Chapter Text
Hanzo was relieved he saved as much money as he did before coming to America, because nine hundred dollars to rent a room was extortion and if he wasn't so desperate for a room he'd throw a pairing knife through this landlord’s skull so forcefully it would chiffonade his brain cells.
The room was decently sized, maybe even the size of a studio apartment, with a bed, dresser, desk, and lamp. Hanzo threw his two suitcases and the Halliburton case carrying his knives onto the full-sized bed and began to unpack. Crisp white chef coats neatly hung on hangers while everything else had a specific home neatly folded in the drawers. His laptop was placed on the desk, along with a small incense holder. Two chopsticks, light wood with green tips were placed in the small divet.
Hanzo moved his cases and sat on the bed with an grating screech of the rusted frame, surveying his blank slate of a new life. Getting his work visa was the easy part, but moving to the United States to learn a little more and hone his skills at his age was almost suicide. Changing his career in his twenties and relocating with little prestige alone was bad enough, but over years he grew restless, overworked, the hair at his sides grew in salt and pepper. He needed a break from sushi and a chance to expand his horizons, which is where Gibraltar, the hottest new restaurant in town with the strangest name came into his life. A critic darling, dinner service only, a Michelin star within its first eight months of being open. He was working the fish station in less than twenty four hours and with each passing second he felt that usual sense of dread turning his stomach and muddling his thoughts.
He forced himself up to find his towel for a quick shower. Before leaving he glanced at the chopstick incense, hesitating, hoping he could just get one win.
Hanzo woke four hours early for his 1 p.m. shift to be Hanzo’s usual level of neurotically prepared. He went on a morning run, took another shower, steamed his coat and pants, shined his non-slip shoes and tied his hair back with his gold ribbon six times before being assured no stray strands would fall free. He packed a light blue knife roll for the day, three pieces of cutlery in total with tweezers and a fish spatula. He left has apartment an hour early to navigate public transit but arrived in twenty minutes. He would walk from now on, he thought. He stopped in a cafe for green tea but only shaved fifteen more minutes.
Hanzo stood in front of the restaurant’s main entrance and tried to get a feel of where this day would take him. It was an oddly humble space beneath a few floors of old apartments, the wood exterior the same dodger blue as the windows and the fire escapes. Simple silver letters spelled Gibraltar on the front with small overhanging black lanterns. The dining room was a blend of classic European with modern fixtures, from the upholstered wooden chairs to the metallic fractal light structures that hung on the ceiling like clouds with constant silver linings. The kitchen wasn’t visible from the dining hall, a huge relief for him. Cooking in front of crowds shook his concentration, but that was sworn to secrecy.
“She’s pretty, ain’t she?”
Hanzo turned to his left to see a taller man with a shaggy haircut smoking a cigarette, reflecting on the same building he was. He must have been so focused to the point he was easy to ambush. This man beside him dressed casually, with a baggy jacket and black slacks and the facial hair of a wild animal. His wide-brimmed hat gave him an air of mystery, like a vigilante in an old western movie.
“It is a very nice looking building in general, yes,” he replied with little eye contact. God was this man enticing, Hanzo thought.
“That paintin’ at the bars always been my favorite part. The owner found it at one of the flea markets downtown, funny enough.”
“All of it is gorgeous. It is humbling to finally see it in person.”
The man set his sights on him. He had twenty minutes before work and felt like he needed three cold showers before he even began. “Damn, look at you. Like some kinda TV star. Where d’you work? One of those hotels up in the hills? Somewhere in wine country?”
Was Hanzo blushing? How ridiculous, he thought. There was something alluring about this man though, with his height, his mess, his smoky voice that belonged in a forgotten wild west. “No need to flatter me. I actually start here today.”
The man’s face turns crimson. Wide-eyed, face turned away, he muttered “Why didn’t I make that connection?”
“Um, is something wrong?”
“Sorta. Maybe. You’re here pretty damn early, aren’t ya, Hanzo?”
No.
Wait.
The stranger extended a friendly yet flustered hand to shake. Hanzo was too dumbfounded to reach back. “I'm Jesse McCree, the fella you spoke to in the emails?”
