Right Down The Line 3/9
+part two
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The next day, Kame's off his game, running late for everything as he slaloms around lower Manhattan. He skips breakfast to make it to the first meeting of the day, regrets it bitterly by ten when he's ready to eat his gloves, but one thing blurs into another with no time to even stop for the worst vending machine coffee. Concentrating on running his business is a welcome distraction from his personal life, despite the aggravations that dog him throughout the day. The accountant, for example, who calls at eleven about some charitable contributions on the books. He listens absent-mindedly for several minutes while scrolling through his email on a street corner before he puts her off on Meisa who normally takes care of any book-keeping issues. And then Tegoshi calls to tell him that somehow Kame and Yamapi have agreed to do a long stretch of charity dinners around the middle of the next month and while they haven't accidentally double-booked themselves, isn't there the issue of lining up enough of the right cooks to work the dinners with them? Tegoshi apologizes profusely for not bringing this to Kame's attention sooner and he promises to do whatever it takes to get everything squared away.
Kame waits until Tegoshi clicks off to have a quiet meltdown in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Chinatown.
Then their publicist calls just as he arrives at Zenzero for the beginning of lunch service. He slips in the back to find two of the cooks in the cramped basement prep kitchen preparing hundreds of Haruka's latest versions of momos and mandu. The substantial Tibetan dumplings and the Korean-style kimchi dumplings have been on the menu since the earliest days and despite the constantly-changing fillings, they're both too popular to take off. Kame makes a half-hearted attempt to listen to the publicist, but the guy is going on about something to do with Kame and Yamapi's names plus the Kayakuya logo being used on some food and wine festival's promotional materials without their permission or involvement, and would Kame like him to look into having it removed?
Trying to sound as concerned as the publicist expects him to be, Kame puts him off on Yamapi who, Kame thinks, might very well have given some flunky a verbal okay without bothering to tell anyone else. It wouldn't be the first time.
Kame senses another question coming so he unceremoniously ends the call and finds a tasting spoon to scoop some of the juicy dark brown shredded meat mixture going into the momos. He nods his head at no one at all, satisfied with the texture, flavor and seasoning of what he knows is Hudson Valley goat curried West Indian-style. One of the cooks pauses to hand him a forkful of the house-made kimchi going into the mandu, and he's assaulted by the sour-salty-spicy burst from a mixture of shredded cabbage, daikon radish, and greens. His mouth floods with saliva, and his stomach protests, reminding him unhappily of that skipped breakfast. Kame checks his watch, tries to calculate if he has time for any sort of non-walking-talking lunch. Probably not. He trudges up the steep stairs and greets Haruka in the tiny open kitchen where she's working the line with a few other cooks. Kame rises up on his toes to peer over the high steel pass; no empty seats, which is always a good sign. The competing smells in the kitchen are making him lightheaded with hunger. Haruka squeezes through the scant space between cooks and counter to join him, wiping her hands on towel. She draws her forearm across her forehead, her face shining with sweat from standing over fryers, skillets, pots of simmering water and steamer units.
"Anything I need to know?" Kame asks.
Her sunny smile slips for a second into uncertainty, just barely long enough to register, before she smiles a little brighter and shakes her head, her pony tail bouncing. She grabs up a pair of tongs and tucks a pair of golf-ball-sized momos into a side towel and presses the bundle into Kame's hands.
"Let me know what you think," she says before going back to the printer and she expedites each ticket before jamming them into the slide.
A moment later, there are only crumbs left in the side towel and the hollow in his stomach is slightly less hollow. Haruka catches his eye so Kame pokes his forefinger into his cheek and rotates it, a gesture he learned in Milan and has managed to pass on to all his cooks. Delicious.
Nevertheless, he's suspicious of that fleeting hint of reticence that crossed her face; it swells with sinister significance, a tiny drop of poison making its way through his system. He makes a mental note to take her to the Greenmarket the next morning and while they're fondling the veg and talking to the farmers, maybe he can get her to tell him whatever it is she's hiding. He knows her. He knows something's up.
For sure, he'll ask around, see what his spies turn up. It could be nothing, of course. Or it could be she's planning to jump ship, which would fucking suck. Maybe she's finally planning to marry that girlfriend of hers and trade up to run a more prestigious kitchen. Kame and Yamapi work hard to keep their cooks and chefs happy with good pay and a creative environment, but losing them is inevitable in this business. The good ones almost always want to move on to better ventures. And Haruka is far better than merely good.
The truth is, no matter how well they treat the staff, there's nothing they can do about the partners and spouses and children and every other bit of personal baggage that come with the package. Kame reminds himself that he's probably being paranoid, that Haruka seems really happy running Zenzero, that her girlfriend Runa has only been the executive pastry chef at Eleven Madison Park for a month, so even if she and Haruka are getting married, at least they won't have any strong reason to leave New York any time soon.
Kame's paranoia comes from experience. Cooks quit all the time; the good ones are seduced away by enemies - and sometimes friends - or they need a change and are snapped up by rivals offering some shiny new opportunity. Cooks, Kame thinks, have the attention-span of a three-year-old sometimes.
And Haruka's cooking is clean and inventive so she'd be a catch for any good restaurant. Kame reflects on those nagging rumors that after all these years, Serpico is finally ready to move on. Kame can see how Haruka would be a perfect fit to take over at Momofuku Ko. Or maybe there's an opening at Gretel that he hasn't heard about yet, or maybe she'd want to work closer to her girlfriend. Or-
The possibilities are endless. Kame feels ill as his stomach begins to churn. A sinking part of him feels like Haruka is already gone; that part is already trying to plan for a future without her.
He's out of sorts for the rest of the day with a persistent headache that doesn't want to let up. By dinner service he's at Sesamo where he makes his way through a subterranean passage crowded with boxes and crates and widening only slightly for the recessed locker area. Again, he studies the basement prep area with a critical eye, opening the low-boy refrigerators and swiping a finger over the stainless steel work surfaces. In this business, there's no such thing as unconditional trust.
Constant vigilance. If the kitchens are clean, if the low-boys and walk-ins are tidy and squared away, if the stations in the main kitchen are tight, if the cooks don't look miserably hungover or like hopped-up criminals, if no one is screaming, if the wait staff is pristine and professional, if customers smile at the end of their meal, if, if, a thousand other ifs - then, and only then does the whole enormous precarious complex mechanism whirr on.
Today, Kame has to count backwards from fifty. The floor is tacky underfoot and needs a good mopping. And to make matters worse, a pitcher of some kind of batter is overturned inside one of the low-boys and is leaking thick opaque yuck onto the floor.
Muttering curses in Spanish to himself, Kame makes his way up the steep narrow stairway into the main kitchen where the heat is ferocious. The cooks are all moving at an urgent pace, pushing hard through the dinner rush. Music plays just above the din of the busy kitchen. At the front of the line closest to the pass-through, Andrew, pale-skinned and shaven-headed, is expediting in a raised voice, calling out the orders as he pushes each ticket into the slide. A large bandage covers one side of his head.
Kame's already broken out into a sweat from the fierce heat all along the line as he makes his way through the obstacle course of shifting bodies working each of the stations. The crew stiffens and straightens when they hear him murmur "Quemo" and realize Kame's weaving in and around them. They greet him formally with a "Good evening, Chef," until he reaches Suze. Her face is damp with sweat from working the sauté station, but her coat is neatly buttoned up to her throat, her head wrapped in a colorful cloth, and her apron isn't even grease-spattered. The slide in front of her is loading up with tickets, but she's plating and passing her dishes on with machine-like precision as she hums along to Velvet Underground's "All Tomorrow's Parties."
"Chef," she says when she spots him. "Good evening." She frowns at him. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're looking a bit peaked."
Kame makes it to the safety of a small space near the garde manger station where a cook is assembling salads and garnishing dishes before sending them out to the pass under Andrew's watchful eye. Kame offers Suze a rueful smile before greeting Andrew.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just checking in." It's impossible to miss the glances that volley from Suze to Beppe.
"Chef," Beppe says carefully. "Have you eaten?
Before he can think twice, Kame shakes his head. It's a mistake; he knows what's coming, and the last thing he wants is to get in their way at the height of the dinner rush.
"Please," Beppe says. "Grab that stool." In a quieter aside to Kame, he says, "Boss, you okay? You look like you're gonna pass out."
Embarrassed, Kame attempts to make light of it. "I'm fine," he repeats, smiling. "Don't worry about me." He tries to sidle out of the way.
