Pasta

There is love in the flavors. Passion in the garlic as it overtakes the senses. There is romance in the kitchen as we chop and toss and collide. The perfect mix of butter and oil and herbs. The perfect hint of heat and fire. We don't talk like we used to but we squeeze beside one another, sweating from the flames. We bark orders and we plate masterpieces. But we are not us.

It was in this very kitchen that we met. Well, actually it was outside, behind the building, by the dumpsters as I lit a cigarette. I was quitting. Somehow I was always quitting until the stress of the kitchen got to me and I was back in the alley, lighting up and taking a puff.

“You know, those things are bad for you,” you said as you climbed out of a, too nice for me to be next to, car. Slacks and a blazer and shoes that you probably just got shined.

“Didn’t your mom ever tell you to mind your own business.”

“Well, if I would’ve listened to everything I was told I probably wouldn’t be the owner of this fine establishment,” he said as he threw his arms into the air and motioned toward my job or maybe former job depending on how this played out.

“Shoot,” I said as I stomped out my cigarette, and wiped my hands on my pants. “You must be the new owner,” I added as I reached out for a handshake.

“I must be,” you said with a smile. A smile that I really needed to not stare at. A smile that I still can’t get out of my head.

So we met out there in the alley and we started something. Something we never should have started. It was subtle at first. Glances. Flirtations. Long talks in your office when you stopped by to check on the restaurant, or go over the menu with the head chef. I had been at Gino’s for four years, working my way up the kitchen ladder. A woman in the kitchen isn’t always the easiest thing. But I was tough when I needed to be and I was good.

I made incredible food. I didn’t buckle under pressure. I kept my head down and I worked hard and I climbed. Then you came in and you just shook my whole world. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have walked that line, it was risky. You had the power to get rid of me if it went wrong. It was hard enough proving myself day after day and now I was complicating the situation.

I didn’t know until later that you cooked. You looked all business. You came in and you worked. You made calls. You got stuff done. You kept everyone on task. You helped guide the menu. You did everything gently, without a heavy hand. You were respected. Even chef was pleased when you showed up and chef wasn’t really pleased with much. He worked us hard in the kitchen and when the last plate was served he was gone. Then after everyone left for the night, you would come out of your office and you would cook.

You would chop and sear and char. You would create and feast. Clean and leave. I remember one night I left my wallet. I drove back across town to see if anyone was still there. I knew you sometimes worked late and secretly I hoped we’d find ourselves there alone. To see if maybe what I was feeling was what you were feeling too. Whatever that meant since I didn’t really know what I was feeling, I only knew I wanted to see you. So I drove back.

I came in through the back and the music was up so loud and there you were, looking beautiful, cooking. You were swirling oil in a pan, while chopping garlic to the beat of the music. Glass of wine, towel over your shoulder, shirt unbuttoned. I didn’t know what to do. Turn around and leave? Say something? I think I tripped over something, I don’t really remember but I made a sound and you looked up. You saw it was me and you smiled. You didn’t look nervous or uncomfortable. I only say that because I’m pretty sure I did.

“Hey, come cook with me.” Your smile was seriously too much to take.

Come cook with me? I remember thinking, is this guy for real? Is this for real? For a split second I thought that I really shouldn’t, but you were there and you looked so nice and the garlic smelled so good and I wanted to know what you were making. I was tired, but I was hungry and I wanted to be near you and I wanted to explore this.

So we cooked together that night in the kitchen for the first time. After that it became our thing. Once a week. You were incredible. Your knife skills were impeccable. Your knowledge of the cuisine. The easiness in your wrist as you whisked and stirred. Your creativity. You taught me more than I had learned in culinary school, and more than I had learned in my four years under Chef and I thought that was a lot. I wanted to know your story but you wouldn’t tell me. You just said it was sad and silly and maybe one day you would share.

“Watch this,” you said in a voice that could both rock you to sleep and keep you up all night.

You pulled me into you and pulled your arms around my waist. There was a whole fish laid out on the chopping block. You knew it was one of my biggest struggles in the kitchen. I shared that with you one night. You wrapped your arms around mine and guided my hand with each move while you whispered directions into my ear. It was invigorating. Freeing. It was beautiful.

On the days you would come in we had polite exchanges and one evening a week you would look at me a certain way and I knew that meant it would be a late night. A beautiful, perfect, late night. We barely talked. You called out to me, you coached me, and you whispered to me. I talked a lot about myself, my hopes, my dreams. I tried to get you to participate and share but you would always change the subject. Everytime I turned the conversation to you it was the same response, “Come on, let’s cook.”

I wondered what you were hiding. It made me nervous, not knowing anything about you, but I so enjoyed this time and I was learning so much that I just let it go. Chef noticed. He kept commenting on my improvements. I was good at what I did. I had worked hard to get to where I was at, but you just had this way about you in the kitchen that was beyond learning. There was this natural easiness that came with everything you did. I wanted to be annoyed but you were the kindest person I ever met. I was falling in love with you, which felt stupid because I didn’t know you. We flirted and we cooked and I talked. You taught me, mentored me, without ever saying that’s what you were doing.

Then one day something changed in you. I saw you on the phone in the alley by the dumpsters. You looked upset, livid actually. I had never seen you break a sweat, not even in the kitchen. Not even when your arms were wrapped around me. Not even when we were so close I couldn’t tell where I ended and you began. Not even when I made uncomfortable jokes or asked too many questions.

You came inside the kitchen, contained, but I knew something was wrong. You walked straight back to the office. You didn’t say hello to the staff like you usually do. I waited for an appropriate amount of time to pass and I walked to your door. it was cracked and I could see you in there with your head in your hands. I was hurting for you without even knowing why. I knocked lightly and your voice called me in.

“Are you okay,” I questioned.

“I’m staying late tonight.”

“Okay,” I could tell you didn’t want to talk so I left you alone.

That evening it all changed. It was awkward. You were uncomfortable. You still had an easiness about the way you cooked, but there was no teaching. No conversation. No connection. Even the flames seemed to get to you. You didn’t seem like the man I had been spending these late nights with, you were distant. I wanted to say a million things but I didn’t know if you wanted me to and I didn’t want to make it worse. So I said nothing.

Maybe you would have opened up this time? Maybe it would have been different, but I couldn’t do it. I was afraid to know, afraid to know the truth, afraid to know some deep dark thing that would make my feelings change. Or worse I was afraid that deep dark thing wouldn’t even be able to do that. I was afraid I had fallen for you, completely, utterly, hopelessly fallen for you. That terrified me. So I let you be angry and bossy. I let you process whatever it was you needed to process there in that kitchen.

At the end of the night you stopped me as I grabbed my bag and my knives and walked toward the door. You didn’t say anything, you just pulled me into you and held me.

“Six seconds,” you whispered. “I just need to stay like this for six seconds.”

So we stayed there, just like that. You held me and I held you back. Then you let go and I opened my mouth to speak and then I closed it.

“Thank you,” you said as I walked out the door.

I was certain now that I loved you but I also knew I could never cook with you again.