16

Being a chef at an old folks’ home isn’t glamorous. It’s not like cooking at some fancy restaurant with celebrities coming in and hooking you up. It’s nothing like that. No famous people here, unless you count the mother of some opera singer, but I ain’t never seen her. Only opera person I know is Pavarotti, and he’s dead, right? Basically there’s nothing glamorous here on the clientele front and the food isn’t fancy either. No caviar, no foie gras, no truffles, although, now that I’m thinking about it that would be kinda ideal for old folks – soft to chew, easy on the stomach. But I have to make do with just the basics and that’s cool with me. I didn’t learn at the Cordon Bleu. I learned from my mama then got a credential from the Man. But my real cred, my street cred, is from my building and my mom. Turning ordinary food into crack food is what I do. Just one hit of my cooking and you gotta come back for more. Besides, the expectations are so low here; it’s not hard to beat. Plus there’s no real pressure – everyone gets served the same thing at the same time. All I got to do is stay within budget and make sure meals are nutritionally balanced and don’t make nobody sick. Old people with the runs ain’t good. The director lets me know that when I’m doing the cooking he never gets complaints – no notes dropped in the complaint box. But I don’t need him to tell me that. I can see how much they like my food here by how little comes back. I’m the celebrity chef around here. ‘Shit!’ I say, startled to find a woman, out of nowhere, suddenly standing beside me. How long had she been there while I was busy talking shit to myself? ‘S’cuse my French, ma’am, but I didn’t know you was there. You okay? You lost or something?’

‘I’m sorry for scaring you,’ she says, while looking at me like maybe I’m the crazy one.

‘Naw, you didn’t scare me. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.’

‘I came to thank you for tonight’s dinner. It was delicious.’

‘Thanks,’ I smile. ‘That’s the first time someone’s done that. I appreciate it.’

‘So what’s your secret? Because from what I hear, you’re the best cook in town.’

‘Cuz of what you heard me saying back then?’

‘No, from what everyone here says.’

‘Really? Well I just like making people happy how I know best and that’s with food. Anyway, I’m Toussaint.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Toussaint,’ she says, giving my hand a firm shake. ‘I’m Morayo. And I like your name, Toussaint.’

‘Well that’s my mom. She was a history teacher so that’s how she chose my name. But you’re not from here, right?’

‘No. I’m just recuperating.’

‘It’s just that your accent sounded different.’

‘Oh,’ she laughs, ‘I thought you were asking me whether I live here, in the Home. But Nigeria, that’s where I come from. Originally.’

‘For real? Africa, word! That’s cool. My mom always wanted to take us to the motherland. So what’s it like?’ I ask, while I reach to turn the radio off. Then I change my mind and search for a different station. ‘Cuz I’ve always wanted to know about Africa. You know, I hear all these things but I don’t know what it’s really like.’

‘It’s like everywhere, Toussaint. It’s amazing, crazy, wonderful, and frustrating – sometimes all at the same time.’

‘And racist like here?’

‘No, it’s not. Other parts of the continent are but not West Africa. You must come and visit one day, Toussaint.’

And there, she does it again, pronouncing my name so nice before she tells me more about Africa. ‘For sure, I’d love to go,’ I tell her, smiling as I look at her feet tapping to the music. ‘And y’all have good music in Africa, right? Isn’t that where Fela comes from?’

‘Ain’t no doubt about it,’ she says, singing along to the song now playing on the radio.

‘You know this song?’ I ask, raising the volume while watching how she’s swinging her hips and clicking her fingers.

‘Evelyn Champagne King!’

She’s kicked off her shoes and I see some toe rings and I wonder just how old she is. Her right sleeve has slipped a little from her shoulder as she grooves to the right, showing a slim hot pink bra strap. I raise my eyebrows surprised that someone her age would wear such a thing. I’m getting a little worked up as I watch her move, which surprises me and scares me. ‘So what’s the food like in Africa?’

‘Well, I’m not a cook, but I do love to eat and there’s such an incredible variety of foods in the continent. As for Nigeria, there’s so much delicious food, it’s hard to know where to start. But a lot of the food is spicy which is why I really loved what you made tonight. Where do you get your inspiration?’

‘Oh man, I’d love to travel more and get even more inspiration, but for now I guess I just learn what I can from the way my mom used to cook and then from tasting different things in different places. I like to experiment and kinda make my own dishes. I guess I think a lot about what will taste good and work all of our senses. You know, the way the food smells, and the way I present it on the plate. And cooking in a place like here I try to take into account the restrictions that I know about, from having lived with my grandmother. So like if people wear dentures then that means the food can’t be too chewy. Poor digestion means the food shouldn’t be too spicy and you need to go easy on the onions. So that’s why, to be honest with you, if I’d been cooking tonight’s curry just for me, it would’ve been a lot hotter. But just to make sure it’s okay with everyone I kinda toned it down, but still kept it tasty.’

‘So do you get to choose what you cook or do you follow a set menu?’

‘Well, usually the regular chef writes the menu for the week but seeing that he’s gone I can kinda improvise a little bit, as long as we have the ingredients. To be honest with you I don’t really like the suggested menu. It’s boring and old-fashioned. Most of the time I try to change it. So like today …’ I pause to fetch the menu so that I can show her what I mean. ‘So like, today we’re supposed to be having a herb green salad and herbed grilled chicken with a four onion quiche and apple pie. But right there, I mean, you can’t have two herby things and then two tarts! There’s no variety in that. Besides, nobody should be having four onion anything, anywhere in my opinion. So I changed it up. It’s like my culinary mix tape; the tracks may be familiar but the beats, fades, and mixes are all mine. Made a light curry and fresh fruit salad. And then I also like to think about the weather and create food that matches that too. So like for the birthday dinner next week, you can see that the guy has catch of the day with buttered noodles, but that sounds too heavy. And fish in my opinion just doesn’t go with noodles, so if I’m still covering next week I might do something like smoked fish tacos and then make something more of the dessert. But not a peach melba, like it’s suggested. I mean just cuz folks are old here, not you I mean, but others, it doesn’t mean the food has to be old-fashioned, right? So maybe I’ll do a black forest gateau or some kind of tart maybe.’

‘Well if I’m still here next week then I really hope you’ll be here too because it’s my birthday.’

‘For real? Okay, so I’m gonna make something really extra special. What would you like? Like a carrot cake or a chocolate cake? I could even do doughnuts or cupcakes if you like those better.’

‘You know what I’d really like, Toussaint?’

‘Tell me,’ I say, now thinking I’ll surprise her with something from her country, like some African fruit from the Muslim market or the Asia food store.

‘So what I’d really like would be for my friend, Amirah, to make some baklava. I’d just need someone to pick it up for me. But that’s what I’d love. It is such divine baklava. You’d love it, Toussaint.’

‘Sure,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure we can do that.’

‘Fabulous,’ she winks.

‘Fabulous,’ I repeat, and before I can check myself, I’m winking back.