Chapter Text
While he was cleaning out Mikey’s office one morning, Carmy found a shriveled, hardened clementine peel in the pocket of a denim jacket. It had been Mikey’s jacket—one he’d left, like everything else, to his baby brother.
Carm had just stood there, angry and blank-eyed, holding the curl of orange between his fingers. It had been the same color as Mikey’s pill bottles, but had seemed so much more innocent. Carmy had still been able to smell the burst of citrus—the long-dried juice.
Suddenly, he’d wished there was some significance to attribute to the old peel. A memory, perhaps. A moment where they’d once shared a clementine; split it into wedges and peeled the stringy veins from the flesh. Maybe there’d even been a sweaty summer where they had eaten orange popsicles on sticks. Anything.
Carm had wanted memories that he could lump into mounds like dead leaves pushed into piles in the autumn. High and deep enough to jump into. Memories he could sift through. Separate and examine with obsessive devotion. Memories that could somehow lend some clarity as to why Mike had done this.
This: shooting himself in the head.
This: leaving The Beef to Carm.
This: getting addicted to painkillers in the first place.
They said that addiction was the chemical compulsion to become less sad. But Mikey had never seemed sad. He’d been loud and funny and authoritative.
And so Carm had just stood there in his damp office, holding the peel of a long-dead fruit.
What the fuck, Mikey? What the fuck?
Outside the office door, pots had clattered down. A sudden explosion of metal, almost like gunfire. Sydney had shouted at someone. Cousin spat out a spiked answer. The ticket machine had kept whirring out orders.
Carm had jumped a bit. Shaken himself.
“Fuck you,” he’d gritted out. He hadn’t known who he’d been saying it to. Not really. Mike or himself?
Still, he’d balled the peel in his fist. Crushed it. Clamped down on it. Held his fist to his mouth. Eyes squeezed shut. Throat as tight as his hand.
A ringing had risen in his ears—the shrill call of a timer.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. It’s just a bit of fruit you fucking baby.
Blinking rapidly, Carmy had pushed a hand through the ragged tangle of his hair. He’d looked up and around, just to make sure that he was really alone. No timer. Nobody standing behind him, asking him why he was so slow and watching the way his hands shook.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Then, Carm had touched the rough peel to his even rougher cheek.
It’s just a bit of fruit. Just more of Mikey’s random junk.
That’s what everything in The Beef was, right?
Because when somebody dies, they don’t go gentle. They go like a shipwreck, random debris floating back to those they left behind.
The wife of an alcoholic, the brother of an addict, and an off-duty life coach walk into the basement of a church. Only this isn’t a joke and there isn’t a punchline. It’s a Monday afternoon and Carm takes his usual seat in the back. Waits for the dimly lit room to fill up.
He holds his hands in his lap and listens like an animal acquainting itself with a new cage. Pipes are clanking in the walls. The cheap popcorn ceiling above is rattling slightly in a draft. The folding chair beneath Carm complains whenever he shifts his weight. Which is often. It’s hard to sit still in such a quiet place.
This isn’t what he likes. How he likes it.
He likes cold hard lighting. Kitchen lighting. He likes white floors—tiles like teeth that show every stain. He likes rush and vigor—people moving all around him like minnows battling upstream towards food, food, food. He likes the sound of a whirring ticket machine. Knives on chopping boards. Sydney’s shouting. Eyes stinging with onion residue. A whistling kettle. Smoke. A rising symphony of timers, all demanding his undivided attention right this second.
Because every second counts.
Time is a measurement. An ingredient. You put time into things and (hopefully) make something good out of it. Time is the most important part of every recipe, really. Leave something to simmer too long and it’s fucked. Didn’t let something else roast for long enough? Also fucked.
Waste of time. Waste of food. What’s the difference to a chef?
Is this the same as that? I put time into myself and make something good out of all these bad bits? But there isn’t even a clock in this fucking basement. Waste of time. I’m wasting time. I should be at work. I should be back in the kitchen firing tickets—
“Okay, welcome back to Al-Anon everybody,” says the off-duty life coach, perching himself atop the folding table at the head of the room. “I see some new faces…that’s good. It’s good to want to make good changes.”
Carmy pulls his cap a little bit lower over his eyes. He glances around the room, half-dismissive, half-envious.
I’m only here to get Sugar off my back. I told her I’d go more than once…
But the woman seated beside him is rapt with attention. The man at the front has stopped twiddling his thumbs. The person at the far left has put their phone away.
Maybe they all want to make good changes more than he does.
