Bolivar Shurgnasty smiled cheerfully and threw open the doors of Bolivar Restorante: Eat Fresh! “What a lovely day!” He exclaimed buoyantly as he enthusiastically sucked in the 12-degree air into his quivering lungs and happily juggled knives in the air. “Isn’t it excellent Jasper?”
“Oh yes, indeed,” I said sarcastically with a polite smile, “The best in the world sir!” for a moron anyway. I am from Arizona and do not appreciate New York’s frigid air. It’s absurdly useful. It makes the fat New Yorkers hungry and they come and stuff their faces with pasta and other good stuff. Business is always worse in the summer time when it’s too hot to eat anything. Maybe that’s why Arizona always had such crappy restaurants.
My name is Jasper Bean. This is my story. I am a mistreated, misrepresented, miserable line chef suffering under Bolivar’s regime in one of the most famous Italian restaurants in New York City. I am brilliant, smart, audacious, and at some point going to take New York City by a storm with my own restaurant. Bolivar is one of the most irritating men I have ever met. 45. Bald. Ugly. Single. Deathly allergic to basil. Seemingly daft as a post. And somehow he manages to invent the most delicious recipes I have ever tasted, all without basil. No basil? How are they even Italian? I’m pretty convinced that if I can get a hold of his blasted recipes and add some basil, they will be perfect. Maybe even open a more famous restaurant.
Bolivar deftly caught the five knives in perfect succession and turned to his kitchen with a smile. “We have a lot to do today boys! Let’s have at it. Fire up the ovens. Sweep the must from the air! Let’s fill this kitchen with savory and real Italiano, no? Clarence, start the bread. Bordeaux, the sausage and sauce prep. And Jasper, my fine friend, we need 50 pounds of onions.”
I smiled with carefully poised enthusiasm. “Whatever you say Bolivar! Onions are my favorite!” It’s not like I don’t have anything else important to do anyway. I of course would love to cry my eyes out cutting up your smelly onions. I would love to rot another 20 years at the bottom of the totem poll in this joint. It really, really isn’t fair you know. One of life’s injustices
I am much better at business than Bolivar could ever dream of being. It was my idea to hire a decent designer to re-do the previously crappy decor in the front. Who gets the credit? Bolivar. It’s Bolivar this, Bolivar that. Whatever. Life is full of injustices. It’s like one the kid on the playground with the red hair and ugly green shirt gets picked first for basketball just because he’s taller. It’s not the like freckled kid with glasses could do anything about his height. Not that that has ever happened to me, because it hasn’t. And don’t think that it has.
This whole place is really run down anyway. It’s kind of a fire hazard. The walls are rotten and crumbling and the old, huge brick oven sends sparks everywhere. The health inspectors actually came around last time and I’m pretty sure they would have failed the place, except Bolivar was charming and gave them free éclairs.
“Brigitte!” Jasper bellowed cheerfully, clapping his hands together over an apron that his belly threatened to burst through, “First customers!” Ah, Brigitte. I turned from my miserable chopping corner to wipe my onion-streaming eyes and steal a peek at her as she brushed into the room. I never was sure what to think of her. Some days she was an elegant brunette with a creamy complexion and a whispering smile. Some days she was a gangly blonde with red brushed, sallow cheeks and a sickly grimace to pass for a smile. Some days she was a red head with pinked and plumped lips in an elegant sneer. Brigitte, you see, is an out-of-work actress. She has been out of work for longer than she has been in work, actually. I think her last “gig” as she calls it was as a youth eating a plate of spaghetti and grinning up at the camera for an Olive Garden commercial when she was 12. Maybe that was why she worked for Bolivar now, hoping the Italian would rub off. Just another dreamer not born in New York City but living in New York City who will die in New York City with faded New York City dreams glamour stamped feebly in worry and work creases across the face.
“Why Brigitte! Your new hair is lovely!” Bolivar beamed as she swept in. A shy flush colored her cheeks and she patted her newly blackened hair. Actually, her hair looked kind of like someone had dumped it in a coal bin. Red streaks hemmed the bottom of her smooth bun and dirty blonde peeped from the crown of her head; nothing knew what it should be.
“Two orders of Omellette di Gamberetti, three Crepes Suzette, and one Frittata Vegitariana.” She reeled off. The vegetarian dishes always made me sick.
“Ah excellent, Beatrice, be sure to put out fresh bread on their table while they are waiting,” Bolivar enthused as he cracked eggs into a bowl.
I really don’t like Brigitte. She is one of those annoying people who crawls into your mind and doesn’t leave. I can be doing something perfectly innocent, like watching Bolivar drink his morning coffee from the tree outside his window, or ransacking the pantry for that hidden recipe box, or even just going to sleep—she keeps popping into my mind. I really wish she would not do that, as I don’t think it’s very nice of her. “Nice color Brigitte. It really brings out the color of your eyelashes and makes your nose look nice and prominent.”