Suze points her spatula at him and fixes him with a steely eye. "Chef," she says, "if you would," and she gestures again at the stool near the pass. He isn't clear why it's even in the kitchen since it's not like anyone ever has time to sit. But he peels off his overcoat and sits.
A few minutes later, Kame's digging a large spoon into a bowlful of creamy polenta doused in rabbit ragú. He's trying to remind himself to slow down when the house manager, Tomás, pushes through the swinging door with the puckered look of lemons around his mouth.
Andrew pauses after expediting another ticket and looks up.
"Heads up on your stalker," Tomás spits in an acid tone, his nostrils flaring and his mouth pinched.
"Oh, shit," Andrew says, and his mouth flattens. "Fuck, fuck. Tomás, I don't fucking have time for his fucking bullshit. Sonofafucking bitch!"
"I'm sorry," Tomás says.
"What," Kame asks, "is the problem?"
Tomás rounds on Kame with chagrin. "Chef! I didn't see you there."
Kame reminds himself to chew and swallow before speaking again. "No worries," he says, waving his spoon. "What's going on?"
Tomás looks at Andrew, clearly unwilling to lay out the problem in front of the big boss.
"Come on, out with it," Kame says, frowning slightly.
Tomás turns red and opens and closes his mouth without managing to say anything.
It's Beppe who speaks up. He doesn't turn from his station, nor does he stop moving in a smooth complicated series of maneuvers that involves sauteing in three different pans, stirring risotto in another, and keeping an eye on the salamander at about eye-level. But his rumbly Brooklyn-accented voice cuts through the kitchen clamor as he explains.
"Asshole's a regular. Comes here at least once a week, bangs two girls in the bathroom every time - and he isn't quiet about it - he makes a giant mess and doesn't clean up."
Kame stares at them, eyebrows lifting only slightly. Customers having sex in restaurant bathrooms, check. He's been in the business too long to be surprised by that. He understands why Tomás is upset - but Andrew?
"-and when he's done with the girls," Beppe continues, "he comes in here-"
"What?" Kame bristles. Yeah, that's not on. No way can a customer come back into the kitchen uninvited.
"-and the motherfucker you know, propositions Andrew. Like the girls are just the appetizer. It's the strangest thing. Every time. He, uh-" Beppe looks over his shoulder. "He doesn't like to take no for an answer."
Kame feels his jaw drop. He lowers his spoon into the now-empty bowl. "Is he a big spender?" It isn't right of course, but it's normal for a lot of bad behavior to be excused when an asshole drops a lot of cash.
"Yes." Tomás answers bitterly.
Kame hops off the stool and looks around for somewhere to leave his dish. A busboy barrels through the door behind Tomás, barely dodging around his manager with an armload of dishes. Kame catches the young man's eye and wordlessly queries if he can add to the kid's load. The kid nods hurriedly, so Kame carefully balances the dish on top of the kid's carefully-balanced stack; the kid goes around the bend to the dishwashers.
"And you haven't banned him yet?" Kame asks, brushing his hands down his trousers. He's sweating to death inside his coat.
Andrew meets Kame's eyes. It's funny, he knows Andrew runs a tight crew most of the time; he can be a hardass, and he certainly isn't afraid to scream and yell or throw a temper tantrum every now and then when the situation requires it. So it's astonishing that this grown man should look almost afraid of some asshole customer. That look is worrisome and Kame snaps.
Kame decides not to bring the whole line to a halt at the height of dinner service and fuck with their morale; he can lecture them later about dealing with troublemaker customers at a staff meeting. Instead he steps closer and leans in to Andrew and Tomás.
"This time, I'll take care of it," he says very quietly, just loud enough for them to hear. "But the next time you have a problem like this, don't let it slide. This is a pattern of bad behavior, and I won't tolerate it. You got it? The customer is not always right. Biggest load of shit anyone ever came up with, seriously. You ban anyone who needs to be banned. We do not need their fucking money. You don't want to deal with this shit, you tell one of us - you come to me or Meisa. Jesus, Andrew, what the fuck."
He's spitting-mad and breathing harder, and yeah, he's angry with whoever this asshole is who thinks he can waltz in and take advantage of their hospitality because he imagines they might be afraid of what - a bad internet review? Losing the guy's money? Not bloody likely.
But some of his anger is for Andrew. Andrew is responsible for everything that goes on in the restaurant, but Kame also expects him to look out for himself. And regardless of whatever personal issues might be going on here, disruptive customers fuck things up for everyone, including other patrons.
And the rest of his anger is for himself. Kame's livid at some asshole for messing with his staff - while Kame has been merrily banging one of his employees for the last year. So much for looking out for his staff's best interests. He's been unspeakably selfish.
"Sorry, boss," Andrew says. Andrew's in charge so he remains stiff-lipped and impassive; he knows the rules as well as Kame does: never look weak in front of your crew. Kame sees something ugly in the back of Andrew's eyes, startling because it almost seems directed at him rather than the situation.
Andrew says: "Won't happen again."
"Better not," Kame says, not softening his tone. He frowns. "And get someone to clean up downstairs. It's a fucking mess." He pauses, and makes sure Andrew is paying attention. "Think about this later, ok? Get back to work." On a different day, he would slap Andrew across the back in bracing encouragement but today he doesn't, still off-kilter from that spark of venom in Andrew's eyes.
Andrew nods and doesn't even take a breath before he calls out the four tickets that have just printed from the machine in front of him. His voice is not markedly different before, but Kame notes the negative tension coming off Andrew's shoulders and his stiff spine before Kame follows Tomás out of the kitchen.
It's much cooler past the big swinging door which provides some relief. Kame exchanges a look with Tomás whose expression is a mixture of embarrassment and extreme distaste.
"You've tried to kick this guy out before?"
Tomás makes a face. "I've never ejected him from the premises, but I've had to ask him and his companions to leave the bathroom so others could use it. He gets-" Tomás pauses before saying delicately: "He gets rather irritable."
"Okay. Is there anything else I need to know? Is he going to land us in a tabloid?"
Tomás shrugs. Yeah, that was about what Kame figured. He pulls out his phone in case he needs to dial the cops.
"Go on," he says, giving Tomás an encouraging smile. "I got this."
Strangely, Kame feels one hundred percent better than when he'd stumbled in downstairs twenty minutes ago. His stomach is comfortably full and his adrenaline is running high. He flexes his free hand, shifts his weight, feeling the same zing! of excitement he has when he's about to begin a complex dinner service or when he enters the ring for a sparring match.
--
Kame's righteous anger carries him through the rest of the night. The distraction is good while it lasts.
He ends up at Ventuno after hours with most of the kitchen crew from both Sesamo and Zenzero and he buys them all a round and then two. Shoves a bunch of quarters into the jukebox and in a fit of bad judgment, lines up a lot of Stones. He downs a double scotch to Mick Jagger crooning "Laugh, I Nearly Died." Someone - he thinks it might be Beppe - shoves him in a taxi several drinks later. He trips into bed with the vague sense he was singing "You Got The Silver" to the bar:
Tell me, honey, what will I do
When I'm hungry and thirsty, too
Feeling foolish (and that's for sure)
Just waiting here at your kitchen door.
He's too far gone to even feel embarrassed.
The next day, Kame doesn't think about Jin. Not while he's at the Greenmarket with Haruka at the crack of dawn after precious few hours of sleep. He accepts the hangover as his just desserts for foolish excesses as buys Haruka breakfast and sips a triple espresso macchiato. Kame tries to be smooth and asks how things are going with Runa but Haruka's sunny smile remains fixed and she gives nothing away. Her cheerful deflection from anything veering toward her personal life or future plans only intensifies Kame's spidey-sense-tingling that she's keeping something from him.
Kame doesn't think about Jin while he's bellied up to a zinc bar listening to a friend of his, another chef-owner, vent about having to put up bail for one of his cooks again. Kame doesn't think about Jin while he's doing a quick telephone interview with someone at Minnesota public radio for some food program. Nor while he's calling friends to poach their cooks or writing up prep and order lists for that stretch of charity dinners he and Yamapi are cooking in mid-March.
And definitely not while he goes several rounds with the guys in the boxing ring of his gym. By the time he's done, he's bruised and spent, but he spends some quality time alone with a heavy bag, trying to beat the Jin refrain out of his head with every staggered blow.
--
Meisa's head is tilted down, sunlight gleaming on her silky dark hair, when Kame slides onto the empty stool beside her for their Thursday lunch date. He leans over to kiss her on both cheeks.