“I think today we should start with something good, just to warm up the room,” says the life coach, shivering performatively.
He’s hosting a hard gig. Nobody laughs, not even out of pity.
The man is undeterred. "Does…well…does anybody want to start by talking about a practice or craft that brings them joy? Something that you do just for yourself that comes from a place of love?”
The pipes in the walls stop clanking. The draft stops and the ceiling ceases its shivering. Carmy even holds himself still in his chair. It’s as if the heavenly father on the floor above has pressed his ear to the ground—it’s like he’s listening to the deviants all gathered in the shadowed underbelly of the church.
Something that I do from a place of love? For myself?
Carmy looks at his cuffed jeans and avoids eye contact. Moments flare before him, staining everything he’s seeing.
He thinks of a low, yellow sunrise out over Lake Michigan. Donna patting his back as she puts a bowl of homemade tomato soup in front of him. Made with love, she’d said, which makes it better than anything you’re gonna get anywhere else. Say the words, Carm. I. Love. You. Just say it, huh? He sees the flash of a traffic light on Madison Avenue finally turning green. He sees his own trembling palm, curved around his beloved knife—the Yoshimi Echizen one—the first thing he’d bought for himself with his real chef money. He sees Mickey’s back, curved in concentration over the old linoleum counter in their family kitchen. When he turns, Mikey is smiling that big brother smile, the one that’s full of pride and challenge all at once.
Carm blinks hard, both eyes squeezed tight enough to see stars. The acid in his stomach begins to burn.
An act that comes from a place of love?
Sulfurous wine stinging his nose. The snap of a garbage bag blooming wide like a miniature hot air balloon. Timers tuning out the sound of Donna’s tearful shouting. His hand, slipping on a random dull knife he’s holding. Blood, bright and merry as a broken holiday bauble—the ghost of Christmases past. His hands, shaking again as he plates beluga caviar atop a thin, crusty blini. A man in thickly framed glasses standing behind him. Why are you so slow…you’re no good at this, the man hisses, watching the way Carm’s hands shake. And suddenly that man is whispering the contents of a voice message Sugar had left on Carmy’s phone that very same night.
Carm…Carmy…just…I guess call me back when you can. I know you’re busy. They found Mikey, Carm. He’s…look, I need you to call me right away. I love you, okay?
“The customer has gotta love it, right? Otherwise, we’re just dicking around here,” Richie booms, scrambling after Carmy like he is a toddler running amuck with a knife. “If they don’t love the food...might as well fucking close down. That’s what your big fucking brother always said, bro.”
Carmy pretends he isn’t listening. He stomps through the maze of The Beef with the brutishness of a minotaur weaving through its overgrown labyrinth.
The Beef stinks. Carm can smell it on himself. Burnt coffee. Veal stock. Charred peppers. Lard. Blood. Cigarette smoke. Plus, The Beef fucking looks worse than it smells. He passes the (not so stainless) steel racks, mucky stacks of vegetables, spilled jus, leaning towers of canned tomatoes, dull knives left abandoned on worktops, and piles of ancient newspapers without really registering them.
If he looks at the mess for too long it all begins to disgust him to the point of cruelty.
What the hell, Mike? What the hell were you doing with this place you fucking loser?
No, wait. Sorry. Shit. I didn’t mean that.
“Stop trying to change our ecosystem. Look around you, the fucking lilypads and froglets are all belly-up. Dying, Carm! Your fancy shit is killing us,” Richie calls, hands groping at the back of Carmy’s white shirt in an attempt to grab him. “I know you don’t love this place. You’re too uptight, jagoff. All up in here with your little tweezers and your umami and whatever the fuck. Come back to Chicago, you fucking baby. You’re not in New York anymore.”
“I do love this place—”
“We’re called The Beef, bro. Stop roasting celeriac and toasting baguettes and shit! Like I said, I know you don’t love it…but we have reg-u-lars. Regulars who love our basic shit, ‘cuz we make it with love.”
Carm just keeps walking. “Does love sign your checks, Richie? Is love handling the payroll for this shithole? If it is then this place must be fucking loveless because we are broke. I don’t know how many times I need to tell you. TINA, hey! Tina—”
“Carm, shut the fuck up and listen! This is Mikey’s house. Call it a shithole again and—”
Carm drags a hand up through his hair distractedly and turns so quickly that Richie is momentarily thrown off-kilter. “Mike’s house? He ran it into the ground, Cousin. This isn’t a house it’s a mausoleum—”
—for my waste of time fucking career.
Sorry. Didn’t mean that either. Fuck.
