Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel Page 2

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “Uh, yeah, hi,” I say in a quiet voice. “My employment agency sent me. They told me you need a dishwasher tonight.” I take my papers out and hand them over to him, along with my ID, just to save time.

  The man looks at my ID and eyes me suspiciously. “Eduardo Rosas.”

  It’s my real name, but I still feel weird when I hear it. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Eddie.”

  He hesitates slightly as he puts his hand out to shake mine. “Dino Moretti.”

  We get some paperwork done together as I stand in the tiny office. I see shelves of binders, a corkboard pinned with receipts, and an old timecard machine. A split-screen monitor shows the six security cameras set up around the restaurant.

  Dino studies me without trying to be obvious about it. What’s he thinking? Has he hired anyone like me before? Do the tattoos on my neck scare him? From his reaction to me, they might.

  Dino types my information directly into the computer. “Are you available to work full time?”

  “Yes, I’m looking for full-time work.”

  “Are you able to lift twenty-five pounds?”

  When I don’t answer, he looks up from the screen and we make eye contact. I know he has to ask this question, but let’s face it, I’m a gorilla. Six-foot-two, two-twenty. “Uh, yeah,” I say, and for the first time, the guy cracks a smile.

  “Emergency contact information?”

  “My older brother. Salvador Rosas.” I open up my cheap flip phone and find Sal’s number. I read it out loud.

  Dino taps in the number and clicks the mouse a few times. Then he turns back to me. “Let me tell you a little bit about us. Giacomo’s is a fine dining establishment, open only for dinner. We do one hundred and fifty covers a night.”

  I don’t know what that means so I just nod.

  “We specialize in regional Italian food. My brother Giacomo is the executive chef. He’s the head of the kitchen. When he is on a book tour or traveling to promote the restaurant, like right now, his sous chef Carmen Centeno is in charge.” He looks sideways at me. “As a heads-up, her word is law. She runs a very tight ship. No slacking. No shortcuts. I’ve seen her throw staff out of her kitchen at the height of service. Understand?”

  I nod. “Yes. Got it.”

  “Have you washed dishes in a commercial kitchen before?”

  “Yes, sir.” It’s a lie, but I need this job.

  “Good,” says Dino. “The other gentleman you’ll be working with is also new. He has never worked dish. You can show him the ropes. Go ahead and get set up.”

  With that, Dino turns back to his computer and picks up the phone. I stand there for a moment before I realize we’re done.

  When I find the employee restroom, I stash my bag and hoodie in an empty locker. I don’t have a lock, but I don’t have anything worth stealing either. I walk over to the dishwashing area and slip a plastic apron on over my head.

  A kid comes toward me through the busy kitchen. He’s white, a little younger than me. He’s got plugs in his ears and a pierced nose. He’s got tattoos too, dragons and flowers up and down his arms. His tattoos are the colorful, expensive kind, done in a shop. Compared with his, mine look rough and sloppy. But they should. They’re prison tattoos.

  “Hey,” the kid says. “Are you the other dishwasher tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I pause, reminding myself to use my real name. “I’m Eddie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Boner.”

  “Boner?”

  “Yeah,” he says, like it’s no big thing for me to call him Boner. “Dino told me you’ve done this before and that I should listen to what you say.”

  Because he’s from my employment agency, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to tell him the truth. I say quietly, “Listen. I haven’t really done this before.”

  The kid’s bright blue eyes get wide. “You haven’t?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  I fake a confident smile. “It’s just washing dishes, right? We’ll figure it out.”

  Together, we examine our station. On one wall, there’s a sink with three sections. On the other wall, there’s a bigger sink with a silver sprayer and a weird silver box-thing with two doors that slide down on both sides. I assume this is the dishwashing machine. A stack of plastic racks sits underneath on its own shelf. A conveyor belt slides through the machine, kind of like a mini carwash.

  I’m pretty good with cars and fixing things, so after messing with the buttons, I think I know how this thingy works.