"I thought you'd stood me up," she murmurs without looking up from her phone. She's perched on a stool in the narrow storefront window of Zenzero. The small restaurant stretches back behind them, all blonde wood walls and floors, with unpretentious well-varnished plywood counters. None of it is designed for comfort; the modern square barstool seating is cramped and hard, not conducive to lingering. Which is fine. When Kame and Yamapi took over the space of a former chicken joint and opened the little restaurant six years ago, they were only interested in cooking and serving good-yet-affordable food; comfort was a luxury their tiny start-up budget couldn't exactly afford.
"Never," he says, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. "Got tied up on a conference call. Didn't you get my message?"
"I got your message." She thumbs at her phone one last time before tucking it into her purse.
"What's that?" Kame gestures at her drink, a cocktail glass of glowing orange.
"Some tangerine thing," she grimaces. "I think Wendy-" she looks over her shoulder to dart a glance at the bartender set up near the open kitchen in the back; Kame follows her gaze. Wendy is busy with other customers. "-hates me."
"Right," Kame says drily. He reaches for her glass.
Meisa slaps his hand. "Hands off!"
"I'm thirsty. If you don't want it..."
"I wanted a vodka tonic." She sounds grumpy.
"But Wendy talked you into something better." Kame grins at her, amused.
"Shut up." Meisa slides a finger down the condensation on her water glass.
"You're right," Kame says, not bothering to hide his smile. He feels his eyes crinkle at the corners. "She definitely hates you."
Meisa glares at him.
"I'll drink it," Kame offers, reaching for it again hopefully.
"You most certainly will not. Keep your hands off. Let's talk."
"Right." Kame's tone is crisp. "What's our agenda today?"
Meisa gives him a pained look.
"Okay," he draws the syllables out, noting her pursed lips. "Not a business lunch. Why did I think this was work?"
"You know something," Meisa begins, leaning her elbows on the counter. "You're beginning to worry me."
Kame half-grins. "Beginning?"
"I'm serious." She rests her head on one hand and turns slightly on her stool to face him. "You've been. I don't know. Distracted. What's wrong with you? Are you bored?"
Kame's spine stiffens. "What?"
"Maybe you're just overscheduled," she continues, ignoring him: "You know you don't have to do everything. Learn to say no once in a while."
Kame starts to protest, but she interrupts: "When's the last time you had a vacation? Things are not going to fall apart if you take a little time off. You never stop working. Maybe we need to revisit the idea of hiring someone else to help you out." She pauses and looks him in the eye, dropping her hand to his forearm. "Yeah, Kame. To me, you've been weird. Restless. I think you work so you don't have to stand still for a second and admit it." She tilts her head, studying him. "I don't think I'm wrong."
"What about you, Ms. Vodka Tonic," Kame retorts with a surge of irritation. He faces the window squarely, pulling away from her and crossing his arms on the counter. He tries not to hunch his shoulders. "You only want those when something's wrong. So who pissed in your cornflakes today?"
Her jaw tightens, but she stays silent.
"Oh ho," Kame leans into her, surprised. "I'm right."
"You're not wrong," she allows grudgingly.
"And?"
"And nothing." Her hand jerks.
Kame smiles before he can catch himself. Her eyes narrow and she taps a polished fingernail on the unfinished wood.
"Sorry," Kame says, trying to suppress his grin. "Don't worry. I won't ask, if you won't ask."
Speculation sparks in Meisa's eyes. Kame shakes his head, hoping to put her off whatever questions might be brewing. But she only hums and buries her nose in her drink. Kame hides his relief.
"So I heard you banned some guy yesterday." Meisa's voice is curious.
"I thought this wasn't a business lunch," Kame mutters.
"Just tell me what happened."
"What, you haven't heard all the details from your informants?"
"You tell me," she says with a trace of exasperation.
So he explains what happened, and finishes with: "I think we need to talk to everyone. Seriously. Andrew should never have let it escalate to that point." He pauses. "Makes me wonder what else we don't know."
"Mmm," Meisa replies. She sighs. "You're right. And yeah, that's troubling."
When their server comes up behind them, they both turn to look up. She must be new; Kame doesn't recognize her and he tries to at least learn the faces of all the staff at his restaurants. The server, however, clearly knows who they are. Her eyes widen slightly, but she's otherwise crisply professional and careful to address them both: Good afternoon, Ms. Kuroki, Mr. Kamenashi. She meets their eyes as she describes the daily menu chalked on the giant blackboard. Kame orders goat momos, steamed mandu, deep-fried shitake mushroom-mascarpone ravioli and potato gnocchi with a spicy Calabrian-style ragú. Meanwhile Meisa uncharacteristically requests a simple dish of sweet potato gnocchi with butter and sage.
Kame raises his eyebrows.
"Bu you always order mandu," he says with faint disbelief, referring to the dumplings stuffed with fiery house-made kimchi. "Anything wrong with them?" He means lately. Meisa's dumpling order never changes; Kame immediately worries.
"No," she shakes her head. "Just don't feel like them today. You must be hungry, though."
"I am," he says, "Starved. But you're hardly eating anything. Aren't you hungry?"
"Of course I am," she says dismissively. "And I'll have a bite of yours if I feel like it. Honestly-" she leans in to stage-whisper conspiratorially: "I think you just like to terrorize your cooks."
"I do not."
"You ordered literally half the menu. They'll think you're testing them."
"I am testing them," he says, "but Ayase's back there. She's not scared of me."
"She's the only one, then."
"She sets the tone."
"Well, I think you're a tyrant."
Kame grins. "I prefer to think of it as quality control."
"Kame, love, you can think of it any way you want," she says.
He shrugs. "I guarantee you that Ayase, Sanjay and Andrew are all scary when they want to be. They wouldn't work for us if they couldn't terrify their staffs."
"At least you can admit you're a tyrant." She smirks.
"I admit nothing," Kame retorts, nodding his thanks to their server when she leans in to place a beer in front of him. "I'm only saying that it hurts no one if we eat a ridiculous amount of dumplings this afternoon. If, in doing so, I'm also able to keep my cooks on their toes, then it's all to the good, don't you think? It's good for business if I put a little fear in them. And don't act like you-"
"Don't say it," she cuts in warningly.
"-like you aren't a giant freak with the staff."
"One time, Kame. It was one time."
Kame chuckles into his glass, tips it back for a draught. "You keep telling yourself that."
Meisa buries her nose in her drink, eyes turned onto the busy street. "So you were telling me about how you're bored and restless, and that's why you've been a distracted miserable shit lately."
"Was I telling you that?" Kame feels a strange flutter when he hears it expressed so plainly. He toys with his glass where it sits on a paper coaster.
"Hmmm," Meisa replies. "Your memory has never been for shit either. And yet, lately-" She turns her pretty brown eyes on him and blinks. Gently nudges his shoulder. "What's going on?"
Kame shakes his head, fixing his gaze on the scaffolding across the street where a chunk of the buildings have been under some kind of renovation or construction for several months. The city is like that - perpetually in a state of flux, being built up or torn down or forever being fixed up, like a trying-too-hard old man who still wants to party with the kids these days. It's not unusual to walk down a sidewalk of the same long street every day for months or years and then to realize one morning that you're enclosed in a time-warping scaffolded tunnel, dark and dank from how the sun never dries the pavement. It appears overnight, and it becomes your reality for so long that when it finally disappears, you blink into daylight like a directionless mole in an unfamiliar, transformed landscape.
Kame shivers.
The feeling has been unspooling so quietly, so secretly, and probably for so long, that he hadn't noticed.
"Kame?" Meisa prompts.
"I'm fine-" he begins, but he's not, not at all.
They both look up as their server drops off the first dishes: small pillows of tender gnocchi, Meisa's is orangey and glistening in fragrant brown butter with green flecks of fried fresh sage leaves, while Kame's gnocchi is gently-tossed in a veal ragú. Meisa's spoon clacks against her dish as she eats slowly, one gnoccho at at a time.
Kame leans over his dish and begins shoveling gnocchi into his mouth. A moment later, it sinks in that it tastes pretty fucking awful - and he's pretty sure there's nothing wrong with the food. He slows. Lays down his spoon.
"I'm not fine," he says, staring into his bowl.
Meisa turns her head and leans into him, tilting her head to press against his temple in an old affectionate gesture. Her dark lashes brush her cheek. She pulls back slightly and meets his eyes.
