Tilt Kettle

Tilt Kettle

Chef Smith Henry woke to the sound of his wristwatch alarm. The time read 2:52am. Perfect. He dressed quickly pulling his chef whites over his long limbs, covering his shaggy dark hair in his tall white paper hat and then left his hotel room to walk down the hall to the kitchen. He could smell the beef stock before he stepped on to the tiled floor. He turned on the lights, unlocked the office door, loaded three pens and two soup spoons into the pocket on his upper left arm, closed the door, grabbed the cart full of plastic pails he’d left by the door on his way out last night, then rolled to the tilt kettle.

With the chinoise placed over the bucket he carefully cranked the kettle’s handle until the liquid tipped over the lip, straining stock, dark as melted chocolate, into the buckets. This was his favourite moment. The culmination of everything he loved. Precision, mise en place, timing, passion, love, taste, efficiency, distilled down into fifty gallons. As the stock separated from the debris, he imagined Annie reaching on tip toe to put her onion skins and tomato tops in the kettle as he loaded in the mirepoix and roasted bones. After that he waited, three excruciating days. That’s why he had to stay at the hotel, to make sure that the stock would be perfect. If he let it simmer any longer the flavours would become muddied, but three days was just enough, just enough to make it perfect.

He dumped the spent flavouring agents into the compost barrels, nearly melting the liners with the intense heat. He momentarily thought of Ziggy, the ancient Pakistani dishwasher who would have to haul these barrels to the dumpster out back. Ziggy had been working at the Inn since 1963 and probably earned more than he did. By spending his days in the hazy dish pit, Ziggy managed to put his eleven kids through college. Amazing, since Smith could barely stop himself from mincing up his screw-up stepson. Last night he’d discovered the little jerk had drunk all his imported rum while his wife watched reality television. At least he had sweet daughter Samantha. As he finished up with the stock, he could tell it was perfect. It always had to be perfect, but especially today because today was Annie’s last shift.

Thinking of Annie always pleased him. He liked the way she responded to his instruction. The efficient way in which she complied was all he had ever wanted in a subordinate. He saw in her aspects of himself and that made his blood thrill a little when he watched her work. Yes, she had a long way to go but he was certain that with his instruction she had a solid foundation to begin her career.

At six o’clock, Vivette the Jamaican breakfast line cook came in, throwing up a wave to him as she walked past the glassed-in office where he sat at a computer, pounding keys on the keyboard with one finger on each hand. She pushed a cart filled to the top with flats of eggs, slabs of bacon, and loaves of bread. Moments later, Annie arrived carrying a bin filled with peppers, mushrooms, and shredded cheese. Smith feigned disinterest, typing louder on the keys, flipping order sheets, and taking a long drink from his now icy cold, bitter, green tea.

“Good morning, Chef,” Annie said, popping her head through the open office door. She rested the bus pan on her hip, shifting her weight to the side, accentuating her figure in a way that please Smith immeasurably.

“Good morning.” Smith was slow to look at her in the face, taking in her small, round frame. “All set for your last day?”

“Yes,” Annie said, looking away. “I’m a bit nervous for my new job,” she admitted.

“You’ll be great,” Smith said, truly meaning it, feeling disappointment run through his fingertips. Annie smiled and tilted her head toward the new guy, Corey, who just came in. He was her replacement. Smith disliked him greatly. Annie walked behind Corey, depositing the bin next to Vivette’s cart. Smith watched her braid swinging down her back as she drifted away.

The breakfast rush was heavy, Annie, Corey, and Vivette were hopping on the line, with Corey on toast and Vivette and Annie side by side on the grill. Smith was disappointed because normally Annie handled the toast. Annie would send the bread through the conveyer belt toaster, then she would butter each piece, perfectly, to the edges, slicing them on the bias before she stretched her right arm to place the plate in the pass and stabbing the chit on the nail. He would much rather watch Annie’s round face, flushed from the heat of the flat top and wrinkled in concentration, framed in the pass than the pinched face of the guy they’d hired to replace her. All he could see was the top of her hat and her hand that occasionally snatched a plate from the tall stack above the pass. His mouth turned downward as he watched Corey slather butter on some rye toast, bedaubing the handle. Annie reached over, seized the dirty spatula, tossed it in the bus pan, and stabbed in a fresh one reprimanding Corey for his sloppy work. Though he couldn’t hear her, Smith imagined she said, work clean. His words, his girl; he’d trained her well.

When Annie arrived in his kitchen, she was young and shy. She barely spoke, large eyed and nervous, he guided and moulded her into what would one day make a great chef. Efficient, clean, focused. Showed her how to pour jus on a hundred and fifty plates for a banquet without spilling a drop, how to slice bell peppers without waste, how to swear, how to sweat, how to talk about sex, how to slice a hundred pounds of onions, how to peel fifty pounds of potatoes, how to stand on your feet for hours at a time, and most importantly, how to work. He transformed her from a shy girl into the perfect kitchen appliance.

The phone rang, pulling his gaze away from Annie’s pale wrist as she passed a plate to a waitress. It was his wife. He ended the call quickly, focusing once again the line. Annie was laughing with Derek, one of the handsome waiters. He flirted with her, making her smile widely. Annie passed some bread into the toaster, having shunted Corey down to the flat top to help Vivette get the breakfast orders out. Annie laughed again, throwing her head back. Her white teeth flashed; Derek reached out an touched her arm.