  Boner and I make a plan. We figure he’ll organize the dishes on the countertop as they come in. Then I’ll stack them in the racks and run them through the machine.

  No problem, right?

  All of a sudden, the noisy kitchen goes quiet. Boner and I watch from our corner as an army of servers comes in through the swinging doors and stands in a circle by the line. They’re dressed in black from head to toe. They’re wearing long black aprons that fall down past their knees. Someone is standing in the middle of the group.

  “Who is it?” Boner whispers.

  “The chef, I guess,” I say, but I can’t see.

  “Okay, here we go,” says a woman’s voice. It’s deep, loud, and steady—the voice of a federal judge or the captain of a ship full of nuclear weapons. “Valentine’s Day specials. Listen carefully and hold all questions until the end, understood?”

  “Yes, Chef,” the staff says.

  She says something in Italian and then translates it to English. “Farmer’s market vegetable salad, organic rose petals, pancetta, and vinaigrette.” She says something else in Italian. “Seared scallops with blood orange and salsify.” She says one more thing in Italian. “Wagyu beef two ways, served with polenta and roasted red beets.” I hear a ruffling of papers. “Tonight’s fresh pasta is tagliatelle with sugo di carne and parmesan. Special dessert, mascarpone semifreddo with crushed amaretti and candied flowers. Questions?”

  The wait staff asks a few questions, and for some reason, I find myself zoning out, wishing I could listen to more of the chef’s voice. It’s sexy, a little rough.

  Man, it’s been a long time.

  A long time.

  Before my mind wanders back to that morning in the garden, the meeting ends. The waiters all clear out and the staff gets back to their stations. The chef has disappeared, the kitchen settles in. Boner and I watch as the cooks check all their ingredients and make sure all their equipment is in the proper place. They look calm and happy.

  “See?” I elbow Boner. “They’re chill. This’ll be cake.”

  The kid smiles nervously and reties his apron. “Do you think we should ask someone, just to make sure we’re doing the right thing?”

  That would expose my lie and put me out of a job. I wave my hand, all casual even though I feel anxious too. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  At that exact moment, the ticket machine at the end of the metal counter screams to life.

  Two hours later, Boner and I are in deep shit.

  Not only are busboys dropping off endless tubs of dirty dishes, prep cooks are dropping off stacks of sauté pans and saucepans faster than we can wash them. Our dish pit is a clusterfuck.

  I’m cranking, but as soon as I put one rack through the machine, another five appear next to me. Boner is stacking the dishes as fast as he can, but the kid is in over his head. The machine takes a minute and a half but even that isn’t fast enough to keep up.

  A busser takes pity on us. With a disgusted look on his face, he shows Boner how to separate the plates and the glasses into the correct plastic racks. Then he has to go—he has his own responsibilities to take care of.

  Goddamn.

  What have I gotten us into?

  All around us, the kitchen is a blazing hell of fire, food, knives, hot pans, and cooks busting their asses to get their dishes done. I can hear the female chef barking orders at her staff. “Two sugo, one branzino, fire four be
ef specials!” Each time she says something, all the cooks yell back at her in unison, “Chef!”

  A busser drops off another tray full of dirty dishes. I curse under my breath. All of a sudden, the conveyor belt stops.

  Boner and I look at each other.

  “What the—?” There’s absolute fear in his eyes.

  I’ve been in prison riots. I’ve been pepper-sprayed and Tasered. I’ve had my balls kicked in by rival gangsters. Hell, I’ve even been shot.

  Still, panic hits me when I realize the dishwashing machine has stopped working.

  “You check what’s going on. I’ll clear off the dishes on the other side.” Boner wipes his hands on his pants.

  “Okay.” I squirt some water on an extremely dirty sauté pan covered in what looks like fresh blood. The water hits a big metal spoon in the sink and sprays Boner’s face. Now there’s a huge puddle all over the floor.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” The kid wipes his face with his arm. He’s a good sport, considering how I’ve fucked us both over in a big way. On the other side of the machine, he picks up a full tray of dishes and hauls it over his skinny shoulder.