"So tell me," she says.
--
"I feel so stupid," Kame says. It takes him a while to get started, but once he does, he sketches out the general outline of how they met. How Kitagawa sent them from Milan to New York, their big break - and Jin's disappearance.
"I didn't know," Meisa says later. "That you-" Her eyebrows draw together. "Was he - were you-"
She isn't usually so delicate, her questions uncertain between them. There's no accusation in her voice, for which he's grateful. She doesn't ask why didn't you ever tell me? although she could, if she wanted to. It's the sort of thing that people - people who aren't Kame - do share with their friends.
And Meisa has been Kame's friend for years. Not quite as long as Jin's been gone, but sometimes it feels that way, and yet he's never been able to talk about Jin to anyone - aside from Yamapi, that is. And Yamapi doesn't count.
Kame doesn't say anything, he just presses the heels of both hands against his eyes. "Jin was my friend," Kame says at last. "He was my partner. And-" He grits his teeth, hating to admit anything more.
"Yeah," he finishes dully, "and that, too."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"Did something happen with Kitagawa?" she asks, "there were always creepy rumors about him."
Kame sighs. "I don't know. We heard rumors, too, and there was a point where I thought-" Kame looks down at his half-eaten dish of deep-fried ravioli. "I honestly don't know if that had anything to do with Jin leaving. I don't think so. Jin was a-" Kame breaks off, one side of his mouth quirking up. "He was a brat sometimes. Kitagawa's favorites tended to be docile yes-men, if you know what I mean. Anyway."
Kame winces; that description could have applied to him once-upon-a-time.
His voice firms. "He was always a creepy old man, but he was smart and he knew this business. He gave us an amazing opportunity. We could have - we could have built something incredible. We were doing good work, me and Jin. None of it was easy and there were a lot of stresses, but I thought he was okay. We cooked good food. Our customers were happy." Then, almost as an afterthought: "I was happy."
Kame shakes his head and takes up his chopsticks again, pops a ravioli in his mouth, chews without tasting. Looks down at his food and feels terrible for not being able to appreciate Haruka's food.
"It still hurts," Meisa says.
Kame nods. He swallows and takes a swig of his second - or third? beer.
"He couldn't have left at a worse time. We'd been working towards having our restaurant together for years, and we had this one, perfect chance with a great restaurateur, a known brand. There was so much hype for a new Kitagawa restaurant and people were writing all kinds of shit about us, you know. We were a good story."
He and Jin were a great story - a pair of Japanese guys, close friends, raised in Europe, young and photogenic. They'd come up the old-fashioned way - the hard way - working their way up from dishwashers to stagiaires to line cooks in some very good kitchens. No culinary school, no media classes. Just a lot of sweat, guts and endurance. And, Kame likes to think, talent.
Kame twitches unhappily. "He left. He left me. He left us to run off and do whatever it is he needed to do and I swore I'd knock him down if I ever saw him again, just to repay him for what he put everyone through."
"Maybe it's time," Meisa says.
Kame turns to meet her eyes. "What do you mean? I should kick his ass?"
She smiles. "No, you idiot." She shifts slightly. "Maybe you needed all this time. You know, to-"
"-forgive him?" Kame snorts. "Meisa, I'm still angry. I...I keep trying to, I don't know, suck it up or something. Not be angry. But every time I think about him, I see red. Maybe it's because he's here."
"Why?"
"This is my city now." Kame abandons his food to cross his arms over his chest, hugging himself. "And he didn't tell me he was coming back."
"He owes you that?" There's a faint challenge in Meisa's dark eyes.
Kame knows it's stupid, he knows Jin doesn't need his permission to come back to New York, and yet he feels vaguely insulted, invaded somehow.
"Well, no," Kame says sulkily.
"So what's next?"
"Yamapi thinks he might be sticking around, or something."
"Ah."
"Yeah. So," Kame says. He inhales, sits up straighter and squares his shoulders. "I'm gonna have to deal."
"Attaboy." She punches him lightly on the arm. "Buck up, grumpy."
He rounds on her. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Never," she says with a twinkle in her eyes.
He sniffs suspiciously. "I told you. The whole things makes me feel utterly ridiculous. Why am I still upset? It's childish and utterly pointless. I know that. Water under the bridge, right?"
"You've never been very good about letting go of grudges," she points out.
"Really?" He squints at her.
She rolls her eyes. "Shall I make a list? That Jasper guy leaked one of your menus to Grub Street and you banned him for life. Remember? You still give his photo to all the managers and hostesses."
"Hmmm." He carefully doesn't look at her, but toys with his glass. "So...you wanna tell me why you need a vodka tonic today?"
She hesitates for just a second before she takes a breath and says it fast: "I'm pregnant."
It takes a few seconds for the sounds to become words that actually register. Kame's eyes pop and he feels his jaw go slack. He turns to her, his right hand coming up to curl around her shoulder. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright.
"What - how - when?" His grasp of language deserts him as he gapes at her.
"It happened in the usual way," she says. "And no, we didn't plan for it, but-" She shrugs helplessly.
"When did you find out?"
She turns to meet his eyes. "Yesterday." The bright pink is starting to fade from her cheeks.
"And René? How's he taking it?"
"He's thrilled. You can imagine. He's always wanted kids, you know? I've been holding us up."
Kame nods and reaches out to grab her hand, squeezes. "How do you feel?"
She blinks. "Terrified."
Kame laughs. He stops pretty quick when her gaze sharpens.
"Okay, okay, it's not funny."
"Damn right it's not funny," she mutters darkly. "You aren't gonna have to squeeze a bowling ball out your vagina."
"How far along are you?" Kame asks, trying to distract her from scary thoughts.
"Four weeks."
"Wow." He does the math. "So you're due in September?"
She ducks her head in a nod. "Yeah," she says softly. "I think it was that snow storm we had in the middle of January, you know, when we got fifty centimeters of snow in two days?"
Of course Kame remembers. The snow had played havoc with their delivery schedules and they'd had trouble keeping the restaurants open when they were running out of everything. And yet people in the neighborhood still came out and wanted to be fed.
"Or is that TMI?" she says, cracking a grin.
Kame grins and shakes his head at her. "You..." He studies her face, her clear dark eyes under straight eyebrows, the sweep of dark hair hanging down on either side. "You're gonna have a baby. You're gonna be a mom." It's impossible to keep the wonder from his tone or his widening smile from taking over his face.
"And don't forget," she adds, her smile growing fond, "you're going to be an uncle."
"Are you happy?" he asks. "I know you didn't plan on this - and - and maybe you don't feel like you're ready, but-"
"I'm happy," she says. "I'm getting used to it, you know? I sure as hell don't feel ready for a kid. But..." Her eyes are limpid, soft. "Yeah. René is so happy, and he's so excited, and that. It makes a huge difference. I'm not doing this alone."
"Meisa," Kame says, "of course you're not doing it alone."
She smiles sheepishly. "I know. But it's. It's terrifying and ultimately that kid's gonna depend on me-"
"-and René," Kame adds, "-and me, and Yamapi, and-" He names others until she's laughing and waving at him to stop.
"I get it," she says. "And I'll remember who to call at two in the morning when it starts crying and needs to be changed."
Kame shrugs easily. "You know I'll still be up."
"Ha. And drunk, no doubt."
"So?"
"So I'm not trusting my kid to any drunk cooks!" She looks scandalized by the idea.
"Oh, well," Kame grins.
"No," she snaps, "not oh, well. Do you realize I can't have any vodka tonics for at least another year?"
Kame sobers immediately. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes." She snags her nearly-empty cocktail glass and brandishes it under his nose. "Do you know what this is? Wendy gave me a tangerine juice with soda."
"Oh." Realization dawns: "That's why you wouldn't let me touch it."
"And no sushi, oh god." Meisa claps her hands to her face. "Kame," she quietly moans, "I'm having a baby."
"I know, honey," Kame says. He draws her in with an arm around her shoulders. Beyond Zenzero's glass front, he watches cars and pedestrians passing by on the busy street, and he thinks about how this will change everything - for all of them.
"Don't worry about anything," he says, pressing his lips to her temple, and he hugs her close. "We're all gonna help out. Everything'll be fine. You'll see."
--
Kame spends his birthday touring vineyards in Italy's Veneto region with Kayakuya's wine buyer. Two days later he's flying back to JFK when he receives a message from Haruka that says only I'm getting married!!!!! followed by a paragraph's worth of smiley faces.