Richie, red in the face and dappled with kitchen sweat, tries to grab Carm’s shoulders.
He’s tall but lean. Weightless. Easy to smack away like a buzzing fly. Less easy to ignore, though.
“Listen for one sec,” Richie spits. “You hate our system. Fuck, it kinda seems like you hate food. I know you’re having a hard time. We all are. But you better watch it. No more new hires. No more menu switches. I like Syd. I’ll let you have her but—”
“That's fucking disgusting, Cousin.”
“What? Ah, Jesus! I can’t even express myself anymore. Where’d you learn to be so woke, Europe?”
“N-no. That’s not what the fuck I said—”
Carm catches sight of her darting past, as if the sound of Sydney’s name has invoked her presence. She slides a glance his way. Speeds up. Swishing braids. Elbows tight at her sides. She moves like a hummingbird—hovering, hovering, then zipping off again.
He likes that. He noticed it right away because it reminded him of how real kitchens work—the focus, the tight turns, precise flicks of limbs and eyes and lips. All of it is professional. Studious. Exacting. Competitive.
She’s like a relic of an old life—a first love—and he’s trying not to be an asshole about it. He’s trying not to think about how embarrassing it is that she knew about his… industry-esteemed career... before finding him here. He’s trying to convince himself that she doesn’t notice how everybody here constantly disrespects him and belittles him and begrudges him despite (or maybe because of) that hotshot career. He’s just trying to see her potential. She certainly sees his, and it’s exhausting. She brings in binders every so often. Binders. Binders about how he can make things at The Beef operate at a higher level. He has them at his apartment, closed and stacked atop his coffee table.
Still, despite his short-fused dismissals, Sydney brings a vivid, watchful energy to this shithole—to this loud, metallic cave full of half-price cling wrap, immature arguments, and frozen meat.
She brings an energy Mikey never managed to muster up from his staff. She’s the sort of staff member Mike would never have landed anyway. She’s too good for the likes of him.
Fuck you.
(Is the curse aimed at Mikey, for being such a fuck-up? Is it for Carmy himself, for being so brutal about it? He never knows.)
Either way, Sydney is Carm’s hire. The only person here he chose. Quite possibly the only person (besides Mike) who even wants him here. Everybody else he’s stuck with. That’s why they call their meals together family.
“Carm, stay with us, Carm! You’re going all blank again, buddy,” Richie snaps, quite literally snapping his fingers before Carm’s eyes. “Hello?”
Rocking his weight from foot to foot, Carm scrubs a hand over his shadowed jaw. His stomach is starting to hurt. “Where’s my knife, chef? The Yoshimi Echi—”
“Yoshi? Yo, what the fuck? Carm, come on! Focus here!”
A current of rage ripples over Carm’s skin. “We’re done, Cousin. You’ve said enough. I was looking for Tina. She fucking took the knife again, TINA!”
Tina, tinkering unenthusiastically at her station, cranes in Carm’s direction. “Jeff?”
“Where’s my knife, chef?”
Tina shrugs aggressively and smirks. “Where’s our system, Jeff?”
Fuck sake.
“There,” Richie exclaims, gesturing wildly. “She doesn’t know. Back to business. Sydney is a sweetheart. She’s fine. But we can’t afford any other changes—”
The anger bubbling in Carm’s gut starts to froth out his mouth. He knows he’s shouting, but this is a shithole anyway. No standards to adhere to. Besides, it feels good to scream sometimes. “Because Mike was cooking the fucking books, Richie! We can’t afford shit! Now get the fuck out of my way you fucking—”
Out of the corner of Carm’s eye, he sees a flash of brown eyes and black hair. He smells her before she’s standing at his side. Pepper and perfume.
“Guys,” Sydney interrupts, inserting herself awkwardly between Carm and Richie’s chests. “Guys! Can we take it down a notch, chefs? Please! We have people trying to eat in here!”
One of her long hands plants itself in the center of Carm’s chest. It’s this, more than her words, that makes him pause. The steady pressure. The warmth.
It’s been a long time since he’s been touched. So long that the sensation is startling…and then embarrassing.
I shouldn’t like it so much.
Richie backs down.
Carmy doesn’t. He keeps his chest pressed to her hand, straining against her fingers as if she’s the only thing holding him back from ripping Richie to shreds. Maybe she is. Maybe it has nothing to do with that at all.
Sydney’s interview had been brief. He doesn’t remember much of it. A red bandana around her hair. A landline phone in his hand. The fresh ink on her impressive resume. Pepper and perfume.