  Then it happens.

  Like a palm tree in a hurricane, he bends to the right and bends to the left. He catches himself and a feeling of extreme relief hits me—until he takes one step backward, slips on the wet floor, and falls over completely. His feet fly up toward the ceiling.

  The kitchen is loud, full of yelling chefs and clanking pots and pans. But when the tray of dishes crashes to the floor, smashing into a million expensive pieces, everyone looks up from their work at us.

  I’m helping Boner to his feet when we both hear her voice cutting through the silence.

  “What the hell is going on back here?”

  Boner opens his mouth to say something, but I step out in front of him and cut him off. “It’s my fault. I dropped the dishes, Chef.”

  “What?” Boner says. “No, it was—”

  “My mistake.” I put my hand on the kid’s chest and push him behind me.

  Everyone is staring at us. I notice the whites of the cooks’ eyes as they watch from their stations, simultaneously working and enjoying the free show. My heart is beating hard. I am about to lose yet another job. But I can’t let Boner take this fall. We’re in this mess because of me.

  I face the chef at last.

  Tall and slender, she’s got high cheekbones, full lips, and brown eyes that tilt upward at the corners. Her skin is smooth and dark, and her hair is tied up in a black, glossy bun.

  Jesus Christ.

  It’s her—the woman in the garden.

  The moment we recognize each other lasts less than a second. She blinks and I blink, and now we both have to make a decision about how to proceed with all these people watching. Acknowledge that we’ve met before? Or ignore that we have any history at all?

  She makes the decision for both of us.

  “What is going on back here?” she asks again. Her dark eyes ricochet between me and Boner before taking in the broken dishes, the dish pit, the broken dishwashing machine, and the dirty dishes piled up to heaven.

  “What’s your name?” She’s looking straight at me, completely ignoring Boner, who whimpers like a puppy behind me.

  “Eddie Rosas, Chef.” I keep my voice steady. I try, anyway.

  “Dino said you’ve worked as a dishwasher before.” Her voice is icy and hard. “Did he lie to me?”

  “No, Chef.”

  “So you lied to Dino.”

  Instead of saying anything more, I begin to take off the apron. It’s about eight o’clock. I can be back at Rafa’s before nine, get to bed early, and return to the employment agency tomorrow to see if any new assignments turn up.

  “What are you doing?” she says. “You’re not going anywhere.” She points to the floor. “These dishes are from an artisan potter in Ojai. Unless you have a couple thousand dollars in your locker, you owe us some labor.”

  I look up. No way in hell is she going to admit she knows me, not in front of her troops. But when we lock eyes, her chest rises and falls sharply, like she’s catching her breath.

  And that’s when I know.

  She remembers. That morning—our morning.

  The heat, the wildness.

  I read the embroidery on the front of her white chef’s jacket. Carmen Centeno, Sous Chef.

  Six months I’ve been trying to find this woman. She never told me her name.

  “Chef Centeno,” I say in a calm voice, “I’m not the kind of person to run away from something I’ve done.”

  I’m taking a jab at her, and she knows it. She was the one who ran away after…well, after we did what we did.

  When she narrows her eyes at me, my body catches fire.

  “Okay, Eddie,” she says. “So how do we fix this?”

  Two

  Ten seconds of silence tick by. Still, I don’t know what to say.

  Without breaking eye contact with me, she yells, “Rigoberto!”

  The Mexican chef with the mustache looks up from the cooktop where he’s making what looks like six different sauces all at once.

  “Por favor,” she says, “can you show these two payasos how to do dish so that we can get caught up?”

  “Sí, Chef.”

  Before I can say anything else, he appears at her side and she takes over his station. No pause, no handoff. It’s like he steps out of his shoes and she steps right into them.

  Rigoberto grabs a rolling cart next to the sink and piles the racks of clean dishes on it.

  “You,” he says to Boner, “put these away.”