+part four
::::
::::
The next day, Kame's off his game, running late for everything as he slaloms around lower Manhattan. He skips breakfast to make it to the first meeting of the day, regrets it bitterly by ten when he's ready to eat his gloves, but one thing blurs into another with no time to even stop for the worst vending machine coffee. Concentrating on running his business is a welcome distraction from his personal life, despite the aggravations that dog him throughout the day. The accountant, for example, who calls at eleven about some charitable contributions on the books. He listens absent-mindedly for several minutes while scrolling through his email on a street corner before he puts her off on Meisa who normally takes care of any book-keeping issues. And then Tegoshi calls to tell him that somehow Kame and Yamapi have agreed to do a long stretch of charity dinners around the middle of the next month and while they haven't accidentally double-booked themselves, isn't there the issue of lining up enough of the right cooks to work the dinners with them? Tegoshi apologizes profusely for not bringing this to Kame's attention sooner and he promises to do whatever it takes to get everything squared away.
Kame waits until Tegoshi clicks off to have a quiet meltdown in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Chinatown.
Then their publicist calls just as he arrives at Zenzero for the beginning of lunch service. He slips in the back to find two of the cooks in the cramped basement prep kitchen preparing hundreds of Haruka's latest versions of momos and mandu. The substantial Tibetan dumplings and the Korean-style kimchi dumplings have been on the menu since the earliest days and despite the constantly-changing fillings, they're both too popular to take off. Kame makes a half-hearted attempt to listen to the publicist, but the guy is going on about something to do with Kame and Yamapi's names plus the Kayakuya logo being used on some food and wine festival's promotional materials without their permission or involvement, and would Kame like him to look into having it removed?
Trying to sound as concerned as the publicist expects him to be, Kame puts him off on Yamapi who, Kame thinks, might very well have given some flunky a verbal okay without bothering to tell anyone else. It wouldn't be the first time.
Kame senses another question coming so he unceremoniously ends the call and finds a tasting spoon to scoop some of the juicy dark brown shredded meat mixture going into the momos. He nods his head at no one at all, satisfied with the texture, flavor and seasoning of what he knows is Hudson Valley goat curried West Indian-style. One of the cooks pauses to hand him a forkful of the house-made kimchi going into the mandu, and he's assaulted by the sour-salty-spicy burst from a mixture of shredded cabbage, daikon radish, and greens. His mouth floods with saliva, and his stomach protests, reminding him unhappily of that skipped breakfast. Kame checks his watch, tries to calculate if he has time for any sort of non-walking-talking lunch. Probably not. He trudges up the steep stairs and greets Haruka in the tiny open kitchen where she's working the line with a few other cooks. Kame rises up on his toes to peer over the high steel pass; no empty seats, which is always a good sign. The competing smells in the kitchen are making him lightheaded with hunger. Haruka squeezes through the scant space between cooks and counter to join him, wiping her hands on towel. She draws her forearm across her forehead, her face shining with sweat from standing over fryers, skillets, pots of simmering water and steamer units.
"Anything I need to know?" Kame asks.
Her sunny smile slips for a second into uncertainty, just barely long enough to register, before she smiles a little brighter and shakes her head, her pony tail bouncing. She grabs up a pair of tongs and tucks a pair of golf-ball-sized momos into a side towel and presses the bundle into Kame's hands.
"Let me know what you think," she says before going back to the printer and she expedites each ticket before jamming them into the slide.
A moment later, there are only crumbs left in the side towel and the hollow in his stomach is slightly less hollow. Haruka catches his eye so Kame pokes his forefinger into his cheek and rotates it, a gesture he learned in Milan and has managed to pass on to all his cooks. Delicious.
Nevertheless, he's suspicious of that fleeting hint of reticence that crossed her face; it swells with sinister significance, a tiny drop of poison making its way through his system. He makes a mental note to take her to the Greenmarket the next morning and while they're fondling the veg and talking to the farmers, maybe he can get her to tell him whatever it is she's hiding. He knows her. He knows something's up.
For sure, he'll ask around, see what his spies turn up. It could be nothing, of course. Or it could be she's planning to jump ship, which would fucking suck. Maybe she's finally planning to marry that girlfriend of hers and trade up to run a more prestigious kitchen. Kame and Yamapi work hard to keep their cooks and chefs happy with good pay and a creative environment, but losing them is inevitable in this business. The good ones almost always want to move on to better ventures. And Haruka is far better than merely good.
The truth is, no matter how well they treat the staff, there's nothing they can do about the partners and spouses and children and every other bit of personal baggage that come with the package. Kame reminds himself that he's probably being paranoid, that Haruka seems really happy running Zenzero, that her girlfriend Runa has only been the executive pastry chef at Eleven Madison Park for a month, so even if she and Haruka are getting married, at least they won't have any strong reason to leave New York any time soon.
Kame's paranoia comes from experience. Cooks quit all the time; the good ones are seduced away by enemies - and sometimes friends - or they need a change and are snapped up by rivals offering some shiny new opportunity. Cooks, Kame thinks, have the attention-span of a three-year-old sometimes.
And Haruka's cooking is clean and inventive so she'd be a catch for any good restaurant. Kame reflects on those nagging rumors that after all these years, Serpico is finally ready to move on. Kame can see how Haruka would be a perfect fit to take over at Momofuku Ko. Or maybe there's an opening at Gretel that he hasn't heard about yet, or maybe she'd want to work closer to her girlfriend. Or-
The possibilities are endless. Kame feels ill as his stomach begins to churn. A sinking part of him feels like Haruka is already gone; that part is already trying to plan for a future without her.
He's out of sorts for the rest of the day with a persistent headache that doesn't want to let up. By dinner service he's at Sesamo where he makes his way through a subterranean passage crowded with boxes and crates and widening only slightly for the recessed locker area. Again, he studies the basement prep area with a critical eye, opening the low-boy refrigerators and swiping a finger over the stainless steel work surfaces. In this business, there's no such thing as unconditional trust.
Constant vigilance. If the kitchens are clean, if the low-boys and walk-ins are tidy and squared away, if the stations in the main kitchen are tight, if the cooks don't look miserably hungover or like hopped-up criminals, if no one is screaming, if the wait staff is pristine and professional, if customers smile at the end of their meal, if, if, a thousand other ifs - then, and only then does the whole enormous precarious complex mechanism whirr on.
Today, Kame has to count backwards from fifty. The floor is tacky underfoot and needs a good mopping. And to make matters worse, a pitcher of some kind of batter is overturned inside one of the low-boys and is leaking thick opaque yuck onto the floor.
Muttering curses in Spanish to himself, Kame makes his way up the steep narrow stairway into the main kitchen where the heat is ferocious. The cooks are all moving at an urgent pace, pushing hard through the dinner rush. Music plays just above the din of the busy kitchen. At the front of the line closest to the pass-through, Andrew, pale-skinned and shaven-headed, is expediting in a raised voice, calling out the orders as he pushes each ticket into the slide. A large bandage covers one side of his head.
Kame's already broken out into a sweat from the fierce heat all along the line as he makes his way through the obstacle course of shifting bodies working each of the stations. The crew stiffens and straightens when they hear him murmur "Quemo" and realize Kame's weaving in and around them. They greet him formally with a "Good evening, Chef," until he reaches Suze. Her face is damp with sweat from working the sauté station, but her coat is neatly buttoned up to her throat, her head wrapped in a colorful cloth, and her apron isn't even grease-spattered. The slide in front of her is loading up with tickets, but she's plating and passing her dishes on with machine-like precision as she hums along to Velvet Underground's "All Tomorrow's Parties."
"Chef," she says when she spots him. "Good evening." She frowns at him. "If you don't mind me saying so, you're looking a bit peaked."
Kame makes it to the safety of a small space near the garde manger station where a cook is assembling salads and garnishing dishes before sending them out to the pass under Andrew's watchful eye. Kame offers Suze a rueful smile before greeting Andrew.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just checking in." It's impossible to miss the glances that volley from Suze to Beppe.
"Chef," Beppe says carefully. "Have you eaten?
Before he can think twice, Kame shakes his head. It's a mistake; he knows what's coming, and the last thing he wants is to get in their way at the height of the dinner rush.
"Please," Beppe says. "Grab that stool." In a quieter aside to Kame, he says, "Boss, you okay? You look like you're gonna pass out."
Embarrassed, Kame attempts to make light of it. "I'm fine," he repeats, smiling. "Don't worry about me." He tries to sidle out of the way.
