One

Two-hundred-and-eighty-pound Salvatore Pitera, in a powder-blue jogging suit and tinted aviator glasses, stepped out of Franks Original Pizza onto Spring Street. He had a slice of pizza in one hand, too hot to eat, and he was blowing on it as he waddled through street traffic.

At the corner of Elizabeth Street, he passed the social club. A group of old men sat out front, in tattered easy chairs, drinking espresso.

"Hey, Wig! Sally Wig!" one of the men called out to him. The old men laughed. One man, the oldest, in a dark jacket and unbuttoned white dress shirt, put down his demitasse. "Hey, Sally, what you walking so funny for? You got the piles or something?"

"I don't want to get any fuckin' pizza on my shoes," Sally said.

"Hey, Wig," said another espresso drinker. "Looking good."

The old men laughed. Sally kept walking west, his face all red now, jaw clenched, both eyes on his new Bally running shoes. When he was out of sight of the old men, he reached up to feel if his hair was on right.

THREE YOUNG MEN in spattered white chef's jackets and black-and-white-checked pants stood out front of the Dreadnaught Grill. The chef, the tallest one, was pale and thin, with long brown hair that curled out from under his chef's hat. He held a copy of Larousse Gastronomique and was turning the pages furiously. He wore the hat high on his forehead and pulled straight back like a skullcap. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

"Beurre blanc, beurre blanc, beurre blanc," he was saying. Reading over his shoulder was Tommy. Darker, and not as tall as the chef, his hair stood up straight and spiky like a young Trotsky's. He had a faded blue bandanna draped over his shoulder. Two kitchen towels hung from his apron strings, one on each side, and he wore black, food-encrusted combat boots. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently while the chef turned the pages.

Ricky, younger than the other two, with thinning blond hair, stood at the chef's other shoulder, cleaning his fingernails with a paring knife. He gnawed on a plastic swizzle stick.

"I'm telling you right now," said the chef, "There is no, repeat, no cream in a real beurre blanc. Zero dairy . . . Got it? . . . Look—" He found the page in Larousse. "You see any mention of cream in there? No . . . You put cream in there, it ain't beurre blanc."

Tommy, his sous-chef, turned away from the book, saying, "Glad I didn't take the bet." He reached in his front chest pocket, fished out a Marlboro, and lit it. "So what the hell we been serving then?"

"I dunno what it is," said the chef. "It's cheating is what it is . . . And I'm telling you right now, both of you—I come in and find you or Ricky sneakin' cream in there again, you'll be peeling fuckin' shallots and bearding mussels for the next fuckin' month."

"That's how we made it at Giro's," said Ricky, lamely "Keeps it from breaking."

"I don't care how they do it at Giro's," said the chef. "Giro's is a fuckin' slop house. I want it done this way . . . Like it says in the book. The right way. And strain it. I'm not asking for you to run it through a goddamn cheesecloth, for Chrissakes . . . just pass it through a fine sieve. I don't want little bits a fucking shallot in there. Yesterday, I come in and Tommy here's got a beurre sitting out like . . . like fuckin' tartar sauce, it's got so many shallots in it. And cold . . . Shit was sitting up like a rock. You put that on a piece of fish, it's gonna slide right off on your lap like a scoop of ice cream."

"Alright," said Tommy. "I got it . . . No more dairy in the beurre. I guess this means I gotta stop puttin' corn starch in the demiglace?"

The chef turned and gave him a dirty look. "Go suck a turd, Tommy."

Ricky pushed some long blond hair out of his eyes and put the paring knife in his jacket pocket. He started to peel a gray, rust-colored Band-Aid off his left thumb. "Chef Uncovers Another Crime Against Food. Perpetrator Unmasked. Dining Public Grateful. Case Closed."

"That thumb doesn't look so good," said the chef.

"It's coming along," said Ricky, holding up a swollen, pink digit neatly bisected by a jagged wound. He rolled up the old Band-Aid into a little ball and flicked it into the street. He reached into his breast pocket for two new ones. "These things are a fuckin' pain to unwrap," he said.

The chef helped him to rewrap the wound. "Just don't leave any Band-Aids in the food," he said. Then he turned and disappeared down the steps into the clatter and hiss of the basement kitchen.

"He's cranky today," said Tommy. "What's his problem?"

"What do you think?" said Ricky with a smirk.

"He's been riding my ass all day," said Tommy.

"We never shoulda got him that book."

"No shit."

"It wasn't me," said Ricky. "It wasn't me that told him."

"About the beurre?"

"It wasn't me that ratted you out."

"I know," said Tommy. "It's okay, man . . . It was probably somebody on the floor. He wouldn't a noticed himself. Stephanie considers herself some kinda gourmet lately. . . She probably said something. Probably read something in the Wednesday food section, came in Thursday and tried to impress the chef with her vast knowledge . . ."

"She impresses me with her vast posterior."

Tommy shrugged, took a last pull on his cigarette, and flicked it into the street. "Let his sauce break on him halfway through dinner service a couple of times . . . He'll be right back at us to put a little cream in. He's just bustin balls."

Ricky raised his chin slightly. "Look who's comin' down the street."

"Oh shit," said Tommy. He looked up to see Sally, halfway down the block, tossing a piece of uneaten pizza crust into a trash can. He grimaced, "It's fuckin' embarrassing, man. Just look at that fuckin' guy. . . He looks like a cross between Sonny Bono and Hermann Goring."

Ricky straightened up and moved away from Tommy.

"I think I'll leave you alone with your uncle, bro'," he said. "I've got something in the oven."

Sally approached Tommy with a broad grin stretched across his face from jowl to jowl. "Hey, chef," he said, "cookin' anything I like?"

"I'm not the chef," said Tommy. "I'm the sous-chef. I told you before."

Sally wrapped two beefy arms around Tommy and gave him a hug and a half-slap on the cheek. "Whassat mean? You make the soups or somethin'?"

"No, it means I'm the second chef—the under chef. Like the under boss. You know what that is, right, Sally?"

"You got a fresh fuckin' mouth," said Sally. "So what are you and your little friends cookin' down there today?"

"Absolutely nothing you like," said Tommy.

"No veal chop? No pasta? How about sausages? I thought this supposed to be some kinda fancy French restaurant. You don't got any fuckin' sausages?"

"This is a seafood place . . . Mediterranean seafood. French Mediterranean seafood. We do mostly fish," said Tommy.

"How about squid?" asked Sally. "That's seafood. You got any squid in there?"

"No squid," said Tommy.

"You should try some of that squid they got next door. You ever try the Count's squid? He serves some nice squid. That squid is beautiful," said Sally.

"Foreskins in afterbirth is what it is," said Tommy.

"It's good," insisted Sally.

"That shit is fuckin' vile," said Tommy. "I'm ashamed I ever ate there."

"It's good."

"It's not good. It's not even fresh! They buy it frozen," said Tommy.

"He told me it's fresh," said Sally.

"The fuck it is," said Tommy. "I'm tellin' you . . . they buy it frozen. I see the deliveries comin' in. They buy like six tons a that shit at a clip."

Sally held up his palm. "You just don't appreciate good Italian food. Anyways, we can agree to disagree. I don't want to get into it with you. You never knew how to fuckin' eat. I shouldn't be surprised."

"Whatever," said Tommy. He lit another cigarette. "What, you here to see Harvey?"

"Yeah, is he here?"

Tommy nodded. "He got in an hour ago. He's in the office, sweating the weather. He calls the weather service every ten minutes. Like they're gonna change the forecast, he calls back."

"Business not so good?" asked Sally.

Tommy shrugged. "Ask him yourself."