  Boner stops trembling and rolls the cart away. As soon as the other side of the conveyor belt is clear, the dishwashing machine starts working again.

  Rigoberto shows me the flap on the end that shuts off the machine if the belt is full. “Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  Next, Rigoberto fills the three-compartment sink. He adds different solutions to them and explains each one. “For pans and cooking equipment. One, scrub. Two, rinse. Three, sanitize. Four, air dry on racks. Don’t wipe anything with towels. It’s not clean. ¿Entiendes?”

  I nod.

  “Now watch me.” Quickly, Rigoberto works like a beast through the backup of dishes. He organizes the pit and piles everything neatly in the racks. With the nozzle, he blasts loose food off the dishes and runs everything through the dishwasher. As soon as one rack is done, he takes it out and puts in the next one. He stacks the racks on another rolling cart. When that cart is full, Boner comes back with the empty cart and they exchange.

  Rigoberto is fast and efficient, almost like a robot. The system he has is so smart, I regret that I pretended to know how to do this. The lie insults him.

  “Clean this up,” he says, pointing to the floor full of broken dishes. “The broom and dustpan are in the back by the mop sink.”

  Feeling humble, I do as he says. When I’m done, Rigoberto hands me the nozzle and watches as I try to copy him. I’m slow. My hands feel clumsy. But I see how easy it is to do the work when the workstation is clean. I see how fast I can go if I’m organized.

  When he’s satisfied with my limited skills, Rigoberto slaps me on the back. He’s much stronger than he looks. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Gracias por enseñarme.”

  He washes and dries his hands. “Stay organized. Work fast. Questions? Ask. Always ask. Number one? Communication.”

  Rigoberto returns to the cooktop where he and Carmen switch again. She shoots me a look of annoyance before taking back her place at the head of the line.

  Afterward, the general manager gives me and Boner a talking-to in the office. To our extreme surprise he tells us to come back tomorrow, same shift. I bum a smoke off the kid and we have a good laugh by the Dumpsters.

  “The fuck?” Boner snorts. “They want us to come back?”

  “Gonna take a long time to pa
y off those dishes.” I take a long drag. I don’t smoke much these days, but I enjoy it when I can.

  “On these wages, yeah,” Boner says. “Why did you take the fall for me?”

  “Because I was the one who spilled water on the floor.”

  “Yeah, but I was the one who fell over.”

  “I was the one who told you I knew what I was doing.”

  He laughs harder. “I trusted you, you fucking liar.”

  In the privacy of the alley, we bust a gut. We keep talking as he lights up another cigarette. “I want to be a chef,” he admits to me. “A big-time chef, like Gordon Ramsay or Emeril.”

  “A TV chef?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Do you know how to cook?”

  “No, but if I hang around in a restaurant kitchen, eventually I’ll learn, right?”

  “Don’t they have schools for that?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not really a school-type person, you know?”

  “Something we have in common,” I say. To be honest, I hated school. I could hang in some classes. I liked math. But other classes? I felt so restless. Sitting still, being quiet, taking notes. I could never concentrate. The street—that’s my classroom. People. Their stories. The things that make them tick.

  After Boner and I finish our smokes, we bump fists and say goodbye. When I ride back over the bridge, the streets are empty and quiet. The wind has died down.

  I park my bike outside of my friend Rafa’s trailer, where I’ve been crashing on and off for the last few months. I wash up with cold water from a garden hose, then sneak inside. The couch is too short for me, so I lie down on the floor of the small, freezing living room.

  At last, my thoughts circle back to the only place they really want to land.

  Carmen.

  It’s kind of an old-fashioned name. It reminds me of black-and-white movies, high heels and stockings. Centeno. Why does her last name sound so familiar? Is she from the neighborhood? I don’t remember her from school.

  For days, I waited for her to come back. I searched for her on my bike, hoping to see her walking down the street. I could’ve asked around, but I figured she wouldn’t want everyone in the neighborhood to know her business—our business.