Small Portions for Wealthy People

I know what I did, and I know why I did it. There wasn’t a good reason, and it certainly wasn’t worth it. For it, I was sentenced to be hanged -- an archaic and perhaps brutal punishment, but no less my accepted fate. It is what I deserve.

My lawyer, a down-on-his-luck public defender vastly out of his depth, had begged me to put up a fight. In so many words, he suggested that any show of resistance might sway even a single juror. It might not be enough for me to walk, but it could buy him time to develop a better defense, he told me. What he really meant was that he desperately needed a win. And so I plead guilty.

Unrelenting in their pursuit, reporters and paparazzi sunk their teeth as deep as they could into my misdeeds. After all, how often does a “world-renowned, Michelin-starred chef” end up on death row? This Cook Is Booked, one headline read. The Chef Kiss of Death, another. Some had requested interviews (which I politely declined), while others pulled a made-up narrative from thin air. It didn’t matter. I did not care what they thought of me. I had no interest in trying to clear my name.

“Well then, what do you want?” Warden Hadley asked me, his feet up on the corner of his desk and his arms behind his head. His assistant had assured me it was standard procedure for Hadley to have a meet-and-greet with all of his “inmates of significance,” though the ornamentation of the prison’s administrative offices suggested he had a flair for showmanship and a taste for celebrity. The wall behind his assistant’s desk even served as a showcase of the more famous convicts that had come through, each photograph a poorly framed selfie of the smiling warden beside a frowning detainee.

I had heard of certain high-profile convicts receiving special treatment -- accommodations that were more penthouse than penitentiary -- but I was still taken aback by the question.

“Does it really matter what I want?” I answered.

“Generally, no,” Hadley scowled as he rose from his desk and walked over to the window overlooking the prison yard, its brown crabgrass and black asphalt dotted with orange jumpsuits. “But most of these guys don’t have anything to offer. You do.”

“Maybe I should be asking what you want,” I said.

Hadley sighed, “I’m offering you an opportunity. You scratch my back, I scratch yours -- that sort of thing. Nothing illegal, of course. And we can start small. How about a photograph?”

--

Within days of my arrival, a prison guard delivered a non-descript package wrapped in brown butcher paper to my cell. Inside, I found a collection of pre-cut ingredients, an arrangement of mostly harmless kitchen tools, and a brief handwritten letter from Warden Hadley.

A simple recipe but one I know you’re familiar with, it said.

“I’m going to need a hot plate,” I said to the guard.

“What for?” He scowled.

“So I don’t give the warden salmonella,” I replied.

He stepped away from my cell, mumbled something into his walkie, waited for a garbled response, and returned. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said as he walked away.

--

“Absolutely exceptional,” Warden Hadley gushed, sucking juices off the tips of his fingers one after the other. “You know, my mom used to make us pork chops and applesauce when I was a kid. And she was pretty good at it. But this? This makes my mom’s cooking look like dog shit.”

“A monkey with a microwave could have prepared that meal,” I replied, ignoring the vulgar compliment.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the warden mocked. “Are the facilities not up to your liking? I’ll be sure to speak with my investors.”

“What am I doing here?”

“You don’t know? Bad news, kemosabe. You’ve been sentenced to be hanged.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I sighed.

“I’m just fucking with you, man,” Warden Hadley laughed. “Being the warden is a time-consuming job that keeps me from enjoying the finer things as much as I’d like. So when people with gifts come walking through my door, I don’t see any harm in indulging a bit. Had you been an Oscar-winning actor, I’d have you put on a show. Were you an MLB pitcher, maybe we’d have a catch. If, in your previous life, you were a stripper--”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” I interjected. “But that’s not really cooking.”

“No,” Hadley smiled, “it was a trust exercise. Prove to me that, the second I give you a proper chef knife, you’re not going to stick one of my guards or, god forbid, take your own life before we can take it from you and I’ll be more inclined to give you more privileges. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, remember?”

Quickly, I realized it was better to entertain the warden’s whims than fight them. And so, I became his personal chef, and this back-and-forth became a regular part of my incarceration -- so regular that I began to mark time by the number of meals I’d cooked. He’d have ingredients, supplies, and equipment delivered to my cell, I’d prepare the dish of his choosing, and we’d discuss it once he’d finished eating -- usually with food still slathered on his face, hands, and clothing.

Eventually, after fifty-five meals or so, Hadley began granting me access to the prison kitchen during off-hours. And only a few meals after that, I was allowed to start requesting ingredients, supplies, and even let me put together my own menus. Sometimes, I would cook a single dish just for him to enjoy in the privacy of his office. Other times, however, he’d deliver extra ingredients and request multiple dishes. I suspected that he was entertaining guests, but I could not confirm, as he never had me brought to his office following these multi-dish meals.

--

After cooking my three-hundredth meal for Warden Hadley, he asked me a curious question -- one that wasn’t centered on his own ego.

“What was the best thing you’ve ever eaten?”

I sat there, dumbfounded by the inquiry. Stuffing another bite into his mouth, Hadley continued.

“Come on,” he said, spitting food across his desk, “There has to be one meal that stands out from the rest. Something you remember like it was yesterday, right? Everyone has one.”

“Green chile tamales,” I blurted. “When I was a kid, there was this old Mexican woman who would come through our neighborhood with a cart selling them. And I’d beg my mom to buy them every time the lady showed up. They were simple. Delicious. Perfect.”

Hadley slapped a meaty hand down on his desk, “Yes! I love it. I pegged you more for a filet mignon kind of guy or maybe -- what are those tiny overpriced dishes called, tapas? Tamales, though, that’s a much better answer. Mexican street food, who would’ve thought?”

Hadley continued to giggle to himself about this revelation throughout the rest of his meal, displaying half-chewed bites all the while.

--

The next night, Hadley had a guard deliver yet another non-descript package wrapped in brown butcher paper to my cell. This time, it contained nothing I had requested. Instead, I found corn husks, masa harina, tomatillos, serrano peppers, cilantro, garlic -- ingredients to make green chile tamales.

Hadley is nothing if not predictable, I thought.

After inspecting the delivery, a guard escorted me to the kitchen and I got to work crafting the warden’s meal.

“Alright,” I said to the guard once I was finished plating, “It’s ready.”

“Pick it up,” the guard replied. “You’re delivering this one.”

I grabbed the plate and followed the guard up to Hadley’s office. The warden was waiting for us with his office door wide open, smiling from ear to ear and sitting in his overstuffed swiveling chair.

“Come on in and have a seat,” he enthused. I stepped inside and went to set the plate of still-steaming tamales in front of him.

“Hold up,” Hadley stopped me, “that one ain’t for me.”

“Sorry?” I asked.

Hadley rose from his chair, brushing off his hands. He stepped around, took the plate from me with one hand and placed the other between my shoulders, and ushered me into the chair across from his. I plopped down and Hadley placed the plate of tamales in front of me.

“Tomorrow is your big day,” he beamed, “and since it’s finally here, I thought I might do something special for you. These tamales are yours. I want you to enjoy them.”

Hadley walked back around the desk and sat down in his chair, kicking his feet up on the desk the same way he had the first time we met.

“Dig in,” he instructed.

I stared down at the plate in front of me, inhaling the rich, welcoming odor of the green chile tamales I had unknowingly prepared for myself. My last meal. I reached out, lifted one of the tamales to my mouth, and took a big bite.

“Well,” Hadley said, “how is it?”

“Simple. Delicious. Perfect,” I replied.