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Sick days were rarely used by people in the culinary industry. The same went for vacation days, under the premise of kitchens not being able to operate properly without all of its moving parts. Like an car missing a wheel. The car would technically be able to drive…..if there was time to stop and put on a spare. But thats only a temporary fix, and spares don’t perform the same as the other three synchronized tires, worn down to the right amount, intimate with the roads they ride. The car gets to the destination, but its slower and more of an unpleasant drive.
Sydney was gone for the day. The to-go system was under control at this point, under the watchful eye of Richie, as the printing of the receipts reminds Carmy too much of last time and how he smacked the thing across the room. Respective stations were manned, the jobs got done, but, everyone was so damn quiet.
“Anyone hear anything from Syd?” Carmy asked this, despite the fact he texted her an hour ago to make sure she was okay. She claimed to be, and would be back tomorrow morning, but he didn’t relay this information to the others.
“No, but I think she’ll be back tomorrow, regardless of how sick she is,” Ebra said. “Just as long as she doesn’t have COVID or sneeze on my food, it’s okay.”
“There are a lot more illnesses that can affect the shop though,” Fak chimed in, from the register, “We got TB, gangrene, influenza, cholera, shingles—“
“Fak, I’m gonna stop you there, we can’t get lower than a C rating,” Richie said, rather matter of factly.
The night was uneventful. Everyone went home, Carmy got his normal minimal hours of sleep, didn’t burn his apartment down, and was back at work early the next morning. The sun was still coming up when he rolled into the parking lot.
Guess he hadn’t got as much sleep as he thought. The air smelled like yeast, product of one of Marcuses donut projects.
He quietly was working on fillings, and preparing some cakes to be sold later.
For the week, Carmy, Sydney, and Marcus worked together on some tasting menu items, with Marcus taking the opportunity to show off his donuts.
Marcus had taken it upon himself to make a plum donut, irregardless of the fact that he’d never had the plum dessert Carmy had explained to him.
Still, the mans attention to detail was impressive. It was like a abbreviated version of the dessert, with this really interesting plum filling in it. It didn’t have veal fat in it, so it was slightly more liquid.
“Morning, chef,” Marcus said, not looking up from pumping a donut full of the jelly. He had the concentration of a surgeon with that piping bag. Carmy watched as the donut slightly bulged.
“Morning.”
“Today’s judgement day.”
“Yep. And, its filled,” he said, quickly dipping it in icing, and putting it off to the side.
“You shouldn’t have made them this early, they wouldn’t be as fresh by the time we open.”
“I know, this is just a test, I can adjust for whatever roasting you’re gonna give me in about a minute.”
Carmy ignored that. It was part of the job. He was supposed to critique things, that was the only way it was going to improve.
Marcus handed the still warm donut over on a white plate and looked slightly nervous he was going to smash it again.
And he chomped into it, and the thing borderline exploded in his mouth, his face contorting as it did. Carmy made this weird gagging noise as he swallowed a bite. Not that it was bad, it was actually pretty good, but just tasting plums reminded him of how he was in New York and wasn’t there for his brother who didn’t want him around. He swallowed the bite, his cheeks puffing out.
“Chef, that’s good, but it’s like a zit.”
At that moment, Sydney walked in.
“Do I even want to know the context of that?”
“Morning, uh, yeah it’s about the donut.”
Marcus still looked confused.
“You know when you get a zit and it like explodes with that white stuff when you pop it?”
“Gross, Carmy,” Syd made a face as she was preparing to chop some vegetables.
“No. I was taught not to pick at my face,” Marcus replied, not sure where he was going with this.
“Anyway, the amount of filling overwhelms the rest of the donut that I can’t taste the cake as much. Scale back and you’re good. I like the lemon in it though and the plum is right.”
“Thank you, chef,” Marcus said, returning back to his cakes and making a note. He was more surprised that he’d gotten the notes of plum right, he’d spent a lot of time at home or texting Sydney about it.
“Cool. Um. Syd, you’re feeling better?”
“Yeah. I’m here, so,” she said, not looking up from prep.
“Um, okay. Just remember we’re expecting more people going after the tripe pasta, based on the reactions yesterday, you may need to scale up how much gets prepped. Not even may, I’m telling you that you need to scale up.”
