The Missing Ingredient

In and Out Grocery is the only place that would hire me after The Incident.

I work in the bakery department nestled between the kosher deli and seafood counter. The dead fish smell in the morning is pungent enough to make a fisherman seasick. It's freezing inside the store, so I wear winter boots and a Canada Goose jacket.

I was once considered the best pastry chef in the state of Illinois – now I'm here.

My eyes were heavy from staying up late. A rerun of Shakers and Bakers was on Food Network last night. It's been five years since I watched an episode, and that prick Bobby Corleone is still the host. There he was, his thin, chapped lips munching on pastries prepared by eager amateur bakers vying for the chance to work in his exclusive restaurant. I was once one of those eager bakers standing in front of him. I should have turned the television off. The sun was rising by the time I plumped down in bed to sleep.

A tubby man with cauliflower ears underneath an old dirty trucker hat is standing in front of the bakery. Walking past him, he lets out an exasperated sigh.

"About time somebody showed up. I've been waiting here for hours!" His grizzled walrus mustache looks like it's going to leap off his upper lip and run across the counter.

Flicking on the lights underneath the refrigerated countertops reveals red velvet cupcakes, frosted chocolate donuts, blueberry muffins, poppyseed bagels, and other pastries. "The store just opened ten minutes ago."

"And? My order was supposed to be ready yesterday."

"What's your order, sir?"

"I'm here for my birthday cake."

"Okay. . . well, we have a lot of birthday cakes here. What type of cake is it?"

"It's a dinosaur."

Opening the sub-zero refrigerator, I found the evergreen-frosted cake wrapped in plastic that I spent hours on yesterday. Pulling it out, I rest it on the counter. It's a two-tier yellow cake with Italian meringue buttercream filling finished off with a chocolate ganache drip drooling down the sides. The dinosaur is on the top. I had used candy corn for the spikes and chocolate chips for the toenails.

Not my best work. The T-Rex looked more like a crocodile than a dinosaur. But crocodiles are descendants of dinosaurs, so at least I did right in the name of science.

I should have finished designing it yesterday, but I got distracted by a customer who thought I sold her weed brownies instead of regular brownies. We figured it out once the woman remembered she had smoked her own weed before consuming the brownies.

Looking around for the paper with the instructions, I found the message for the cake. Happy Birthday William! "Is this for your son William?"

"I'm William!"

My head swiveled back and forth between the dinosaur cake and William. "This cake is for you?"

"Yeah, is there a problem?"

"Nope, not at all." I began to scribble the message across the cake using royal blue icing but stopped halfway. "Are you a paleontologist?"

"What did you just call me?"

"I just thought. . . I mean, you must really like dinosaurs."

William taps his steel toe boots against the floor while I finish writing the message. Etching the exclamation point, I lean back and examine the cake. Designing a cake is like being a make-up artist. The attention is on the model, not the make-up artist who applies the final touches. I gently position the cake into a tall rectangular box and slide it on the counter.

"I would like a discount for my troubles."

"For your troubles? This is a birthday cake, not a funeral cake."

"It's going to be your funeral if you don't give me a discount."

"Sir, we don't give out discounts. Plus, you already paid for the cake. Just take it!"

William begins to approach the counter. But, before he could get closer, my manager Rozanova lumbers up behind him. She gently shoves him to the side. Her French braid ties her hair together like a gym rope.

"Vat is zee broblem?" Rozanova is a six-foot-tall Russian woman with an accent thicker than peanut butter. She graduated from a prison culinary training program. God knows why she was locked up. "Vy is zis cake sitting here?"

"This guy won't take it unless I give him a discount."

"Vat is zis discount?" She starts to glare at William, who was half her height. "Ve don't giffe discounts!"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I don't want any trouble." William snatches the cake from the counter and sprints towards the entrance.

The only time I saw Rozanova this pissed was when I said her name was Russian for Roseanne. After that, I made sure never to get on her bad side unless I wanted to get shanked in the produce aisle.

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I was seven years old the first time I almost burned my house down. I was trying to bake chocolate chip cookies for my sister. The second time was at age nine when I tried to make an ice cream cake for my birthday party. My mom canceled the party due to the damages and then nearly killed me when I blamed her for buying the wrong ingredients.

The local fire department nicknamed me "Lil Human Torch," which was cool until I realized it was just another name for arsonist.

My family banned me from using our kitchen, so my cooking days were over, at least until I took a culinary class in high school. I didn't even know people could get paid to cook food for a living. My mom hid that truth from me so that I would stop cooking altogether.

Mrs. Fox was the instructor. She was a slender Polish woman with flowing red hair, and her voice was always subdued and calm like an audiobook narrator. She taught me how to read recipes, season food, organize utensils, and not be afraid to make mistakes.