He wanted to run. He wanted to go home and pack his small suitcases and fly back to Japan. His legs felt cemented to the ground in disbelief at how this introduction had begun. Still in his out-of-body experience, he shook his hand cautiously.
“It is...good to meet you” Hanzo eventually said in a handshake that felt like hours.
It was all in his imagination, Hanzo thought. How could he have guessed this brazen wrangler caricature of a man was going to be his new boss? The high he was on from starting his life over dissipated into annoyance, if anything.
“Right, where the hell are my manners? Let's get you ready inside.” He motioned for him to follow around the back of the building to a side door in the alley nearby.
“What did you mean about ‘looking like a television star?’” Hanzo asked.
The man’s eyes ran up and down his body, making him feel naked more than scrutinized. He laughed heartily at Hanzo’s caution. “Well if I didn’t know any better from the way you’re dressed I’d say you were lookin’ to interview for my own job!”
Hanzo looked down at his immaculate uniform. “Is this not standard for attire?”
“Darlin’, we’re not cookin’ at The French Laundry. We’re just makin’ nice food for good people. Come on, let’s get you a little more comfortable.” The chef opened the back door and motioned for Hanzo to walk in first. His phrasing made Hanzo’s skin crawl.
Inside they were met with a narrow hallway, a thin row of lockers and a coat rack on the left and a closed door to the right. “This here’s our little chagin’ area, you’re gonna be locker number five I think. We got dishwasher shirts on the rack, I reckon you look like a medium as well.” Hanzo took the fabric of the white button-ups between two of his fingers and was surprised at how thin and simple they were, especially the snap buttons in the front.
“You wear these as well?”
“Well I mean, I got a few coats in the office, pretty blue ones with gold writin’ on them, but it really ain’t my style. Those are for charity events and such where I have to show my face and act civilized.” McCree went inside the right door and threw his backpack in an office that was half tidy, half decimated. Hanzo’s instincts had a feeling which half was the chef’s. He pulled one of the shirts off a hanger, even if it wasn’t his preference. He hesitated, worried about the tattoo that canvases his entire left arm. He sighed and took off his coat, wearing a grey tank underneath. The dishwasher shirt left nothing to the imagination and only heightened his discomfort around McCree.
“Hot damn, that is some good ink. Takes a lot of patience to sit in a chair for that long,” McCree said while standing in the doorway in a plain (yet very stained) white tee shirt. The complement was conflicting, but at least he didn’t know what it really stood for. He tossed Hanzo a small stack of blue aprons. “You get three aprons, but you gotta wash ‘em yourself, okay?”
“How much will I owe you?”
“Huh? They’re free.” He was astonished at the generosity.
“What about a cap? Shall I provide my own?”
“You don't need one, as long as you keep it tight. Hell I think all of us have pretty long hair but you just gotta be smart about it.” Hanzo had never worked on a restaurant with such a cavalier attitude about uniforms. To most it was liberating but to him it felt like topping fine sushi with ketchup. In time he could unlearn the strict code of Japanese hospitality but for now, he worried.
Once they were both dressed McCree led him to the back of the kitchen, crammed with equipment and shelves. A walk-in refrigerator door and a pantry for dry goods were further in the back of the dimly-lit area while a long metal table in the center. Every empty space was filled with every piece of equipment from a small range, vacuum sealing machine, special stock cauldrons, and an ice cream machine. He could barely see the cream colored walls behind the shelves of spices, all perfectly labeled and stacked.
A short, peppy woman with disheveled copper hair was running back and forth between furiously shredding squash into thin circlets on a mandolin and stirring one of the stock cauldrons. The air smelled of beef stock and pumpkin. McCree whistled and she looked up from her work. “Hey chef!”
“Howdy! Hanzo, this is our garde manger and prep whiz Lena, Lena, Hanzo, new fish guy.”
“Hi there love!” She reached out her hand but quickly withdrew it, seeing all the moisture on her gloves. “Sorry, got a lot to do today. Busy busy as always!”
McCree slouched and leaned close to Hanzo’s ear. His proximity made him uneasy. “‘Might seem like a bit of a space cadet at first but she’s a damn firecracker. The day she runs out of steam is gonna be the death of me.”