“Yes, chef. I’m more surprised people ate beef tongue than expected, knowing that its that.”
Richie comes in. “If i ever have to hear the words beef tongue again, I’m going to throw up.”
“Oh right, you were the one at the front of house cringing like you were on Fear Factor whenever someone ordered it.”
“Were you even born when Fear Factor was out? Any of you? Were y’all all just in y’all daddies balls or something?”
“Richie, what the fuck.”
“Cousin, its a question. Okay, I know you may have been around. How old are you again?”
“27.”
Richie did the math in his head as he checked something in the front of house.
“Right. Yeah you’ve probably seen Fear Factor. Sydney, you look like a fucking baby, so you probably didn’t.”
She doesn’t respond to him, leaving her age up in the air as she says corner and heads for the walk in freezer.
At the end of the day, Sydney asks to talk to him in his office.
He obliges, and they talk.
“Something happened,” she half-mumbles.
“What—you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just—“ she pulls it out of her bag and puts it on the piles of taxes that never seemed to diminish despite Carmy and Sugar working on them.
“I won. I won the, uh, award. And I guess, I wanted to say thanks, because, I know that you have to get nominated for this and have a lot of, dammit, uh, influence, and I didn’t think I had much outside the scope of this but yeah.”
Carmy is quiet for a moment, tapping his foot on the ground.
“Syd?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a fucking beast.”
She scoffs at that. “Cool. Thanks.”
“Also, two things, for tomorrow, we’re still good for making more edits for the menu? We can just spitball or something.”
“That sounds good. I’ll be here.”
He wordlessly opens the door and they leave the restaurant, both silently acknowledging that he was going to drop her off at the L, part of their thing.
She gets in right after him, fastening her seat belt, and then freezing like she’d left the stove on.
“Syd?”
“A second ago, you said two things, for tomorrow. You only said one.”
Shit. He hoped his silence would shut down her question.
It didn’t.
She rolled her eyes. “The other thing, Carm.”
He cleared his throat, which all of a sudden feels as dry and scratchy as stale bread.
“I….saw the pictures from the ceremony, and you looked tremendous.”
Dammit. Why did he use that word again?
God, and the way her face lit up and the way she tried to contain it, Carmy wanted to scoop her up in his arms and have them both call in a sick day. But he kept his eyes on the road.
“Tremendous? Are you fucking serious?”
Carmy shrugged.
“I brought my dad as my plus one, he kept taking pictures on his phone during it, and he apparently got one of my shocked face when they said my name,” she continued.
He put the car in park, as they arrive at the station, asks to see the picture. He’s surprised he’s composed right now, his hearts pounding.
Sydney scrolled to the picture in question, with her eyebrows raised high, her mouth tight and pursed, her eyes bugging out of her head. One of her hands is holding a half empty wine glass, as she was expecting to not get up during the evening’s events. And yet.
Carmy stifled a laugh.
“Fuck you, Carmy.”
“You look horrified, though.”
“That, and I knew I had to walk on stage and give a speech.”
“Fair point. When I had to get that best new chef thing, I skipped the awards dinner, mainly cuz my boss wouldn’t let me and I knew I’d get nervous.”
“If you knew, if I told you, would you have let me go?”
“I can’t control everything. So, yeah.”
They both watched the train pull into the station. There would be another one.
“You know what’s going to happen now, right?”
“More business for the shop, I know.”
“That and—“
“I know a million big restaurants are going to ask you to interview with them.”
“That,” she said sadly, pointing for emphasis with her fingers.
“Isn’t that the goal though? To get one of those restaurants? Isn’t that the dream?”
“I think so. I’m happy where I am. I don’t hate all of my coworkers, I get to have input on things, my credits getting better, and I got a fucking James Beard award. So I’m good. For now.”
“For now,” he repeated.
“If the French Laundry comes knocking, though, that could expedite things,” she said.
“Okay. I respect that.”
They sat there in silence for a minute, waiting for the next train.
“Um, for the record, I didn’t invite you as my plus one because I didn’t want to throw you back into all that shit you left and—“ she cut herself off before saying the next part.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“andyouwouldhavelookedreallygoodinasuitanditwouldhavedistractedme.”
Before he can ask what the hell she said, she practically bolted for the train platform as she saw another train approaching in the distance.