What he does recall is that she’d asked him a horrible question he hadn’t been able to answer.
“Why do you want to work here?” he had sighed, gesturing at how obviously overqualified she’d been.
Liquid eyes. Long lashes. Wet lips. She’d smiled and he’d felt a sudden self-consciousness. He’d made sure not to look at her too long.
“This was Dad’s favorite spot,” Syd had said. “Came here every Sunday. It’s special. Lotta love in this place, I guess.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure, yeah.”
“Sorry. Can I…ask you something? I know who you are,” she’d murmured, both enchanted to meet him and disappointed that he was himself. “You’re Carmen Berzatto…the most excellent CDC at the most excellent restaurant in America. So…um…what are you doing here?”
Making sandwiches.
He thinks that’s what he’d said. He isn't sure because his stomach had twisted up and his ears had started to whistle like twin kettles, and his eyes had started focusing on a small scar below her bottom lip and he’d been so fucking embarrassed, embarrassed, embarrassed.
What are you doing here, playing pretend in your big brother’s house? What are you doing here, fussing with his staff like they’re your dolls? What are you doing here, emptying out Mike's office to make it your own? What are you doing here? You clearly can’t run this shit as well as Mikey could.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here, didn’t you win Food And Wine’s Best New Chef? What are you doing here, didn’t you used to have a career? What are you doing here, didn’t you spend thousands going to foreign culinary hubs? What are you doing here, aren’t you supposed to be impressive?
Carmy wishes she’d never said that this was a place with lots of love in it. It makes him wonder if Sydney had ever come into The Beef when Mike was alive. It makes him wonder if she’d ever seen Mikey. Sometimes he wants to ask, but he knows he’ll never be brave enough to.
I know who you are, she’d said.
He wishes she’d never said that most of all. It makes him wonder if she ever looked him up on the internet. Followed his stupid fucking career. Saw photos of him. His family. His dishes.
Sometimes Carm considers calling her into Mikey’s office. His office. He considers gripping Sydney’s shoulders. Shaking her. Asking her why she’s here.
Are you here because this was a special spot once or are you here because of me? Stop seeming so impressed with me. What do you want from me? I can’t be your mentor. If that’s why you’re working here you should leave. What do you expect to learn like this? Look at me. Sydney.
“I used to work at this place on the Lower West Side…we did all-day brunches. But like…the good stuff,” Sydney says, shrugging on some sarcasm. “All I did all day was put oranges and clementines into this juicer thing. My hands would get all wrinkly and wet. I’d get orange guts in my eyes. And the boss, Conor, was a total psychopath. Like, he’d scream and push people around and he’d always turn up late, and one time he threw the landline at my head because a customer complained about the percentage of pulp—”
“Fuck,” Carm chuckles, taking a drag on his cigarette.
“I know,” Sydney sighs, tossing her heavy braids over her shoulder. “Fuck that place.”
“Fuck that place,” he agrees, blowing some smoke upward and pocketing his pack of antacids.
They’re outside, sitting in the smoking space at the back of The Beef. It’s their lunch break. Blue sky. Pigeon shit speckling the pavement. Wind. The sound of passing trains and bare branches scraping against power lines.
Heartburn. He’s been eating Tums like their popcorn—by the handful. But Sydney is munching on a fat chunk of frittata. He can smell it from where he sits beside her—asparagus, peas, eggs, feta, roasted tomatoes. It smells homemade. It smells good.
He keeps wondering if she made it. He kinda wants to taste it.
“And you?” she asks, covering her mouth as she chews. “What was your worst spot?”
Carm thinks of New York—of the man in darkly framed glasses, looming at his back. He thinks of beluga caviar, missed calls, shadowy subway stations and why are you so fucking slow…you’re no good at this.
Carmy blinks. Changes the chemistry of his memories, only not well enough.
He thinks of red Christmas baubles and blood-black wine. He thinks of Donna’s runny makeup—all bruised and blurred around her eyes. He thinks of his baby-blue bedroom upstairs. He thinks of the soundscape of his childhood home—breaking dishes, Donna’s lone wolf howl, Sugar’s begging, Mike’s cigarette smoke stinking up every stoop. Say the words.
Carm clears his throat. Spits to the side. Takes another drag.
Sydney makes a noise of absolute disgust, one he almost thinks is endearing.
“I don’t know,” he answers. “New York wasn’t great.”
“Which one was that? Eleven—”
“Eleven Madison Park. Yeah, yeah.”
He’s told her about New York in shades and short sentences. She devours his stories, gnawing them to the bone with questions. He’s told her about his menus, his subway station panic attacks, and the friendly squirrels in the parks.