“Oy! Chef! Don’ forget to leave the gas marks on tonight! I need to dry out those courgettes for the garnish!”
“Ah for the love of, gas marks? Like the oven?”
“Yeah!”
“See, the only problem is she still talks like she’s livin’ in London. Half the time I just kinda smile and nod to what she says. I don’t have the damndest idea what a courgi is either.”
“I believe a courgette is a zucchini in American,” Hanzo said.
“Now I’m jus’ gonna make you her translator. C’mon, we’ll go check out the main line.”
The main kitchen was cozier than he expected; the walkway between the metal cutting board island and the row of burners and flat top grills was narrow as one person. Two paths were offshoots to the main kitchen, one a mystery and enough running water from the other to assume it was the dishwasher pit. The opposite wall to the cooking stations were shelves lined with dishes of every shape and color and cubbies of napkins. On the bottom shelf he eyed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of red wine, both half empty. There must have been a lot of “special occasions.”
“Ooh wow, is Man Bun my shadow today?” asked a slender Asian girl with her hair held back with a thick gray and pink headband. She was nursing a pot of risotto on the stove while blowing bubblegum. Her face indicated that she might rather be anywhere else.
“Damn it Hana, I said no gum on the line! Spit it out!” McCree said while pinching the bridge of his nose. She pulled a trash bin from underneath her station and spat it out while giving her boss a spiteful glare. Did this chef have any control over his crew? “Pardon that,” the chef said to him, “Hana, this is Hanzo, Hanzo, Hana, he's gonna watch over you for a few days til he gets a feel of the station. I'm just givin’ him a tour.”
“Cool. Finally we get some help around here.” She extended her left hand across her body to shake his hand, which he returned. She was insanely young, he thought. Barely out of high school compared to someone like him.
“If I come back and you have gum in your mouth again nobody's helpin’ you with family meal!” McCree said while making the “I'm watching you” motion with his fingers.
“Yes Chef,” she groaned.
McCree motioned him to follow around a corner. He hated it, being paraded around for these terse greetings, but it was necessary. On the other side was a small station with its own convection oven and stand mixer, and a very messy countertop. A man (definitely a young man, Hanzo thinks as he laments not getting into this industry as early as his new coworkers) with dreadlocks and praline skin has covered every surface with flour and is humming without a care in the world, pressing little rhythms into a ball of dough. McCree knocked on the wall to snap him out of his song.
“Lúcio! I want you to meet Hanzo here, gonna be our new fish cook. Lúcio here is our pastry chef. Takes care of the sweets and breads. He’s a good kid.”
Lúcio energetically grabbed Hanzo’s hand and shook it himself, leaving small tracks of flour like snow on his hand. “Yo! Hajimemashite ! Glad to have you with us man!”
“You speak Japanese?” Hanzo asked with surprise.
“Nah, not really. Used to date this Brazilian-Japanese girl though, mmph ! You’re not allergic to gluten, are you?”
“I am not, but why is that important?”
“Good, good, because that would probably make you a liar, that’s why.” His expression grew oddly serious but he pulled back with a cheshire smile. “See, back when I was working in a hospital, we had people come in saying they were all ‘Oh man, I’m gonna die, I ate a piece of cake’ and we were like ‘Lady, you probably just ate too much cake.’” His hand pulled from the sticky dough again and formed a fist. Hanzo correctly guessed he had to bump it. “Hey, once you’re settled in, let me pick your brain about some Japanese desserts.”
“Hey, what’re you workin’ on?” McCree asked.
“Oh, this? This is bread for family meal! It’s got black pepper and nice cheese in it!”
“Which nice cheese?” McCree took a moment to smell the dough. He shot a suspicious glance at the baker. “Lúcio. Which cheese?”
“The gouda?”
“You mean the gouda that goes with the brussels?”
The young man had an incriminating, uneasy smirk. “Okay, look, I know this looks bad, but I didn’t think about it til after I used some. And I didn’t use all of it?”