Now I am never anything but nice to her. I mean, those were legitimate compliments. But somehow, Brigitte has an unearned scowl she reserves just for me. “Why thank you, Jasper. It’s so nice of you to spread tears of appreciation on my behalf.”
I flush angrily and turn back to my onions, chopping them so vigorously that Bolivar frowns in my direction, “Remember Jasper, treat them gently; every ingredient is a treasure, that is what makes the dish.”
“Oh yes sir, I’m sorry. I will be more careful.” I apply the knife with perfect precision, slicing through each layer. I will find the heart of each one. Brigitte. Dumb, snobby Brigitte. What does she have to feel so special about? She doesn’t really matter anyway.
Once I used to know this freckle-faced loser, not me, who used to obsess over this girl with blonde braids and red hair ribbons in 4th grade. That all ended one day at the playground, when she called him a loser and a creep and told him to stop following her. Which he wasn’t really; I mean, sure, he liked her well enough so he would watch her every now and again and maybe he knew that she always ate Raisin Bran for breakfast, had a picture of Orlando Bloom in her pencil box in her desk, and always drew her Q’s with curly ends, but any boy who likes a girl knows that. It wasn’t creepy at all. And it certainly wasn’t me.
The day takes on its usual hum; overworked, understaffed, but every dish gets out on time, Bolivar personally checking every one before it leaves the counter. They say that’s his legacy, never ever releasing an imperfect dish from his kitchen. Watching his round belly swing back and forth between counter and stovetop, mixing, tasting—I think his real legacy will be dying of hyper-exertion.
“Jasper! We are behind. I know you are still learning here, but could take over the Calamari? Just watch it and tell me when it needs to be turned. I need to mix the vinaigrette.”
“Of course Bolivar, whatever you need!” Still learning my old grape nuts. I am good; I am really, really good. But that doesn’t ever seem to be enough for Bolivar. Not at all. He won’t even give let anyone mix his dressings, not even Bordeaux who has been here for forever. Every recipe is written down though; he says one day he will marry, have a fat little boy, and pass on his secrets. I don’t think that will really happen, since it would involve getting married and good luck in that department. It’s hard to do that when you never even leave the restaurant.
Bolivar doesn’t even have them memorized. He opens his locked box and reads the recipe every time he’s going to make something. I always wonder if he even came by them honestly in the first place, if he can’t even remember them.
I grab onion number 29 and begin peeling. I have no idea how in the world this restaurant goes through so many. Maybe Brigitte takes them home at night for part of her beauty routine. Brigitte again. Jumping into my mind. Why is she so annoying? And why does she have such a simpering smile? And why in the world does she keep trying to snub me? I am unsnubbable. People who can be snubbed are weak. Once I knew this dumb freckled kid who used to get really upset when people laughed at him for not remembering things. They ignored him. So he ignored them. I don’t think it helped anything.
“Jasper, more gently, more gently!”
More gently – that’s what the mother of this dumb freckled kid I used to know would say when he was roughing it too much in the yard or coming inside. I was always glad that kid wasn’t me. I mean, his house was a tomb. It was perfectly quiet with perfect windows and perfect doors and not a scrap of dirt touching anything. Perfect, yes. Whatever.
I came to New York City not to sit here like any other dreamer. I am good. I am the best chef you have ever seen. I’m just stuck here. I don’t know how Bolivar managed to get it so good. Let me tell you about him.
Bolivar leads a charmed life. I know, because I’ve been watching him. He lives in a tiny apartment over the Restorante, but he swears he doesn’t want anything better. You can see right into it from the rooftop of the next place over. He gets up every morning at 4am. He stretches exactly four times, gets out of bed, brushes his teeth, feeds his little dog, and goes down to the kitchen to start the ovens. He drinks one cup of coffee with 3 lumps of sugar and exactly one half a cream. Then he sits and smiles for no particular reason while staring off into space for 15 minutes. Then, he walks into the bathroom and closes the door. He is usually there for ten minutes. Would that we all had such perfect bladders. He comes out and goes back into the kitchen. He opens up his magic box with a key and pulls out all his recipes, picks the ones he will use that day, and pours over them for an hour, making notes and annotations on all of them.
It’s that darned key I can’t figure out. His recipe box isn’t that well hidden. I mean, really, who keeps a sugar box behind tomato sauce on the top shelf of the pantry? Obvious. But that key…. he never has it in the morning, but he always has it when he goes downstairs to his box. I know he doesn’t have it in any of his pockets or around his neck while he’s sleeping. Either it’s in his bathroom or somewhere on the stairway in between. I don’t know which. All I know is he has it.
