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The first thing I notice is the way his hands moves. Making quick work of the ingredients, he slices, chops, and pours in what seems like one breath. Everything around the kitchen centers around him— the way the steam rises when he lifts his eyebrows or the manner the aromatic smells disperses through the room when he is pleased with what he is cooking. It is intoxicating and I love it.
It had taken countless overnights to afford the journey to New York and the rear seat I occupied, but the taste of the herbed bass was worth every 5-Hour that substituted my evening meals. I couldn’t help but shift between enjoying the meal and noting his distinct take on the classic.
The fish paired smoothly with the aioli and while it tasted rich with acidity, it was not in the way I was expecting. It had a similar tang of lemon, but it was sweeter with a slight grit that was just delightful. My mind was whizzing at the possibilities of how I could elevate one of the meals back home in my own way— not that it would ever be realized.
I had followed him since he was featured on Chicago’s Best, working at the contemporary place in Wicker Park, and while nobody expected him to make the move to the more stricter yet respected atmosphere of Atera, I was proud of him.
He didn’t know me, but he might as well have been the closest thing I had to a hero. Really. His drive, passion, and dedication to his meals was something I actively craved within myself. He seemed to have it all, and though the gossip mill claimed otherwise, I couldn’t stop myself from wishing why that couldn’t be me.
Dropping my fork in reproach, the thought continued through my mind demanding attention, but I couldn’t nor would I want to break down in front of strangers who would not hesitate to assume the worst of me. If only I could stop the tears from forming with my blinking. If only I could afford eating at the finest of restaurants, own my own space, sleep whenever my body signaled it was tired… if only.
Only if I had the wisdom to settle down like my dad wanted. Or got a stable job where I wouldn’t have to worry about my basic needs, but the art of cooking was too damn exhilarating to ever stop.
Sobbing gently while chuckling sardonically at how crazy I looked, I picked at what remained of the food and thought of how I looked. Probably a sorry sight but when did I ever not.
Well, I couldn't spend another night thinking about this, I just wanted to live and not think. Afterall, tonight was my last (and only) night in the City That Never Sleeps, and I had every home on cashing on all the metonymies created about the city.