McCree put his hands across his face and groaned into them. “I ain’t even sure why I come into work somedays. Kid, you need to study menus besides your own, okay?” Lúcio gave a half-hearted salute. Hanzo was staggered by the lack of a real punishment, thinking back on a night another cook used extra tobiko and was unemployed before the night ended. That wasn’t the strangest part to him though.
“He used to work in a hospital?”
“Yep, was gonna be an RN, think that’s just fancy talk for a nurse, but wasn’t feelin’ it. It’s not too crazy to see a huge career change in kitchens.” That restored a little of Hanzo’s faith that America could still be the place for new beginnings.
“Aside from a few confectioners, it is a rare sight to see so many women in a kitchen.”
“Yeah well, this city is a pretty diverse place. Just don’t go sayin’ that in front of Fareeha because, damn, that girl’s got a helluva right hook.”
“Your cook... punched you?”
“It was after hours. I don’t remember why she did, but I probably deserved it. Oh, hey, speak of the devil!”
A small woman with grey hair in a thick braid entered the kitchen, sharply dressed with a head scarf the same color as the restaurant’s facade and an armful of paperwork. Chef McCree rushed to her aid as a folder was slipping from her grasp.
“Oh Jesse, what must you think of me if you think I’d let any of this hit the ground? Is my age finally starting to show?” she chided.
“I jus’ can’t let go of that good ol’ southern hospitality sometimes, you know me! Hey, I want you to meet the new fish cook, Hanzo. You got his paperwork ready?”
She extended one of her thin arms out to Hanzo to shake. “Hello dearie, good to finally have you. We’ll take a few minutes before dinner to fill out papers, okay? By the way, Jesse, no Fareeha today.”
“What?! You didn’t even call me ‘bout it?”
“She said most of her prep was finished yesterday. My girl is having migraines and needs time to recuperate. Plus you brag about being so fast on your feet, so get in there,” Ana said slyly, waving her fingers and slipping back through the kitchen to the office.
“Hell,” McCree said, combing a hand through his hair, “Alright, guess you’ll meet her tomorrow. At least it’s only Wednesday, huh.”
“My girl?”
“Fareeha’s Ana’s daughter,” he said. “She works meat and grill, but that’s gonna end someday soon when she feels like she can be a manager and her ma can retire.”
“So that means tonight, you will be working half of the line?”
“Don't forget expeditin’,” McCree said with a wink. “You’re gettin’ the full show tonight. For better or worse.”
Hanzo had found a nice rhythm in the chaos that was before service prep work in the small snippets he made cutting herbs from little plastic beds. He dipped them in ice water and lightly blotted them, the cool water a blessing from the high heat Hana was using behind him. He had never seen basil so small the leaves were as large as his fingernails, or sorrel with red veins as this a thread. He moved onto the last small pallet of greens. The tag read “Bull’s Blood.” His brother would have loved the name; he would have said it inspired strong will, maybe a good heart.
“So what part of Japan are you from?” Hana asked him, breaking up the morose thought.
“Hanamura. A few miles outside of Tokyo.”
“Ooh, nice! I’m from Seoul but I moved here when I was really little. There's so little good Korean food here too! You have to take the train to Oakland if you want gukhwappang so usually I just settle for those little Japanese fish cakes, what are they called?”
“ Taiyaki ?”
“Yes! It's just not the same though!” She reached a small metal net into her pot and pulled thin crispy chips from the oil. She rested them on a lined pan next to Hanzo's work. “These are cassava chips, by the way. Goes with the black cod dish. Don't worry though because it's your first day.” Hanzo so took the time to pause and write the detail down in his notebook. “What do you do when you’re not cooking?”
“Honestly, I never had time to keep up with another skill or hobby in Japan.”
“Ugh, I totally know how that feels sometimes! I play a lot of video games when I’m not here, which is like, four hours before I have to force myself to sleep. Sometimes I wish I could just combine my work and my fun, you know? Like all those cool theme cafes in Japan! I could be the first out here! Think about the little Protoss salads, or Zerg burgers!” She tapped on his shoulder and he turned to see Hana with an expression as if she discovered gold. “Zergers!”
