Romance Impossible(16)

"I said pound them out," he muttered, when he came over to see my handiwork. "Not murder them."

But he used the flattened cutlets without further complaint, which I considered to be a small victory.

From my own research, I knew a little about Chef Dylan's vision for this restaurant. It would be his first foray into Italian cuisine, inspired by the foods that his mother cooked when he was young. Simple. Fresh. Bold flavors. A more casual experience, but still with that signature Chef Dylan flair.#p#分页标题#e#

After studying the culinary arts in France, and working in professional kitchens for almost a decade, Chef Dylan had founded several Parisian-inspired restaurants in New York City. I'd heard amazing things, but personally, I'd never been. Even when I was gainfully employed, I never felt like spending a hundred and fifty dollars on a tasting menu. This place, his first restaurant in his old hometown, was different. Much more my style. I didn't dislike French cuisine, exactly, but it didn't really make my top favorites. Then again, I'd been known to eat boxed macaroni and cheese with the nuclear-orange powder from time to time. So perhaps my taste shouldn't be trusted.

At work, though, I had higher standards.

Chef Dylan plopped a menu in my hand, then went back to laying out ingredients. My eyes drifted over the paper, without really seeing any of the words - at first. But on the second or third pass, something jumped out at me.

"What's..."

He looked up at me, holding something in his hand.

"...black garlic?" I finished. He plopped whatever-it-was onto the counter in front of me.

"It's that," he said. "Have you really never heard of it?"

I swallowed, feeling my face grow hot. Way to make a good impression on my first day. Well, all I could do was play it cool.

"Not that I can recall," I said, picking up the bulb and examining it. I brought it up to my nose and sniffed it carefully, same as I would any unfamiliar ingredient. It was richly fragrant, somewhat like the garlic I knew, but without the acrid bite. The skin was brown and crinkly, almost as if it had been roasted. When I peeled it back and plucked a clove free, I soon saw it was aptly-named. The little nib was coal-black, and soft between my fingers.

"It's fermented," said Chef. "They've been using it for its medicinal properties in Korea and Thailand for thousands of years. Just got popular around here a few years ago. I'm not much for fad ingredients, but..." He drifted off. When I looked up from the clove, I saw he was staring at me. "Well, try it," he said impatiently. "Are you just going to stare at it all day?"

Feeling particularly stupid, I popped it into my mouth. It all but melted on my tongue. The taste was comfortingly familiar, like a perfectly roasted garlic, but with a sweet richness that reminded me of molasses, or maybe a balsamic glaze. It had absolutely none of the bite of fresh garlic juice, but all the good parts of the flavor had been enhanced by the fermentation process.

"Yes?" Chef said, watching my face.

"Yes," I agreed. It was perfect for the salad he'd selected, yet somehow completely unexpected. I really shouldn't have been surprised.

The rest of the menu was like that. Simple food, but always with some decadent gourmet twist that ensured his customers would never eat a meal quite like it anywhere else.

When he talked about the food, his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. A few minutes into his rhapsodizing, I found myself wondering how he could be the same person who'd just snapped at me about chicken cutlets. Obviously, the way to keep Chef calm and happy was to keep him talking about his menus.

We started working through the dishes together. I expected him to have a small criticism, or at least a correction, for every little action I took - but he didn't. Was he saving it all for the end? Should I be bracing myself as I cooked?

He worked alongside me, occasionally talking me through what he was doing with the food. I nodded along, saying "yes, Chef" whenever he paused and glanced at me. At times, it hardly seemed like he was talking to me at all. I wondered if he'd forgotten where he was. Had he fallen into a trance, thinking he was on one of his numerous TV shows?#p#分页标题#e#

Suddenly, in the midst of one of his explanations, there was a quiet rapping at the door frame. I almost jumped out of my skin. The kitchen door was propped open, and in front of it, there was a young man - couldn't have been more than nineteen, built like a string bean, sort of slouching against the frame. Not so much out of disinterest or disrespect, I thought, but simply because he didn't know how else to hold his body.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry I'm late."