With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Game Time
Chef Amadí’s restaurant isn’t big. Only five or six tables, and she says usually only twenty to thirty patrons show up on a regular afternoon. She’s hired two local college students as her serving staff and cleanup crew. Both girls smile and wave at me but seem as shy to whip out their English as I am to try my Spanish.
I don’t think about talking to them for too long because I’ve got hen to prepare. I think about what Chef Ayden taught us in regard to the ratios needed, and although it takes me a bit, I calculate that we’ll need eight to ten pounds of hen. I’ve never had to prep that much meat at one time. I come up with a quick spice mix and make sure to keep as close to my recipe as possible so that the results are similar across the board.
When the bell rings over the entryway I wipe the back of my wrist across my sweat-speckled forehead. An hour and some change has passed in the blink of an eye. Chef Amadí winks at me and goes to greet the customers. It’s game time. The next four hours move at light speed, and when I look up to check the time, I’m covered in sweat and we are completely out of the special. We moved from lunch to early dinner about an hour ago but my shift with Chef Amadí spans noon to five p.m. She told me she’ll close for an hour and regroup, then open back up for dinner. I unbutton my jacket and take off my hat before stepping out into the dining room.
“Chef Amadí, the hen was just so good! There was something spicy, peppercorn or chili?” a patron asks. He is a big man with a protruding belly and multiple chins; his eyes sparkle and his cheeks are red, probably from the table wine. I like him as soon as he begins to compliment the special.
“Thank you, Don Alberto. It’s my sous chef’s recipe,” she says, and gestures toward me.
“Señorita, delicioso. ¿Qué te puedo decir? ¡Me lambí los dedos!” he says, and I smile but other than a mumbled “Gracias, señor,” I don’t say anything else. I also hope he didn’t really lick his fingers since he’s shaking my hand pretty hard and I’d rather not have his saliva all over me despite how much I like him.
Don Alberto furrows his eyebrows, still holding my hand in his. He begins murmuring, still in Spanish. “Can I tell you the oddest thing about your hen? I’ve been having a bad day. Everything was going wrong, including my stove not wanting to turn on, which is why I came out for dinner, on a Monday of all days! But from the first bite of your food . . . it reminded me of my favorite aunt. Sitting at her knee when she told me stories and shucked peas.” His voice gets rough at the end and I give his hand a small squeeze.
Chef Amadí smiles at him. “I’ll bring your table another bottle of wine. I’m glad you enjoyed the special.”
I look around. Several tables have at least one person who ordered the hen. I see the bones and smile. The plates look licked clean.
“You did well, Emoni.” Chef Amadí looks at her watch. “Oh! But you need to go. You will miss your own supper with your group. We’ll clean up here, don’t worry.”