He hasn’t told her much about actually working there, so he tries to now. It’s only fair.
“The executive chef was also a psycho. He, uh, he used to say I was too short and slow and…and…look, whatever. I’m trying to do something here. I wanna make something of this place. I want to work here. I don’t wanna work at another awful place. Neither do you…I gather.”
Sydney swallows. Pauses. “Heard. Yeah.”
Another pause. An unseen train roars by and Carm almost looks in its direction. It’s an old habit, one he almost forgot about. He used to look for Mikey in the windows of every train that was leaving without him. Sometimes he’d see a face like Mike’s. A reminiscent feature. His own similar reflection.
There you are. I know you’re not really gone.
“I know you’re trying. I see you,” Sydney adds, bumping her shoulder against Carm’s. Bringing him back.
What do you see? What do you know about me and how hard I’m trying? What have I let slip these past weeks?
Sydney licks her lips. Flicks her plastic fork. Looks at the clear, calm sky he’s been polluting. “I just mean…I know you want to make something of this place. I see you staying later than anybody else. Getting in earlier than anybody else. You show this place…a kind of respect? I guess? Everybody treats this place like shit. Everybody is shitty. And don’t get me wrong. You’re not not shitty. But…I see you. You’re down there scrubbing on your hands and knees while everybody else is leaving for the night. When I get in at five in the morning, you’ve already broken a sweat. You give a shit.”
There’s a long pause. Another train smears by, silver and crowded as a school of fish. Pigeons take flight.
Sydney looks away and stabs her fork into her frittata. Then, she leans forward slightly. Peers at him. Waits for his response in a self-conscious sort of way.
“Mikey never let me work here when he was alive,” Carm says starkly, stubbing out his cigarette. “I wanted to…before I left. I asked a lot. He always said no. I, uh, I gave a shit about his shit before he died.”
He’s only telling her this because it feels important. It’s important that somebody in this shithole knows.
I gave a shit about this shit before he died.
Donna would ask if that’s even true because he didn’t go to the funeral. Cousin would say that it’s a crock of shit because Richie enjoys shitting on Carmy. Sugar would ask Carm if he’s okay because he’s not okay.
And Mikey? Carm doesn’t know what he’d do. That’s what happens when somebody dies. It’s easier to love a dead person than to remember them.
Sydney clears her throat. Backs off a bit. “I never said you didn’t. Hey, wanna get a drink after work? I could go for one. Just to take the edge off. Don’t get any ideas, chef.”
He smiles because it’s funny. And because it sounds so nice. A drink. A pretty woman. Some place where he’ll be served, for a change. The cold snap of liquor on his teeth. The looseness that would trace his tongue.
Fuck, I’ve already said enough. And I have not had a drink since Mike died and I don’t even know when the last time I went out was and I can’t do this, I can’t do this.
He crumples up his face. Scrubs a hand over his forehead. “Nah, nah. I…uh…I have stuff at home that I wanna, um—”
He thinks of her binders on his table and how he’s been bookmarking her best points. He thinks of being better. Of cooking from a place of love instead of this.
This: duty.
This: guilt.
This: the way Mike's suicide has folded him back into his family.
Because how can Carm ever replace the dead big brother who is perfectly preserved in prayer cards? The big brother that called Carmy home from the grave? Who’s smile could light up every block for a mile?
I can’t. But I’m here. I’m the only Berzatto left at The Beef. I left my life to be here. I left my life to pick up the scraps of his.
Sydney nods like she’s agreeing. She is accepting. Swallowing Carm’s weird-ass response. Her cheeks even tip towards pink, like maybe she is embarrassed as well. “Oh, okay. Sure. Cool. Heard, chef,” she says.
Fuck you.
(Carm is sure this time. This fuck you is for himself).
He gets home, stomach growling like a grizzly bear fresh out of hibernation. Dark apartment. Cold kitchen. Shivering in his clothes despite the layer of sweat on his skin.
He does what he always does. Walks, shadowless, through his rooms without turning the lights on. He carefully avoids catching his reflection in the dark windows. Cracks open a can of Coke, imagining that it’s a beer. Snags a bag of Doritos, imagining that he’s not actually hungry. He’s tired of food—sick of smelling it, touching it, needing it to live (a source of both money and sustenance).
Still, Carmy crunches the chips while he is sprawled solitarily on the couch. Remote in hand, he broadcasts The Joy Of Cooking to his TV.
Julia Child’s black-and-white face fills the screen. Jovial. Jaunty. She’s smiling at him through clouds of steam.
