CHAPTER THREE (12)

“I’ll talk to my guy at the hospital.”

            Carlos pulled the cigarette from his mouth and walked over to the green trees that stood before him. He took the cigarette from his quivering lips, savoring the last drag and put it out in one of the black plastic pots. It sizzled and instantly went out. Gato peered from the kitchen counter and felt uneasy about his greens being contaminated with wretched tobacco ash.

            “You can lead yourself out,” said Gato, now filled with scorn. The two eyed each other again. Carlos invaded Gato’s chestnut Mexican eyes and tried to delve into them. He felt as if leagues and leagues might pass before Carlos could decipher the code behind those eyes. The wrinkles beneath them seemed to drip off his face like searing wax, and Gato didn’t have to grimace for Carlos to see the pain within. Mexican blood seemed to run only green these days, Carlos thought, thank god I’m Peruvian.

            “Of course.”

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            Customers began pouring in right around dinner-time in the little shopping center. Servers clad in white pressed uniforms and colorful ties stood at the entrance next to the tin man with the dog, endlessly reaching for a noodle – the ONLY noodle, and beckoned the hungry customers into their world. Unbenounced to the guests, an animal house ensued behind the closed white kitchen doors. Carrots, tomatoes, garlic – especially garlic – fennel, peperoncini, bay leaves, butter, heavy crème, everything moved in theatrical motion in the back of the house. Mexicans here and there called out slang terms; Vamos pendejo, vamos vamos vamos! The “rush” in the back smeared the walls with extra extra virgin olive oil and garlic paste, while little brown men in plastered, food encrusted uniforms flew about the red tile in a whir of commotion. Some stood in front of heavy stainless steel stoves watching syrupy liquids bubble and splatter in enormous pots above a ménage of blue an orange flames. Others garnished with parsley, rosemary, lemon peel, kale, basil, and capers. Their stubby fingers raw from chopping, their eyes watery from the constant abuse of onions, and their arm hair unfailingly burned off from the in-and-out of bread, meatballs, sausages, lasagne, manicotti, from the oven.

            But outside of those tightly closed flapping doors, the dining room was a flood with a different context. Customers in business suits and women doused in pearls and severe eu d’ toilette were coaxed to a fro from table to table as if cattle. A purr inundated the room, reverberations bounced off the picture-adorned walls with the low murmur that always accompanies a dining room. Orders were taken, and the men and women in tightly pressed white uniforms ran to their computer stations to input the next order, to input the next overpriced meal or costly glass of wine. The motto was: Charge ‘em 200% plus a dollar of wholesale.

            Carlos revolved this maxim in his mind as he stood next to the front entrance, smiling a wide smile between two-freshly shaven cheeks. He was wearing a pastel mauve tonight, maybe close to salmon.