“Annie,” Smith yelled, standing in the kitchen before he knew what happened.

“Yes chef.” She turned in surprise.

“Get back on the flat top with Vivette, she’s falling behind,” he barked the order at her. He saw Corey and Vivette turn.

“We’re fine,” Vivette called to him.

“Do it,” Smith said.

“Yes, chef.” Annie, turned, always obedient. Though he thought he saw her raise her eyebrows to Derek. Smith resumed his seat in the fishbowl of his office. He watched Annie’s hat sway back and forth in the rhythm of flipping pancakes and over easy eggs. His eyes began to blur, strain. He yawned and drank the rest of his tea. His gaze faded in and out on the spot where Annie’s hand reached up to the pass.

At the end of her shift, Annie poked her head into the office again.

“Well, I guess I’m off,” she said, a mix of emotions on her cherubic face. “It’s been great working for you Chef.” She reached out her hand to him. He considered her from the view of his office chair for a moment, then grasped her hand in his. It was warm and small, just like the rest of her.

“Here.” He passed her an envelope to her other hand. “A reference letter.” He smiled.

“Thank you.” Annie nodded. He held her hand.

“I was wondering,” he said, pulling her into the office and closing the door behind her. “Would you like to get a celebratory drink tomorrow night?” He swallowed hard, suddenly nervous.

“Sure Smith, that would be nice.” She smiled thinly. He let her go when he heard his name come from her lips.

“Tomorrow, seven o’clock. I’ll meet you here, we could go to the Mermaid Lounge.” They all cooked for the lounge, but never went there.

“Great.” Her lips pressed together.

The next day, Smith worked, washed, and dressed in a blue button-down shirt with black jeans that he kept in his duffel bag, just in case. He walked down to the hotel lobby to wait. He chatted a little with the overnight manager of the front desk, watching the revolving doors in his peripheral vision. Then she was there, only he had to look again because he didn’t recognize anything about her except her face. Her hair, normally tamed in a braid, was loose, hanging in waves around her shoulders. She wore a sheer pink cotton top with a white tank underneath, and blue jeans with flip flop sandals. Her mouth was glossed. She looked rounder somehow.

“Nice feet,” he said. Her toenails were painted purple.

“Thanks. Nice neck.” He’d left the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His wedding ring was on the bedside table in his room.

“Shall we?”

“Lead the way.” They walked together to the elevator. She smelled like soap and vanilla. They rode to the basement where the lounge was located. He wondered if Samantha had made it to bed alright.

The lounge was old fashioned. Lots of glossy dark wood, brass rails, turquoise vinyl leather booths that matched the turquoise walls with arched windows that showed the underwater scene of the swimming pool. Several pairs of ghostly looking legs swam past while they waited for a table. An oversized, tastefully topless, fair haired mermaid sculpted in relief and mounted on a wall made of pebbles supervised the bartender. They took a seat at a table for two. Smith felt a lurching in his stomach, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to do this right.

She looked up to him, trusted him, wanted him, he knew. Once she arrived at work looking dejected and he took her aside to offer comfort. That was when she had confided in him that she had been on a date the night before and it hadn’t gone well. This depressed her because she was still a virgin, a fact that weighed heavily on her mind because everyone she knew was having sex. Working in a kitchen was no help for her affliction, sex being the only thing people talked about besides food. He reassured her that her time would come, told her about some of his conquests, including the cocktail waitress whom he’d driven home one late night early on in his cooking career.

He walked her up to her apartment door and then banged her right there, in the hallway. He could hear the waitress’ husband watching reruns of WWF wrestling on cable in the living room on the other side of the door. Judging by the way Annie had lifted her eyebrow she was impressed by his story. He took a deep breath. They ordered drinks and talked. They ate. He watched each morsel enter her lips. He ordered another drink, and another. At the end of the evening, Annie helped him to his room.

Awkwardly, they tumbled in the doorway. Her small frame supporting his tall, lanky, inebriated body, they fell against the wall. He looked down at her face, kissed her. She didn’t pull away. He pushed her toward the bed, she sat back, propped on her elbows. He kissed her again, moved his mouth to her collar bone, undid the ties on the front of her shirt. He slid his hands along the soft skin on the backs of her shoulders, ran his fingers along the curve of her shoulder blade.

They made love, and it was just as he imagined. She whispered yes, chef in his ear over and over. His blood coursed through his veins; he felt her move beneath him.

“Yes, chef.” Again, her breath warm on his neck. He shut his eyes, her lovely young face too much.

“Chef.” An oven timer sent out alarm in the distance.

“Chef.” There was a voice over the timer.

“Chef.” The voice again, clearer, nearer. A hand shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes. The bright lights of the kitchen glared at him through the fishbowl windows.

“Chef?” Annie’s voice, questioning.

“Yes.” He sat upright, confused, but trying to look calm.

“I’m off,” Annie said, frowning at him. “It’s been great working with you.” She put out her hand, he shook it, looking bewildered. She frowned some more, stood looking at him. He didn’t know if this was real.

“Goodbye, Annie”. Just as he had done every day, he watched her braid sway as she walked away.

The End.

Find more by Whitney Sweet on Amazon. She has two chapbooks of poetry available, as well as a novel titled “Inn Love”. You can also buy your own digital copy of “Tilt Kettle”.

Instagram @WhitneySweet_Writes

www.whitneysweetwrites.com