Suze points her spatula at him and fixes him with a steely eye. "Chef," she says, "if you would," and she gestures again at the stool near the pass. He isn't clear why it's even in the kitchen since it's not like anyone ever has time to sit. But he peels off his overcoat and sits.
A few minutes later, Kame's digging a large spoon into a bowlful of creamy polenta doused in rabbit ragú. He's trying to remind himself to slow down when the house manager, Tomás, pushes through the swinging door with the puckered look of lemons around his mouth.
Andrew pauses after expediting another ticket and looks up.
"Heads up on your stalker," Tomás spits in an acid tone, his nostrils flaring and his mouth pinched.
"Oh, shit," Andrew says, and his mouth flattens. "Fuck, fuck. Tomás, I don't fucking have time for his fucking bullshit. Sonofafucking bitch!"
"I'm sorry," Tomás says.
"What," Kame asks, "is the problem?"
Tomás rounds on Kame with chagrin. "Chef! I didn't see you there."
Kame reminds himself to chew and swallow before speaking again. "No worries," he says, waving his spoon. "What's going on?"
Tomás looks at Andrew, clearly unwilling to lay out the problem in front of the big boss.
"Come on, out with it," Kame says, frowning slightly.
Tomás turns red and opens and closes his mouth without managing to say anything.
It's Beppe who speaks up. He doesn't turn from his station, nor does he stop moving in a smooth complicated series of maneuvers that involves sauteing in three different pans, stirring risotto in another, and keeping an eye on the salamander at about eye-level. But his rumbly Brooklyn-accented voice cuts through the kitchen clamor as he explains.
"Asshole's a regular. Comes here at least once a week, bangs two girls in the bathroom every time - and he isn't quiet about it - he makes a giant mess and doesn't clean up."
Kame stares at them, eyebrows lifting only slightly. Customers having sex in restaurant bathrooms, check. He's been in the business too long to be surprised by that. He understands why Tomás is upset - but Andrew?
"-and when he's done with the girls," Beppe continues, "he comes in here-"
"What?" Kame bristles. Yeah, that's not on. No way can a customer come back into the kitchen uninvited.
"-and the motherfucker you know, propositions Andrew. Like the girls are just the appetizer. It's the strangest thing. Every time. He, uh-" Beppe looks over his shoulder. "He doesn't like to take no for an answer."
Kame feels his jaw drop. He lowers his spoon into the now-empty bowl. "Is he a big spender?" It isn't right of course, but it's normal for a lot of bad behavior to be excused when an asshole drops a lot of cash.
"Yes." Tomás answers bitterly.
Kame hops off the stool and looks around for somewhere to leave his dish. A busboy barrels through the door behind Tomás, barely dodging around his manager with an armload of dishes. Kame catches the young man's eye and wordlessly queries if he can add to the kid's load. The kid nods hurriedly, so Kame carefully balances the dish on top of the kid's carefully-balanced stack; the kid goes around the bend to the dishwashers.
"And you haven't banned him yet?" Kame asks, brushing his hands down his trousers. He's sweating to death inside his coat.
Andrew meets Kame's eyes. It's funny, he knows Andrew runs a tight crew most of the time; he can be a hardass, and he certainly isn't afraid to scream and yell or throw a temper tantrum every now and then when the situation requires it. So it's astonishing that this grown man should look almost afraid of some asshole customer. That look is worrisome and Kame snaps.
Kame decides not to bring the whole line to a halt at the height of dinner service and fuck with their morale; he can lecture them later about dealing with troublemaker customers at a staff meeting. Instead he steps closer and leans in to Andrew and Tomás.
"This time, I'll take care of it," he says very quietly, just loud enough for them to hear. "But the next time you have a problem like this, don't let it slide. This is a pattern of bad behavior, and I won't tolerate it. You got it? The customer is not always right. Biggest load of shit anyone ever came up with, seriously. You ban anyone who needs to be banned. We do not need their fucking money. You don't want to deal with this shit, you tell one of us - you come to me or Meisa. Jesus, Andrew, what the fuck."
He's spitting-mad and breathing harder, and yeah, he's angry with whoever this asshole is who thinks he can waltz in and take advantage of their hospitality because he imagines they might be afraid of what - a bad internet review? Losing the guy's money? Not bloody likely.
But some of his anger is for Andrew. Andrew is responsible for everything that goes on in the restaurant, but Kame also expects him to look out for himself. And regardless of whatever personal issues might be going on here, disruptive customers fuck things up for everyone, including other patrons.
And the rest of his anger is for himself. Kame's livid at some asshole for messing with his staff - while Kame has been merrily banging one of his employees for the last year. So much for looking out for his staff's best interests. He's been unspeakably selfish.
"Sorry, boss," Andrew says. Andrew's in charge so he remains stiff-lipped and impassive; he knows the rules as well as Kame does: never look weak in front of your crew. Kame sees something ugly in the back of Andrew's eyes, startling because it almost seems directed at him rather than the situation.
Andrew says: "Won't happen again."
"Better not," Kame says, not softening his tone. He frowns. "And get someone to clean up downstairs. It's a fucking mess." He pauses, and makes sure Andrew is paying attention. "Think about this later, ok? Get back to work." On a different day, he would slap Andrew across the back in bracing encouragement but today he doesn't, still off-kilter from that spark of venom in Andrew's eyes.
Andrew nods and doesn't even take a breath before he calls out the four tickets that have just printed from the machine in front of him. His voice is not markedly different before, but Kame notes the negative tension coming off Andrew's shoulders and his stiff spine before Kame follows Tomás out of the kitchen.
It's much cooler past the big swinging door which provides some relief. Kame exchanges a look with Tomás whose expression is a mixture of embarrassment and extreme distaste.
"You've tried to kick this guy out before?"
Tomás makes a face. "I've never ejected him from the premises, but I've had to ask him and his companions to leave the bathroom so others could use it. He gets-" Tomás pauses before saying delicately: "He gets rather irritable."
"Okay. Is there anything else I need to know? Is he going to land us in a tabloid?"
Tomás shrugs. Yeah, that was about what Kame figured. He pulls out his phone in case he needs to dial the cops.
"Go on," he says, giving Tomás an encouraging smile. "I got this."
Strangely, Kame feels one hundred percent better than when he'd stumbled in downstairs twenty minutes ago. His stomach is comfortably full and his adrenaline is running high. He flexes his free hand, shifts his weight, feeling the same zing! of excitement he has when he's about to begin a complex dinner service or when he enters the ring for a sparring match.
--
Kame's righteous anger carries him through the rest of the night. The distraction is good while it lasts.
He ends up at Ventuno after hours with most of the kitchen crew from both Sesamo and Zenzero and he buys them all a round and then two. Shoves a bunch of quarters into the jukebox and in a fit of bad judgment, lines up a lot of Stones. He downs a double scotch to Mick Jagger crooning "Laugh, I Nearly Died." Someone - he thinks it might be Beppe - shoves him in a taxi several drinks later. He trips into bed with the vague sense he was singing "You Got The Silver" to the bar:
Tell me, honey, what will I do
When I'm hungry and thirsty, too
Feeling foolish (and that's for sure)
Just waiting here at your kitchen door.
He's too far gone to even feel embarrassed.
The next day, Kame doesn't think about Jin. Not while he's at the Greenmarket with Haruka at the crack of dawn after precious few hours of sleep. He accepts the hangover as his just desserts for foolish excesses as buys Haruka breakfast and sips a triple espresso macchiato. Kame tries to be smooth and asks how things are going with Runa but Haruka's sunny smile remains fixed and she gives nothing away. Her cheerful deflection from anything veering toward her personal life or future plans only intensifies Kame's spidey-sense-tingling that she's keeping something from him.
Kame doesn't think about Jin while he's bellied up to a zinc bar listening to a friend of his, another chef-owner, vent about having to put up bail for one of his cooks again. Kame doesn't think about Jin while he's doing a quick telephone interview with someone at Minnesota public radio for some food program. Nor while he's calling friends to poach their cooks or writing up prep and order lists for that stretch of charity dinners he and Yamapi are cooking in mid-March.
And definitely not while he goes several rounds with the guys in the boxing ring of his gym. By the time he's done, he's bruised and spent, but he spends some quality time alone with a heavy bag, trying to beat the Jin refrain out of his head with every staggered blow.
--
Meisa's head is tilted down, sunlight gleaming on her silky dark hair, when Kame slides onto the empty stool beside her for their Thursday lunch date. He leans over to kiss her on both cheeks.