He chews without tasting. Glances at Syd’s binders. They smell like her. Pepper and perfume.
“Today we’re doing dinner in one pot,” Julia announces, leaning into her kitschy counter. “We have vegetables, and then meat! We have pork, veal, beef, chicken, sausage and they all cook together in glorious harmony…and it’s very easy on the cook! It’s a wonderful meal! You don’t have to use all the...variety! You can use beef only. And if you used only chicken it would be slow…”
Carm’s eyelids dip closed. His breath becomes labored. Julia’s voice congeals. Thickens. Cools. Slows. Smokes.
It would be slow…why are you so fucking slow? You’re no good at this.
Pigeons take wing. Sydney stabs her fork into his hand. Trains leave without him. Donna pours bloody wine. Sugar begs her not to. Mike makes himself scarce, as he always does. Carm’s hair is on fire.
It’s very easy on the cook! It’s a wonderful meal!
When he wakes up, he’s back at The Beef. Scrubbing a spot on the floor.
In his dreams, the spot is on fire. A hellhole.
During the day, it’s only a dollop of black ink. Not a hole at all
“Fuck me. Are you okay?” Sydney asks, standing over him.
Syd.
He wants to start calling her Syd. He wants to be casual about her.
Carmy looks up. He blinks.
There she is. Pretty. Smart. Assertive. Pepper and perfume.
He blinks harder but she doesn’t go away. She’s wearing her green coat. There’s a tote bag swinging from her shoulder. She’s holding a hand out towards him tentatively.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
He clears his throat. “Is my hair on fire?”
“Uh, no…chef,” Sydney says. “No. Are you trying to set one though? Scrubbing the floor like that?”
Carm looks down.
Shit.
He’s made a shallow hole. An actual hole. There was just a stain before. And now he has made it worse. Just like he’s made everything here worse.
He looks up at Sydney. Syd. He takes her hand and hauls himself up. “I, uh, need to go somewhere real quick. Just hold down the fort for an hour, okay? Thank you, chef.”
He feels her watching him go. The pull of her gaze makes it harder to hurry away.
“A big part of the job is taking care of people. Creating something you’re passionate about. Being inspired. Loving what you do and taking your time to do it well. They say time is a secret ingredient for a reason, right?” Carmy asks everyone in the church basement.
He’s started talking at his meetings recently. It’s helping. Sorta. Mostly he just likes the way the people here respect him. He doesn’t get that anywhere else anymore.
Except when he’s talking to Syd.
“My brother loved to cook,” Carm adds, staring vacantly at the patterned floor. “It was what he did to express…affection. Spending that kinda time on something you’re making for someone…it’s a big deal. He understood that, and I looked up to him. Mike was patient. Funny. He was never overwhelmed by anything. And I…just feel trapped. A-all the time. Mike, though? He loved this shit. He loved time well spent. And family time was time well spent. To him, anyway.”
Carm bites the skin around his fingernails. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a flash of dark hair. Liquid eyes. Hummingbird movement. He knows she’s not here. He’s just tired. Seeing shit.
Carmy clears his throat. “I think I liked cooking the most when I did it with him. We did it a lot together. The kitchen was a, uh, common ground. The food was always great, but I-I guess it just felt good to be around him, you know? He made it fun, man. He made me feel like…I was really fucking talented at this thing he loved so much. He was creative with it…we even talked about opening a place together. Not that that ever happened. And, uh, I thought if I worked at The Beef I’d be working with him. But he never let me have that and then he stopped letting me into the place and now I…I don’t know. I went pro. Left him behind. If he was competition, I smoked him. It was creative and rigorous and innovative and competitive and exhausting…now it’s still all those things but I…I’m learning I have a limit.”
He pauses, almost hoping to catch sight of Syd lingering in the back of the room.
Carm reminds himself to breathe. His hair is not on fire and she’s not standing there holding out a hand. “I’ve been thinking about what we said a few weeks back,” he manages. “Doing things from a place of love. Cooking is that for me. Was that. I don’t know. It hasn’t been fun for a while. I’m just doing it out of…spite? Fucking fear…maybe? Control?”
He bites his nail again. Blinks. Tries to refocus. “But there’s a new hire at work. My hire. I’m thinking that she’ll make things better. It’s not like she’s gonna just fix…things. But I’ve been looking at her binders. She has good ideas. She sees something in the spot. Mike would have liked her. And I told her about…these meetings, you know? Maybe that was unprofessional, but she’s been cool about it. I don’t…I don’t really tell anybody else. So. Yeah. That’s something.”