He half smiles and turns back to his work. These pleasantries and conversations would take more than a few hours to adjust to. The excitement in her eyes reminded him of his brother when he spoke of the aspirations he once had.
He found himself cutting the stems to the beat of the small cellphone speakers in the pass, snips to every thump of bass. He chided himself; he was too old for that relaxed behavior. It was electronic, but very ethereal and calming music. Genji would say it's “music for people who wished they were as cool as he was.”
“Hey, Hanzo!”
He looked to McCree, whose existence he completely forgot in the flow of the music. He was cutting a rack of lamb, smothered in aromatics to the point there was more herb visible than flash, slicing between each rib with the force of a snapping bear trap. His knife piqued his interest with a light wooden handle and smooth waves in the blade, looking natural enough to be embedded in a tree, perfect for such a rugged cowboy of a man in this glass city.
“We’re gonna start eatin’ soon so I think you should grab Ana for your paperwork. You at a good stoppin’ point?”
Hanzo sat at the restaurant’s bar, blue with a marbled top, to the left of the dining room, the bottles of liquor arranged around a quaint painting of Gibraltar itself like candles at an altar. The paperwork was tedious but simple. He had the copy of his work visa, his passport, his insurance from Japan that will shield him for most of his initial stay. He struggled to remember his address (985 Pierce Street, by parks and expensive breakfast cafes) but after the sixth form he wrote it on it was engraved in his memory. Fifteen dollars an hour to begin. Sundays and Mondays off every week. No, he was not a citizen. No, he was not from Mexico. Yes, he received his employee handbook. By the last form he felt like with each signature he was signing away a bit of his soul. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, he thought, although the restaurant’s matriarch was awfully pleasant with the instructions.
A menu slid into his line of vision under a hand with dirt-caked fingernails. “What’s you be havin’?” McCree asked in jest. Hanzo raised an eyebrow and the chef sighed. “I guess all my jokes can't be winners. We got some last minute touches to do, so why don't you take a few minutes to look over the menu and start thinkin’ about anythin’ to ask Hana?”
God, it wasn't a cultural barrier, but Hanzo couldn't fathom the flavor combinations on the menu. Trout with nettles and hedgehog mushrooms, fried anchovies with latkes, chocolate with persimmons and chestnuts, none of this was food he'd ever encountered, even when he was a man who could afford to. He felt so small in his capabilities, and that inescapable worry that he was merely a fish cutter and nothing else made him crumple the edges of the menu and just want to run .
The clack of glassware set before him as McCree lowered a wide bowl in front of him. There was Lúcio’s cheese bread and a generous portion of beef and vegetables doused in a thick Japanese curry. “We thought you'd feel more welcome with somethin’ like this to start service,” the chef said with his welcoming voice that sounded the way whiskey felt.
“You start every dinner service with meals like this?” Hanzo asked in astonishment.
“Most places in the States do. If everyone ain't fuller than a rattlesnake eatin’ a deer they'll slow down or burn themselves. Care to join us?”
“I would like more time to read this menu, if that is alright. Thank you for the meal.”
“‘Course, just remember, fifty minutes til showtime!”
He stuffed the menu into his notebook and sopped the curry up with his bread. He grumbled and swore to himself he'd never mention it was better than most he had in Japan.
“We got fifty-four on the books, but don't settle down ‘cause of that,” McCree said, pulling a long ticket from the machine in front of him. All the chefs were in their respective stations and focused on the night ahead. Hanzo stood between Lena and Hana, hands behind his back and eager to watch how the kitchen truly worked. “Alright, first one in. Two beet salads, one brussels, followed by trout, abalone, followed by lamb, sausage.”
“Two beets!” Lena cheerily repeated.
“Crab, abalone!” Hana said, coquetting the side of her cheek.
“Hana!”
“Damn it!” she said, spitting out another small pink wad of gum. Hanzo looked to Lena’s direction as she delicately arranged little roasted beets with tufts of greens and crumbles of cheese and nuts. She hummed a slow melody but her hands worked as fast as her feet did earlier. It didn’t seem like a complicated dish compared to most, but to Hanzo anything was impressive.