"I thought you'd stood me up," she murmurs without looking up from her phone. She's perched on a stool in the narrow storefront window of Zenzero. The small restaurant stretches back behind them, all blonde wood walls and floors, with unpretentious well-varnished plywood counters. None of it is designed for comfort; the modern square barstool seating is cramped and hard, not conducive to lingering. Which is fine. When Kame and Yamapi took over the space of a former chicken joint and opened the little restaurant six years ago, they were only interested in cooking and serving good-yet-affordable food; comfort was a luxury their tiny start-up budget couldn't exactly afford.
"Never," he says, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. "Got tied up on a conference call. Didn't you get my message?"
"I got your message." She thumbs at her phone one last time before tucking it into her purse.
"What's that?" Kame gestures at her drink, a cocktail glass of glowing orange.
"Some tangerine thing," she grimaces. "I think Wendy-" she looks over her shoulder to dart a glance at the bartender set up near the open kitchen in the back; Kame follows her gaze. Wendy is busy with other customers. "-hates me."
"Right," Kame says drily. He reaches for her glass.
Meisa slaps his hand. "Hands off!"
"I'm thirsty. If you don't want it..."
"I wanted a vodka tonic." She sounds grumpy.
"But Wendy talked you into something better." Kame grins at her, amused.
"Shut up." Meisa slides a finger down the condensation on her water glass.
"You're right," Kame says, not bothering to hide his smile. He feels his eyes crinkle at the corners. "She definitely hates you."
Meisa glares at him.
"I'll drink it," Kame offers, reaching for it again hopefully.
"You most certainly will not. Keep your hands off. Let's talk."
"Right." Kame's tone is crisp. "What's our agenda today?"
Meisa gives him a pained look.
"Okay," he draws the syllables out, noting her pursed lips. "Not a business lunch. Why did I think this was work?"
"You know something," Meisa begins, leaning her elbows on the counter. "You're beginning to worry me."
Kame half-grins. "Beginning?"
"I'm serious." She rests her head on one hand and turns slightly on her stool to face him. "You've been. I don't know. Distracted. What's wrong with you? Are you bored?"
Kame's spine stiffens. "What?"
"Maybe you're just overscheduled," she continues, ignoring him: "You know you don't have to do everything. Learn to say no once in a while."
Kame starts to protest, but she interrupts: "When's the last time you had a vacation? Things are not going to fall apart if you take a little time off. You never stop working. Maybe we need to revisit the idea of hiring someone else to help you out." She pauses and looks him in the eye, dropping her hand to his forearm. "Yeah, Kame. To me, you've been weird. Restless. I think you work so you don't have to stand still for a second and admit it." She tilts her head, studying him. "I don't think I'm wrong."
"What about you, Ms. Vodka Tonic," Kame retorts with a surge of irritation. He faces the window squarely, pulling away from her and crossing his arms on the counter. He tries not to hunch his shoulders. "You only want those when something's wrong. So who pissed in your cornflakes today?"
Her jaw tightens, but she stays silent.
"Oh ho," Kame leans into her, surprised. "I'm right."
"You're not wrong," she allows grudgingly.
"And?"
"And nothing." Her hand jerks.
Kame smiles before he can catch himself. Her eyes narrow and she taps a polished fingernail on the unfinished wood.
"Sorry," Kame says, trying to suppress his grin. "Don't worry. I won't ask, if you won't ask."
Speculation sparks in Meisa's eyes. Kame shakes his head, hoping to put her off whatever questions might be brewing. But she only hums and buries her nose in her drink. Kame hides his relief.
"So I heard you banned some guy yesterday." Meisa's voice is curious.
"I thought this wasn't a business lunch," Kame mutters.
"Just tell me what happened."
"What, you haven't heard all the details from your informants?"
"You tell me," she says with a trace of exasperation.
So he explains what happened, and finishes with: "I think we need to talk to everyone. Seriously. Andrew should never have let it escalate to that point." He pauses. "Makes me wonder what else we don't know."
"Mmm," Meisa replies. She sighs. "You're right. And yeah, that's troubling."
When their server comes up behind them, they both turn to look up. She must be new; Kame doesn't recognize her and he tries to at least learn the faces of all the staff at his restaurants. The server, however, clearly knows who they are. Her eyes widen slightly, but she's otherwise crisply professional and careful to address them both: Good afternoon, Ms. Kuroki, Mr. Kamenashi. She meets their eyes as she describes the daily menu chalked on the giant blackboard. Kame orders goat momos, steamed mandu, deep-fried shitake mushroom-mascarpone ravioli and potato gnocchi with a spicy Calabrian-style ragú. Meanwhile Meisa uncharacteristically requests a simple dish of sweet potato gnocchi with butter and sage.
Kame raises his eyebrows.
"Bu you always order mandu," he says with faint disbelief, referring to the dumplings stuffed with fiery house-made kimchi. "Anything wrong with them?" He means lately. Meisa's dumpling order never changes; Kame immediately worries.
"No," she shakes her head. "Just don't feel like them today. You must be hungry, though."
"I am," he says, "Starved. But you're hardly eating anything. Aren't you hungry?"
"Of course I am," she says dismissively. "And I'll have a bite of yours if I feel like it. Honestly-" she leans in to stage-whisper conspiratorially: "I think you just like to terrorize your cooks."
"I do not."
"You ordered literally half the menu. They'll think you're testing them."
"I am testing them," he says, "but Ayase's back there. She's not scared of me."
"She's the only one, then."
"She sets the tone."
"Well, I think you're a tyrant."
Kame grins. "I prefer to think of it as quality control."
"Kame, love, you can think of it any way you want," she says.
He shrugs. "I guarantee you that Ayase, Sanjay and Andrew are all scary when they want to be. They wouldn't work for us if they couldn't terrify their staffs."
"At least you can admit you're a tyrant." She smirks.
"I admit nothing," Kame retorts, nodding his thanks to their server when she leans in to place a beer in front of him. "I'm only saying that it hurts no one if we eat a ridiculous amount of dumplings this afternoon. If, in doing so, I'm also able to keep my cooks on their toes, then it's all to the good, don't you think? It's good for business if I put a little fear in them. And don't act like you-"
"Don't say it," she cuts in warningly.
"-like you aren't a giant freak with the staff."
"One time, Kame. It was one time."
Kame chuckles into his glass, tips it back for a draught. "You keep telling yourself that."
Meisa buries her nose in her drink, eyes turned onto the busy street. "So you were telling me about how you're bored and restless, and that's why you've been a distracted miserable shit lately."
"Was I telling you that?" Kame feels a strange flutter when he hears it expressed so plainly. He toys with his glass where it sits on a paper coaster.
"Hmmm," Meisa replies. "Your memory has never been for shit either. And yet, lately-" She turns her pretty brown eyes on him and blinks. Gently nudges his shoulder. "What's going on?"
Kame shakes his head, fixing his gaze on the scaffolding across the street where a chunk of the buildings have been under some kind of renovation or construction for several months. The city is like that - perpetually in a state of flux, being built up or torn down or forever being fixed up, like a trying-too-hard old man who still wants to party with the kids these days. It's not unusual to walk down a sidewalk of the same long street every day for months or years and then to realize one morning that you're enclosed in a time-warping scaffolded tunnel, dark and dank from how the sun never dries the pavement. It appears overnight, and it becomes your reality for so long that when it finally disappears, you blink into daylight like a directionless mole in an unfamiliar, transformed landscape.
Kame shivers.
The feeling has been unspooling so quietly, so secretly, and probably for so long, that he hadn't noticed.
"Kame?" Meisa prompts.
"I'm fine-" he begins, but he's not, not at all.
They both look up as their server drops off the first dishes: small pillows of tender gnocchi, Meisa's is orangey and glistening in fragrant brown butter with green flecks of fried fresh sage leaves, while Kame's gnocchi is gently-tossed in a veal ragú. Meisa's spoon clacks against her dish as she eats slowly, one gnoccho at at a time.
Kame leans over his dish and begins shoveling gnocchi into his mouth. A moment later, it sinks in that it tastes pretty fucking awful - and he's pretty sure there's nothing wrong with the food. He slows. Lays down his spoon.
"I'm not fine," he says, staring into his bowl.
Meisa turns her head and leans into him, tilting her head to press against his temple in an old affectionate gesture. Her dark lashes brush her cheek. She pulls back slightly and meets his eyes.