Carm meets Syd in the walk-in-freezer.
It’s not intentional.
They’re both just there to catch their breath, only she beat him to it.
“Just a minute, chef,” she says, her exhale blooming before her. A small cloud, lining her lips in silver. “Just needed a breather.”
It’s the dinner rush and they’re getting killed. Beyond the freezer door, tickets are flying around like confetti. He can smell something burning. People are snapping at each other. It’s all so frantic.
But not here. In here it’s just frost and blue shadows and their breath.
The space is suddenly so small. So close. And Syd is so vivid—the lines on her lips, the stain on her navy apron, the way she watches him…like she’s tuned herself to his moods.
And they’re breathing together, swallowing the scent of each other in this small space.
“Come on, chef. Keep up that sense of urgency. We gotta hustle,” Carmen says, touching Syd’s shoulder as he slides past her, moving deeper into the dark.
He lets his hand linger a little, and she tilts her face towards it. Her chin grazes his knuckle.
For a moment, his palm feels like it’s on fire. He has to hold his own hand to check.
When they’re both back out in the kitchen, it’s like that moment hadn’t happened at all. That perfect calm has been punctured. The ticket machine is going nuts. The phone won’t stop ringing. The to-go orders are through the roof. Somebody spilled beef bouillon all over the floor. The lights are flickering. The staff is distracted.
Marcus is being too anal with his cakes—striving for a perfection he doesn’t have the skill to achieve. Not yet.
Richie is being too disruptive.
Tina is taking on too much—making a mess of her station in the process.
Carm’s heart is pounding—if they don’t make it through service it will be his fault. He’s supposed to be a leader here. He’s supposed to be good at this. It’s all on Carm’s shoulders because that’s where Mike hung up his legacy.
And Syd is running expo, but she’s being slow.
Why are you so slow? Why are you so fucking slow?
“Get off, Syd,” Carmen demands, practically vibrating with anxiety masquerading as anger.
“I can do it,” she responds, low and frantic. “Tina! Fire seven more chickens! Marcus, how are those—”
“Off! Now!”
“Carm. Let me do it. Trust me. I’m almost—”
“YES, CHEF. SAY IT BACK. YES, CHEF! GET OFF! FUCK! YOU BUNCH OF FUCKING IDIOTS!”
Her vast doe eyes flick his way for a moment. He can see the hurt in her gaze, the bruise of it spreads to her lips, which tremble a little.
Syd steps aside. “Yes, chef.”
Later, when they’re closing up, Sydney stays longer than she should.
Carm mops the floor around Syd’s feet because she’s standing at her station. Making them some pasta to eat.
There’s the faint scent of domesticity in the air—her cooking, him cleaning. Plus, there’s something intimate about mopping around someone’s feet. He’s making room for her. Being sure not to touch the edge of her heels—being extra careful not to dirty her.
And he’s been peeking at her bashfully from underneath his lashes.
Now that the kitchen has quieted, now that the ticket machine has stopped spamming them with orders, now that it’s just them again…Carm is wretched with guilt. It’s slithering underneath his scarred skin and twisting his stomach into angry knots like a cobra in need of taming.
They have not spoken since he exploded at her. Their stomachs just growl at each other—bodies communicating with that primal language of want.
Carm glances at Sydney again. Syd. He watches how her fingers curl so gracefully around the spoon she’s using to stir the sauce. Watches how her hair whispers down her back—a veil of braided black. The pulse throbbing in her throat almost beckons him her way. Almost.
Fuck you.
“Yo, go sit somewhere. I’ll plate this up,” Syd says coldly. She doesn’t look at him.
So, Carm scrubs his hands in the sink. He goes and sits at the counter out front, next to the big windows that stare out at the street. The roads are vacant, as they should be at this time of night. The restaurant looms around him, dim and smelling of rain. He fiddles with his cigarettes; touches the box as if it’s a worry stone.
I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I should stop being so weird. I’m not acting normal.
It’s dark out. Misting. He can see his reflection in the glass. His face hovers on the wet pavement outside—greasy hair, puffy eyes, the scar on his cheek is the smoothest part of him.
I really do kinda look like Mikey sometimes.
He can see her, too. Carm watches Sydney’s reflection approach—pinched brow, sulky lips, slumped shoulders. When she sets the plates down on the greasy countertop, she wilts into the stool beside him.
Pepper and perfume.
