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Franny's First Day
Franny stood on the back porch in the early morning sunshine checking deliveries as they arrived. She was proud to be wearing her new uniform. True, the checkered pants were too long--they puddled round her clogs, but she loved the crisp starched white of her tunic with Poisson d'Argent embroidered over the heart. This was the real thing, she thought. She was making art--sorta. The guy from Regal Produce was double parked and behind schedule. He stuffed the flimsies into Franny's hand, handed her a bic and started from the bottom of his hand truck. "Three flats of heirlooms--assorted. Asparagus--24 count. Chervil, basil, rosemary--all the usual. A crate of those little mushers Chef likes, and Harvey threw in a couple pints of strawberries. He said to tell your chef we're gonna be picking next week so if he's gonna want any to let..." The screen door slap-banged behind Franny. Another prep guy (she couldn't remember his name) said, "Better hurry up, Chef's gettin antsy." Franny scrawled a mark on the form and handed it back to the delivery guy. He rocked the produce off his cart and was wheeling up the alley before Franny could return his pen. Prep guy helped her transfer the teetering stack of veggies to the back kitchen. She made space next to the sink and rooted in her knife roll until she found a soft brush she'd never had reason to use before. Then she set to work gently probing and dusting with the creamy white bristles, cleaning the mushrooms. They were strange little brown things with wrinkled caps. Sort of like a morel, she thought, but different. The sous stuck his head around the corner and barked, "Chef wants to know where his goddamn beans are?" This jerked Franny back to reality. Chef's beans were in a variety of places. A few were carefully cut on forty-five degree angles shiny green in a colander. A lot more were floating next to her in the big double sink. What concerned her most though, was that the majority of Chef's beans were still in the waxy cardboard case she had checked in ninety minutes before. She heard a bang from the far end of the kitchen, the corner Chef was working in. It sounded suspiciously like a fist on a stainless counter top. Sort of angry-like too. She was getting the impression that maybe she was a little behind. Franny gave the mushrooms a last quick flick and scooped them into a hotel pan. The beans seemed to be a priority and she was eager to accommodate. Later that day. Bernard the sous spanked a large saute pan onto the front burner and blue flame erupted beneath. With one hand he gouged three fingers worth of butter out of a bowl and flicked it into the smoking pan. With the other he dumped mushrooms into the sizzle. He shook the pan, flipped, and then stirred with a pair of tongs. A moment later he said, "Fuck!" Loud. Chef was hunched over a cutting board down the line with a tiny paring knife doing microscopic ikebana with a ginger root and a sprig of cilantro. He peered over his glasses at Bernard and waited for an explanation. "Worms, Chef. Fucking worms in the mushrooms." Chef walked up the line. ""Who signed for this shit," he said poking at the crackling white threads amongst the brown caps with his knife. "Gonna change the sauce?" "No way. Get me more of these." "They're from up north, Chef. I don't think we can get them to deliver down here this late in the day." "I don't care what it costs. Fix it." Three toll calls and twenty minutes later Bernard was on the phone again. This time he was talking to Yellow Cab. Giving them directions to the farm up in the county that agreed to supply a crate of weird little browns with wrinkled caps sort of like--but not--morels to one of their drivers--for a fee. The Rolle d'Veau with Wild Mushrooms had been costed out to break even on the prix fixe. However, that was before the forty-eight mile round trip cab fare was factored into the equation. The dish tasted great, but wasn't going to be a moneymaker for the Poisson d'Argent that night. Chef didn't care. His only concern was the pursuit of perfection. Food costs and Franny's skills as a prep cook would have to wait until tomorrow. --Gary Epting |
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