At 5:15 he gets down his knives and starts juggling them. Why? I really have no idea and since it has nothing to do with his recipes, I really don’t care. At 5:30, we all come in. After that it’s rush rush until about 3pm. Then Bolivar takes his charity walks. He goes to all these nasty houses and gives out the leftover bread from breakfast, piously proclaiming, “A fine day deserves a fine deed.” It’s a pretty good idea; everyone thinks he’s a charmer and he gives good rapport for his business. Plus, we don’t have to throw out the old bread. 5pm sharp we are slaving away again. Brigitte unlocks the door for a line of diners at 5:45 precisely. Rush rush until 10pm when the last dish is washed and we are all sent home.
“Hey Jasper, what do you think?” A beaming Bolivar shoves a spoon at me. I taste. This is the part that gets me every time. I close my eyes and savor; the vinaigrette spills over my tongue, just tangy, just sweet, just perfect. I try to quickly taste the spices, but it doesn’t ever work for me. Some people have this magic catalogue they can use to taste something and say “Why of course, that is the cilantro, the marjoram, the thyme, and the parsley; excellent.” Somehow their taste buds slide the spices apart and taste them separately. Me? I just know what tastes good together. I can’t figure out how to do it. But that’s not my fault either; I was dropped when I was a baby.
“It’s perfect sir!” I enthuse. Bolivar smiles in satisfaction, “I knew it! It will change all our salads for the next week.” I nod vigorously. “Sir, it will be a hit. The sweet and sour level is perfect. A little bit of tarragon, no?” I saw him get that one off the shelf.
“Jasper, you are a wonder! I am so pleased I hired you. You will be a chef extraordinaire.”
Maybe this would be a good in. “If I could be even half the chef of you, I would be so pleased.” A snort came from behind; I turned in time to see Brigitte hide a derisive scowl.
“What?” I asked with carefully constructed innocent curiosity, pretending not to feel the anger palpitating inside my ears.
“Oh nothing, Jasper. I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to. Bolivar, the couple on table 9 would like to personally meet you if possible. They love your food.”
“Oh of course!” Bolivar bustled out.
Brigitte glared at me as she snatched up 4 plates to carry out; she carried them with such precision in long, graceful arms… “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know it isn’t good. And you should know that I am watching you.”
“I have no idea, dear Brigitte, what you could be talking about.”
“Yes you do. I’ve seen you sneaking around. You’re a creep. And you aren’t as nice as you act.”
My nice bone bent inside and the words were out before I could strap them down. “Oh yes, well, I suppose the one swarming in acting experience and expertise would be the expert on human character.” I bowed as she flushed, opened her mouth, and stomped away. Once the freckle-faced kid I knew learned that you could make people stop picking on them if you said mean things to them. He was right. I’m not that kid, but he was pretty smart.
Onion 47. I think my eyes are going to fall out. I don’t have any tears left. “Jasper! When you finish the onions, I need more tomatoes chopped and a fresh salami from the back.”
“Right away Bolivar.” He’s in his element now. Shouting out order after order, and we his little minions must obey him.
“Bordeaux!” Bolivar called, “The basil has arrived. Could you put a sprig of it onto plates 1, 14, and 7 before they go out? And please keep it prepped on that side of the kitchen.” Did I mention Bolivar is deathly allergic to basil? Yeah, well, he is. One little sprig and his face will balloon up. More than that, his insides will balloon up. That’s why if something absolutely has to have basil, someone else puts it on. Once he got a cutting board that had had basil on it two days ago that someone hadn’t scrubbed closely enough (okay, okay, or maybe someone rubbed a little on the board; I sort of wondered how bad it would swell up), and he ended up in the hospital.
We closed up the whole restaurant and had a whole day off. That was an awesome day. I mean, it was sad and of course really to bad for Bolivar, but it was nice to have the day off. Brigitte and I went to a play. Okay – so maybe she went and I followed and got in and sat about 8 rows behind her, but it was pretty much the same thing. Except, I wonder if she knew I was there.
“Jasper! I need more special sauce. Upstairs on my table in the kitchenette.” I quickly drop what I am doing and run upstairs. Bolivar often experiments with things in his apartment, so I am accustomed to run up there for ingredients. As I grab the jar I suddenly see it: the key. It’s right there on the back of the counter. Without thinking, I grab the key and stuff it in my pocket.
“Jasper! I need the sauce”
“Coming!” I race my heart back downstairs, thumping louder than my feet. I thrust the sauce into Bolivar’s hand and rush back to my corner. Potatoes there now. I tear into the sack and begin peeling furiously, my mind racing, key burning in my pocket. Now what? If I have the key, I could get the recipes tonight, hop a train tomorrow. Or should I just copy them down and wait? Would that be too suspicious? I somehow hadn’t thought past the getting the key part.