“Hey, Man Bun,” Hana said, reveling in the new nickname that christened him, “wanna help me out a little?” Still confused by the lack of a bun on his head, he nodded yes. “Grab one of those tiny bowls in the fridge and the pan of abalone next to it.”
He turned to the cutting board and bent down to the tiny fridge unit underneath. He pulled out a small black ramekin with milky custard and a tray of the shellfish, beautifully fabricated and neatly arranged into peach-colored waves. “Okay, so, take four of the abalone pieces, a few scoops of the yellow jelly, and some of that basil. Make it look pretty and natural. Then take one of the abalone shells and fill it with some of those watermelon radishes.” It was a lot of instruction to take in at once, but her little pans filled with ingredients were organized by dish. She must have cared a lot more than she let on, he assumed. He took a pair of tweezers out of his pocket and began placing the abalone on. North, south, east, west, in terms of positioning? No, he was overthinking it. He scattered them in an offset compass, and placed the gelee and herb on just as arbitrarily. Hana peered over his shoulder and made a pleased hum. “Not bad! I mean, like, that dish is probably close to stuff you had at home, but you have a good eye!”
A loud sputtering sound drew his attention, and he turned to see McCree, hunched over a plate of beef with tweezers that seemed like dollhouse furniture in his massive hands. There was a glint of concentration in his eyes as the shrill sounds of the ticket machine broke the pattern of sizzling fire and metal pans. Yet he called the ticket out, followed by a repeated chorus of dishes, and continued to finish his dish with the command of a surgeon. Every call, every movement, every flip of a sautee pan was a walk in the park to this man. Every meticulously placed garnish was immaculate second nature. This chef that stood before him, barbaric and carefree, completely transformed himself once guests came in.
Hanzo was certain he hated this man, but that could have been that initial moment of attraction talking, and he was determined to erase every iota of that feeling from his system. But there were conflicting under and overwhelming feelings for this man he could only describe as a simpleton, who was such a stark contrast to the men he'd trained under his career thus far. Laidback, unkempt, frustratingly friendly, the polar opposite of what a Michelin chef was in his mind. Yet he controlled the line with perfection, and damn , he could cook. It was almost unfair that this savant could trounce over all the high standards bore into him while being effortlessly better. He knew he could improve quickly, just as easily. Hanzo felt this job was almost too coddling on someone like him, or was it that he was used to everything being so damned difficult?
He placed the abalone dish in the pass of the line, his left eye twitching as his mind raced for ways to survive the night.
Hanzo spent the rest of the night helping Hana with small garnishes and being a bystander to the controlled chaos in the restaurant. He watched servers and bussers whose names he’d learn in time shuffle plates back and forth the double doors to the dining room. Small dishes with bread and butter and bowls of bright fruit segments and swirls of chocolate left Lúcio’s corner. They had such elegance, so much patience that only someone with bedside manner could manage, he thought. He tried to take as many notes as possible, little sketches, the order of components on a plate, names he heard shouted over the disarray of the line and the happy chatter of guests when the doors swung open each time. His handwriting was woven with his nerves; he wouldn’t be able to decipher his notes by the next morning.
Before 9:00 pm the last ticket had been received. Chef McCree urged him to leave for the night. “It’s your first night, maybe you’re jet-lagged, don’t worry that lil’ head of yours ‘bout it! Get some good rest!” McCree said with a Goofy smile and a pat on Hanzo’s shoulder that had the smaller man seething. “You did damn fine for your first day!”
Hanzo stood in front of his locker, lost in thought, balling up the dishwasher shirt in his hand before pressing it into the overflowing hamper nearby. No, he was merely an observer today out of necessity, not to be patronizing. Hanzo doubted McCree even had the capacity to be condescending, or anything outside of the naive, disorderly view he had of his kitchen.
He wavered on why he was so harsh to this chef in his head, and decided that he couldn’t see how a man with half his intellect could have everything he wanted in life.
(It was certainly not how the air in his lungs seemed to vanish when he watched him cook.)
He thought about what his brother would say at a time like this.
“What does it matter if you are the best if you can’t be happy about it?”
He was frustrated enough without listening to the lectures of a dead man in his head. He slammed his locker shut and headed home in the cold autumn night.