"So tell me," she says.
--
"I feel so stupid," Kame says. It takes him a while to get started, but once he does, he sketches out the general outline of how they met. How Kitagawa sent them from Milan to New York, their big break - and Jin's disappearance.
"I didn't know," Meisa says later. "That you-" Her eyebrows draw together. "Was he - were you-"
She isn't usually so delicate, her questions uncertain between them. There's no accusation in her voice, for which he's grateful. She doesn't ask why didn't you ever tell me? although she could, if she wanted to. It's the sort of thing that people - people who aren't Kame - do share with their friends.
And Meisa has been Kame's friend for years. Not quite as long as Jin's been gone, but sometimes it feels that way, and yet he's never been able to talk about Jin to anyone - aside from Yamapi, that is. And Yamapi doesn't count.
Kame doesn't say anything, he just presses the heels of both hands against his eyes. "Jin was my friend," Kame says at last. "He was my partner. And-" He grits his teeth, hating to admit anything more.
"Yeah," he finishes dully, "and that, too."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"Did something happen with Kitagawa?" she asks, "there were always creepy rumors about him."
Kame sighs. "I don't know. We heard rumors, too, and there was a point where I thought-" Kame looks down at his half-eaten dish of deep-fried ravioli. "I honestly don't know if that had anything to do with Jin leaving. I don't think so. Jin was a-" Kame breaks off, one side of his mouth quirking up. "He was a brat sometimes. Kitagawa's favorites tended to be docile yes-men, if you know what I mean. Anyway."
Kame winces; that description could have applied to him once-upon-a-time.
His voice firms. "He was always a creepy old man, but he was smart and he knew this business. He gave us an amazing opportunity. We could have - we could have built something incredible. We were doing good work, me and Jin. None of it was easy and there were a lot of stresses, but I thought he was okay. We cooked good food. Our customers were happy." Then, almost as an afterthought: "I was happy."
Kame shakes his head and takes up his chopsticks again, pops a ravioli in his mouth, chews without tasting. Looks down at his food and feels terrible for not being able to appreciate Haruka's food.
"It still hurts," Meisa says.
Kame nods. He swallows and takes a swig of his second - or third? beer.
"He couldn't have left at a worse time. We'd been working towards having our restaurant together for years, and we had this one, perfect chance with a great restaurateur, a known brand. There was so much hype for a new Kitagawa restaurant and people were writing all kinds of shit about us, you know. We were a good story."
He and Jin were a great story - a pair of Japanese guys, close friends, raised in Europe, young and photogenic. They'd come up the old-fashioned way - the hard way - working their way up from dishwashers to stagiaires to line cooks in some very good kitchens. No culinary school, no media classes. Just a lot of sweat, guts and endurance. And, Kame likes to think, talent.
Kame twitches unhappily. "He left. He left me. He left us to run off and do whatever it is he needed to do and I swore I'd knock him down if I ever saw him again, just to repay him for what he put everyone through."
"Maybe it's time," Meisa says.
Kame turns to meet her eyes. "What do you mean? I should kick his ass?"
She smiles. "No, you idiot." She shifts slightly. "Maybe you needed all this time. You know, to-"
"-forgive him?" Kame snorts. "Meisa, I'm still angry. I...I keep trying to, I don't know, suck it up or something. Not be angry. But every time I think about him, I see red. Maybe it's because he's here."
"Why?"
"This is my city now." Kame abandons his food to cross his arms over his chest, hugging himself. "And he didn't tell me he was coming back."
"He owes you that?" There's a faint challenge in Meisa's dark eyes.
Kame knows it's stupid, he knows Jin doesn't need his permission to come back to New York, and yet he feels vaguely insulted, invaded somehow.
"Well, no," Kame says sulkily.
"So what's next?"
"Yamapi thinks he might be sticking around, or something."
"Ah."
"Yeah. So," Kame says. He inhales, sits up straighter and squares his shoulders. "I'm gonna have to deal."
"Attaboy." She punches him lightly on the arm. "Buck up, grumpy."
He rounds on her. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Never," she says with a twinkle in her eyes.
He sniffs suspiciously. "I told you. The whole things makes me feel utterly ridiculous. Why am I still upset? It's childish and utterly pointless. I know that. Water under the bridge, right?"
"You've never been very good about letting go of grudges," she points out.
"Really?" He squints at her.
She rolls her eyes. "Shall I make a list? That Jasper guy leaked one of your menus to Grub Street and you banned him for life. Remember? You still give his photo to all the managers and hostesses."
"Hmmm." He carefully doesn't look at her, but toys with his glass. "So...you wanna tell me why you need a vodka tonic today?"
She hesitates for just a second before she takes a breath and says it fast: "I'm pregnant."
It takes a few seconds for the sounds to become words that actually register. Kame's eyes pop and he feels his jaw go slack. He turns to her, his right hand coming up to curl around her shoulder. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright.
"What - how - when?" His grasp of language deserts him as he gapes at her.
"It happened in the usual way," she says. "And no, we didn't plan for it, but-" She shrugs helplessly.
"When did you find out?"
She turns to meet his eyes. "Yesterday." The bright pink is starting to fade from her cheeks.
"And René? How's he taking it?"
"He's thrilled. You can imagine. He's always wanted kids, you know? I've been holding us up."
Kame nods and reaches out to grab her hand, squeezes. "How do you feel?"
She blinks. "Terrified."
Kame laughs. He stops pretty quick when her gaze sharpens.
"Okay, okay, it's not funny."
"Damn right it's not funny," she mutters darkly. "You aren't gonna have to squeeze a bowling ball out your vagina."
"How far along are you?" Kame asks, trying to distract her from scary thoughts.
"Four weeks."
"Wow." He does the math. "So you're due in September?"
She ducks her head in a nod. "Yeah," she says softly. "I think it was that snow storm we had in the middle of January, you know, when we got fifty centimeters of snow in two days?"
Of course Kame remembers. The snow had played havoc with their delivery schedules and they'd had trouble keeping the restaurants open when they were running out of everything. And yet people in the neighborhood still came out and wanted to be fed.
"Or is that TMI?" she says, cracking a grin.
Kame grins and shakes his head at her. "You..." He studies her face, her clear dark eyes under straight eyebrows, the sweep of dark hair hanging down on either side. "You're gonna have a baby. You're gonna be a mom." It's impossible to keep the wonder from his tone or his widening smile from taking over his face.
"And don't forget," she adds, her smile growing fond, "you're going to be an uncle."
"Are you happy?" he asks. "I know you didn't plan on this - and - and maybe you don't feel like you're ready, but-"
"I'm happy," she says. "I'm getting used to it, you know? I sure as hell don't feel ready for a kid. But..." Her eyes are limpid, soft. "Yeah. René is so happy, and he's so excited, and that. It makes a huge difference. I'm not doing this alone."
"Meisa," Kame says, "of course you're not doing it alone."
She smiles sheepishly. "I know. But it's. It's terrifying and ultimately that kid's gonna depend on me-"
"-and René," Kame adds, "-and me, and Yamapi, and-" He names others until she's laughing and waving at him to stop.
"I get it," she says. "And I'll remember who to call at two in the morning when it starts crying and needs to be changed."
Kame shrugs easily. "You know I'll still be up."
"Ha. And drunk, no doubt."
"So?"
"So I'm not trusting my kid to any drunk cooks!" She looks scandalized by the idea.
"Oh, well," Kame grins.
"No," she snaps, "not oh, well. Do you realize I can't have any vodka tonics for at least another year?"
Kame sobers immediately. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes." She snags her nearly-empty cocktail glass and brandishes it under his nose. "Do you know what this is? Wendy gave me a tangerine juice with soda."
"Oh." Realization dawns: "That's why you wouldn't let me touch it."
"And no sushi, oh god." Meisa claps her hands to her face. "Kame," she quietly moans, "I'm having a baby."
"I know, honey," Kame says. He draws her in with an arm around her shoulders. Beyond Zenzero's glass front, he watches cars and pedestrians passing by on the busy street, and he thinks about how this will change everything - for all of them.
"Don't worry about anything," he says, pressing his lips to her temple, and he hugs her close. "We're all gonna help out. Everything'll be fine. You'll see."
--
Kame spends his birthday touring vineyards in Italy's Veneto region with Kayakuya's wine buyer. Two days later he's flying back to JFK when he receives a message from Haruka that says only I'm getting married!!!!! followed by a paragraph's worth of smiley faces.
+part four