“Jasper! We need more cilantro chopped,” Bolivar yelled. “And we’re running out of dishes!” Brigitte added, “I need more silverware.”
“Jasper! More sauce on skillet nine. And the calamari need to be watched again.” And you wonder why I’m going crazy. I once knew this little freckle-faced kid, not me, who had too many brothers and sisters. He was the middle child, and he was always getting yelled at to be the local slave. Clean the kitchen. Make dinner. Weed the garden. Scrub the floorboard. Wash Dad’s car. Yeah, he was nothing but a slave. I always knew I wouldn’t be like him.
We were in the element; rush hour was at its peak and Bolivar Shurgnasty was, once again, living up to his extravagant name with an extravagant array of dishes. Then it happened. It happened so fast I wasn’t sure how it even started. Clarence pulled open the oven door and pulled out a fresh mozzarella pizza. Then there was some kind of an explosion from the back of the oven and the whole place smelled like smoke. Flames were leaping up the sides of the wall, greedily gobbling the dry wood and grease-encrusted wallpaper.
Then there was yelling. And screaming. Everyone was running outside, except for Bolivar, who was trying to throw water on the walls. “Get the customers out!” He yelled. We tried, as fast as we could, to hustle everyone out. More screaming. Have you ever tried getting 70 people to exit a restaurant in an orderly process? It’s kind of like herding cats. (Which I have also tried before, and which doesn’t work out so well).
Once we were all outside I remembered, the recipes! The whole reason I had put up with Bolivar and his cheerful hell for all those months; I couldn’t let them burn. Suddenly Bolivar yelled, “Where is Brigitte?” Looking around, I realized she was missing too.
“I’ll get her!” I yelled and ran back before anyone could stop me. The kitchen was an inferno, the flames eerily silent as they ate what should have been for people. The searing heat removed any bit of moisture in my eyes the onions hadn’t drained.
“Brigitte!” I yelled, while trying to find my way through the flames to the pantry on the right where that box was. “Where are you?”
“I’m in here!” I heard a muffled voice from the far left side of the room. At the exact same moment the middle of the roof sounded ominously.
“I’m stuck! The shelf fell down and I can’t get my leg out.” I looked at the roof and had one of those epiphany moments that only happens in movies and fake stories where time seems to freeze while I think. If I went for the recipes, I probably couldn’t get Brigitte. If I went for Brigitte, bye bye recipes. I closed my eyes and heard that freckle faced kid again listening to his teacher berate him for supposedly plagiarizing a science project on neuromuscular diseases. (How’s a kid to know that it was too advanced work for a 10-year-old and he should have borrowed from his high school brother instead of his college brother?) “You’ll never do anything great. You’ll never be anything great. You will always choose the easy way out.”
Brigitte screamed. But she hates me. Why should I save her? She might slap in my face. Or, she might cry and hug me, her hero. Her awesome hero who saved her life. The roof creaked. I could hear those recipes begin to crackle. It’s my life dream. What’s an Arizona-based line chef supposed to do? Left or right? I picked a direction, and plunged into the flames.
**************************************************************************
It’s been a number of months since I’ve said anything, so you’re probably wondering what happened to me. Well, what happened to Jasper Bean is a good question. I think he got left behind somewhere. Currently though, a Gerald Legumbre has opened up an Italian restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia, and he’s doing really, really well. People are so impressed with his recipes, although they often wonder that few of them include basil. I mean, honestly, that Gerald guy has got it made. His restaurant is making a killing.
As for the Restorante folks, I don’t know what happened to them all. I don’t know what happened to them all. Honestly. I haven’t cared enough to pay attention. I never did like any of them. Although, I think someone randomly mentioned the other day that someone named Brigitte Foster famously survived a tragic fire in a restaurant, which gave her a spot on national television. A famous actor in New York City fell in love with her pluck and beauty and married her. He probably deserved it.
And maybe I might have read in the papers that Bolivar died yesterday though, an overdose of basil. Somehow it got into something he was tasting, but they don’t know what, since it was after hours and no one could get in. They assume he just got careless. His famous hidden recipe box, recovered safely from the fire, was opened per his will, but all that was inside were scraps of paper with pictures doodled on them. They say he must have been too proud to write them after all. For who would ever want to harm Bolivar? Who indeed. I certainly don’t know. I haven’t bothered think about it. I wouldn’t even know about it if it hadn’t have been like big news or something, because I certainly wouldn’t have looked for his name. All I can tell you is that sometimes, sometimes, the dragon wins.
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