Culinary was the only class I put any effort into. My mother was pissed, not because of my low GPA, but because I had been cooking behind her back. Mind you, I was cooking food, not drugs.

My family didn't support me going to culinary art school. The only chef in my house was Boyardee, and he was trusted more than me in the kitchen. Mrs. Fox was nice enough to write me a recommendation. With her connections, I was able to get into the School of Culinary Arts at Elk Grove University. From there, the sky was the limit, but I fucked that up before I got the chance to leave the ground.

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The day is as slow as a slow cooker. My apron is covered in enough flour to make it seem like I fell on a table of cocaine.

Rozanova runs the bakery like a prison kitchen. Sometimes, she gets upset if I forget to wear my hair net or use ingredients she didn't have in prison. She even puts prison cakes on display for people to try out. They're basically crumbled Oreos sprinkled with sugar and covered with peanut butter. It looks like something that will give you type-2 diabetes, but it's honestly one of the most flavorful pastries I've ever had. I can never admit that without feeling discouraged about my own pastries.

Sweeping the area behind the counter, a haggard man with chapped lips approaches the counter. His eyes are hidden behind gold-framed aviator ray ban shades.

The man peers at each pastry dish as if he is judging beauty pageant contestants. Leaning my broom against the wall, I wipe away my apron. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yes, I would like to try a slice of that carrot cake." His tapered fingers tap against the display case.

Reaching underneath, I place it on top of the counter with a plastic fork and knife. The man pops the container open and begins to chew the carrot cake, absorbing each bite like it will be his last.

"Is this coated with a cream cheese frosting?"

"Yeah, made it myself."

The man removes his sunglasses, and that's when I realized who he is. "It's quite cloying. Too much cinnamon and not enough cream cheese."

I'm frozen. Bobby Corleone is standing in front of me, and he doesn't even recognize me. The last time I saw him, security was dragging me off the Shakers and Bakers studio set. Then, The Incident begins to replay in my mind.

I was two years out of culinary school. Mrs. Fox had encouraged me to try out for a baking competition show. At that time, every restaurant in the city wanted to hire me because of my impressive pastry chef portfolio. Mrs. Fox felt it would be a chance to showcase my skills and work with her idol, Chef Bobby Corleone. I wanted to be on television to show my family how far I had come from being "Lil Human Torch."

But the show was a nightmare. I was barely given all the ingredients I needed. The prep time for the pastry dishes was nearly impossible to meet, and on top of that, Chef Corleone was a complete asshole. The man's temper was shorter than Joe Pesci, literally and figuratively. Every time I completed a dish, he would find something wrong with it. His feedback was usually "this is uneatable" or "this is bitter" or, my personal favorite, "this tastes like it's spoiled."

Even with all those obstacles, I managed to make it to the finals. It was between me and a woman named Claire. She was an ample woman with a Georgian twang. Chef Corleone loved her so much that I thought they were related. The final challenge was a chocolate cake. I've baked it thousands of times. Easy as making a sandwich. I knew my cake should have won it. But according to him, the cake was too sugary, and the presentation was sloppy.

I had managed to wrap one hand around Chef Corleone's neck before they cut the cameras. I was cheated.

No restaurant or bakery wanted to hire me after that. Chef Corleone had connections everywhere, and I was blackballed from the cooking industry. Mrs. Fox even stopped talking to me for a while. My confidence was depleted. Ironically, my family was proud of me for once. My mom told me she didn't know how much passion I had for cooking until she saw me choking that white man on television.

"Are you still there?"

"Huh?"

"I want to try a slice of your chocolate cake." Chef Corleone folded his hands together.

My hands begin to shake as I reach for the slice. The nerves shoot up my arm like lightning. I place the chocolate cake on the counter with the utensils.

"Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar."

A nervous laugh comes out, but I stop since I was laughing by myself. "No, I get that a lot."

My hands are starting to form a fist. Part of me wants to jump across the counter and finish the ass whooping I owed him. It's his fault that I'm here, working inside of a freezer for seventeen-fifty an hour. Yet, another part of me wants to thank him because The Incident made me a better pastry chef and a better person. My family supports me now, and that means more than any acknowledgment from some prick who wouldn't know awful pastry if it gave him a heart attack.

"This is the most delectable chocolate cake I've ever had in my life. You made this?"

"Umm, yeah."

"A guy like you shouldn't waste your talents. Here's my card. I want you to stop by my restaurant."

Picking up the business card, I'm lost for words. Chef Corleone walks away, smiling with the piece of cake still in his hand.

I couldn't help but feel like an eager amateur baker all over again.