept piling up as soon as I became the head chef.”

            “Make yourself at home.”

Rebecca looked around and threw her jacket onto the couch.

            “Already did.” Rebecca smiled, “I need a warm shower, my ass is freezing.”

            “Bathroom is on the right side.” Eric pointed at the door next to the bedroom, “I will see if I can whip up something while you are at it.”

            “Thanks.”

            The chef watched the ex-bartender moved into the bathroom and heard a strong drumming of water on ceramic. He even swiftly moved into the open kitchen area, checking both the massive refrigerator and the cupboard with all sorts of spices and herbs. Eric forgot to go grocery shopping, but he could still make something what he owned.

            “Pasta it is.” Eric mumbled.

            The chef first boiled some spaghetti in a pot of salted, oiled water. With the pasta cooking, he chopped up a handful of garlic cloves; usual recipes for Pasta Aglio E Olio required the garlic to be cut horizontally into thin slices, this helped the garlic to be crispy upon frying, however, Chef Eric Mortimer prefer to squash them gentle and cut them vertically into larger splinters. By cooking them it this shape would create a crispy outside as well as a starchy, rich inside.

            Eric fried the garlic in olive oil with some chili flakes, then he threw in the cooked pasta dripping with starchy pasta water, this helped the oil to stick onto the noodles.

            Stir-frying a little bit, Eric sprinkled in a large handful of chopped cilantro and drizzled some fresh lemon juice. With a little twist salt, the chef placed a moderately sized ball of Pasta Aglio E Olio on a white pasta bowl.

            “Oh my god, you have these awesome bathrobes.” Rebecca stepped out of the bathroom with nothing on except a white bathrobe, her skin was steaming and her hair was still dripping wet.

            “This looks amazing.” said the woman as she saw the bowl of pasta laying on the marble countertop.

            “I try.” Eric replied.

            Rebecca clumsily twirled the pasta with her fork, and sent a few bundled up strands into her mouth. She could taste the savory goodness of the garlic infused olive oil stacked with the starchy pasta. The edges of the garlic splinters provide a little bit of bitter complexity to the dish while the grassiness of the cilantro and fresh squeezed lemon juice brought a zingy spark to the oil and starch emulsification.

            On the third mouthful in, Rebecca felt a deep unease and sorrow bubbling from within her chest, tears then came rolling down her cheeks as she kept scoffing down the barely decorated pasta.

            “Are you okay?” Eric never knew how to react when he saw a girl crying in front of him, or when facing people with actual problems in their lives.

            “I am fine.” the trembling woman murmured, “It’s just…”

             The shaken chef quietly stood up and went back to the kitchen. He then stuck his head into the massive fridge and pulled out a huge platter and a tall bottle.

            “That are you doing?” asked Rebecca.

            “I got some chocolate cake and a bottle sherry right here.” Eric smiled, “I am still experimenting on the cake, but it won’t kill you.”

            “And the sherry?”

            “Bought this for the last cake, didn't work out.” the chef placed the bottle and the cake on the table,” This is proabably a bad idea, but you wanna overdose on chocolate and get shitfaced?”

***

            Eric’s sleep was disturbed by the morning sunlight penetrating through his curtains. The chef rubbed his face and quietly sat up. Looking over to Rebecca’s side, he gently covered her smooth, exposing shoulder blades with a little bit more blanket as he sneaked out of the silky bedding. Eric got a headache from all the drinking last night, nothing a little bit of Tylenol could not fix.

            The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the flat as Eric began making breakfast. Eric started by putting slices of sourdough bread into the toaster. He then threw a few slices of thick cut bacon he got from a private smoker into a hot pan. After the bacons were crispy and the bacon fat was leaking into the sizzling pan, he threw in some quartered shiitake mushrooms seasoned with a pinch of thyme and cherry tomatoes until they charred and blistered. On another pan, he made homemade grated hash browns fried until golden. The sunny side up eggs he made was perfectly done with crispy edges, spongy white and yolk like a bright orange balloon.

            “I smell something good.” wearing only the bathrobe from the night before, Rebecca scared Eric, who was so focused on all the cooking.

            “Good morning.” Eric smiled.

            “Good morning.” the chef and the guest sat down and enjoyed breakfast. They drank coffee and buttered some toast, forked some mushrooms and popped some egg yolks

            “Last night was, uh…”

            “Last night was okay,” Rebecca interrupted, “but you really can't hold much alcohol, can you?”

            “Oh god, what did I do?” Eric stopped crunching on a piece of toast, “did I do something bad?”

            “Nothing ‘bad’ bad,” the woman chuckled as she sucked on some bacon fat on her finger, “Let’s just say: young Chef Eric Mortimer’s commendable eagerness to please does not live up to his inexperience and short-lived glory.”

            “That’s not funny.” grinning, Eric palmed his face in embarrassment.

            They both laughed for a few second, leading to an awkward silence.

            “Hey, uh…” Rebecca sighed, “I am going to my mom’s place for a few days, maybe a week, for New Year, y’know.  Until all the bullshit calm down a bit.”

            “You will be back, right?”

            “Of course I will, your cooking and your shower already ruined my life.” Rebecca slowly finished her breakfast and took yet another shower, this time, she wore her own clothes when she left the bathroom.

            Eric watched Rebecca left the building after a hesitative goodbye and a gentle kiss on the lips.

            Few days later, after the harsh New Year service settled down, Eric told Fat Antonio that he came up with a new recipe, the finalized recipe for the chocolate cake that he had been experimenting for weeks, the cake included three secret ingredients: expresso, drought and mayonnaise.

He named the cake: Gâteau au Chocolat de Rébecca.

Twenty-five year old Eric Mortimer got a serious case of illness, the Internet called it: Quarter-life Crisis. This is the kind of sickness that you either get better or you don’t, burning you alive on the inside while leaving your body husk-like and your mind broken. However, in Eric’s case, he will live.

***