CHAPTER FORTY

 

 

Francis sat at the restaurant and thought about Mike. He was unable to enjoy the meal despite its pleasing aroma and flavor. It was a rare day when idle thoughts would be able to distract him from eating. He planned on going back to the hospital after he finished the article, but, at the rate he was going, that might be a while.

He opened his notebook and took a bite of the food. It was quite good, not overcooked, and the presentation was nice. The atmosphere was pleasant, though, at this time of day, it was hard to tell. Francis preferred to eat at the height of the dinner rush. He would judge the food by not only using his palate but also by watching the faces of other patrons. In New York, people weren't shy. If they didn't like something, they sent it back. This was his secret to reviewing. Any chef worth his weight in truffles could put together something brilliant for one critic eating alone. Could he do it for all of the people at the restaurant? That was the question he strived to answer.

When Francis gave a restaurant his seal of approval, it would send people flocking to their tables, but, if he were wrong, people would blame him. Francis fooled around with his salad and noticed a very worried chef watching from the back. The chef's name was Rolando. He was 23, and this would be his first major review. Since the restaurant was empty, it being after the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd, Francis decided to give him a break and explain.

He asked the waitress, "Could you please ask Rolando, if he has a minute, to join me?"

"Yes, sir."

Rolando tried to pace his walk, but he looked like he wanted to run. Or maybe it was his legs threatening to give out. Francis wasn't sure. When he arrived at the table, Francis stood and shook his hand.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Yes, Mr. Le Mange, it is an honor to meet you."

"I assure you the pleasure is mine. Please sit."

Now, most of the staff looked on nervously, too.

"I don't make it a habit of speaking with the chefs and do my best to remain anonymous, but today is not like most days."

"Oh, how so?" Rolando asked. He could see the pain on the critic's face.

"My mind isn't on the food. It is elsewhere and I have been sitting here picking at it. I noticed you had observed such, and I wanted to make it clear that it wasn't the food's fault."

"You seem troubled, sir; may I ask what is weighing so heavily on your mind?"

Francis liked him. He spoke well and carried himself with a grace normally reserved for much older men. He was not brash as the young so often were. He was kind. "A dear friend is in the hospital. My thoughts are with him."

"I am sorry to hear your friend is sick."

"Thank you, but he isn't sick. He was beaten by a gang of thugs. He is a policeman."

"Is it the man in the paper?"

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a moment until Francis asked, "When did you first start to cook?"

"I was four years old and helped my mother back in Spain. I would wash the vegetables and get her pots and pans. She called me her little sous chef. I honestly can't remember doing anything else."

Francis found this fascinating. He knew plenty of chefs, but this one had a story and an interesting one at that. "When did you come to America?"

"In 1938 my family moved from Spain. My father smelled the coming trouble and said it was time to go. His brother had come over in 1935 and drove a cab. My uncle loved being a cabbie and convinced my father to buy their own medallion and go into business. They now have 37 cabs and do very well. My uncle and father put up the money and helped me start the restaurant."

Francis sat there and listened as he ate. The food really was special. The waitress brought Rolando a cup of coffee, and the young chef continued to tell his story. They talked for close to an hour. Francis finished his meal and even had some dessert.

Francis thanked Rolando for his company and the fine meal. In the cab ride back to the paper, he realized he felt much better. It took very little time for him to write his review. It wasn't a typical review as he devoted more inches to the man than to the food.