She doesn’t say anything, just gets straight to eating her pasta. It’s a simple dish—10 garlic cloves, basil steeped in oil, and San Marzano tomatoes. Steaming linguini tossed into the sauce with a few gentle slurs. Mike’s recipe. It’s mushy. Hot. Heavy.
Comfort food. Because that’s a thing, remember? That’s something.
Carm picks up his fork, aware that she’s going to watch him eat. Gauge his reaction. Value it.
Suddenly, he wishes he was back at his apartment. Doritos. A can of soda. His couch. Alone. Someplace where he isn’t being gauged or valued or spoken to. Somewhere where he’s nothing at all.
“So…I feel like we’re not good,” Sydney says before the pasta hits Carm’s tongue. “Are you gonna talk or…”
Carmy blinks and blinks and blinks. He shoves a curl of hair out of his eyes.
Fuck. Fuck my life to death.
“We’re fine, Sydney.”
“Come on. Today was bad.”
“Fine. You wanna fight?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Carmy sets his fork down. Shifts to look directly at her. He rubs his sweaty hands off on his apron. “I need you to listen to me when I give you directions. Please. I hold you to a higher standard. You’re an example to the crew. I can’t have you arguing with me in front of the others. This place…it’s only just starting to take us seriously. We need to be a team, Sydney.”
“A team,” Sydney says with pointed sarcasm. “If we’re a team that means we need to communicate and work together and trust each other, right? And today it seemed like you had no confidence in me. Like you didn’t trust me to do my job. This isn’t the first time either. It probably won’t be the last. So, I guess…what I’m asking is if you even want me here?”
It’s the kind of vulnerable question that can break their bond or tether them even more tightly to each other.
He looks at her, her familiar face made luminous by the red blaze of the traffic light beyond the window.
Carmy feels the words moving through him before they make it to his mouth. “I want you here, Syd. I do.”
Syd.
The moment settles like dust. He’s terrified of what she’ll say.
Then the watery traffic light turns green and she indulges herself in a small smile. “Well, then you need to cool it down. Like, way down. I don’t want to fight. Especially not in front of everybody.”
His voice sounds boyish with relief when he answers. “Yeah. Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. I was being shitty—”
“You so were, asshole.”
“Sorry.”
“Same. I was being stubborn, too—”
“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll…I’ll…I’m gonna try to take it down and have more confidence in everybody. I want to be capable of both—”
“I know.”
A pause.
Carm swirls some pasta around his fork and averts his gaze. "I was also thinking...about that drink you mentioned months ago? Spending some...time together outside of work or whatever...maybe we could jam on more menu updates?"
Sydney's smile is swift and sweet. "Oh, shit. Okay. Wow, if all I have to do is call you an asshole to get you to actually like me—"
"Fuck off," he says with a harmless roll of his eyes.
Then, Carm eats. She watches him like he knew she would—tense, expectant.
It’s good. Really good. The sauce could have simmered for a bit more time, though.
Still, he makes an effort to be blank. He’ll compliment the dish later…when she asks for feedback. Which she will, obviously.
“This might sound weird or something,” Carmy adds, swallowing thickly. “I’m gonna try to be less shitty, but before we go for that drink...I...this might be me at my best, Syd. Really.”
She shrugs. “Yeah. Probably. Unless you have someone that consistently challenges you to be better. I can hold you to a higher standard, too. I got you.”
There is a longer pause, touched with tenderness. Underneath the counter, her toe nudges his.
Tell me where it hurts, she seems to be saying. I'll help you.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Sure. Now eat something,” she says. “You look like shit.”
They’re close enough to really touch. He feels her breath forming a film on his face—smoothing the lines of worry woven into his flesh.
It feels like the start of something.
For no reason at all, he laughs a little.
“What's the most important ingredient in anything?” Carm had asked ages ago.
“Time, baby,” Mike had answered, turning to meet Carmy’s gaze.
They’d been in Donna’s sunshine-crusted kitchen. They’d been cooking something heavy and fragrant and rich with happiness—comfort food.
Carm had been a bit bemused. “The fuck? Thyme?”
Mike had laughed out loud. “No, no. Time! Time is a measurement. An ingredient. You put time into things and make something good out of it. Time is the most important part of every recipe. Leave something to simmer too long and it’s fucked. Didn’t let something else roast for long enough? Also fucked! Christ, Carm—”
“What?” Carmy had asked, rather touched by the whole idea of time as an ingredient. The measurement of memories; the weight they hold.
He’d been young. He’d had so much time to spare.
Mike’s smile had widened. “Remember? That’s what Mom was always saying, right? Time is the secret ingredient that goes into everything and makes it good.”