C & C Part 11

I can't think of a single story about Sherrill, she was strictly no-drama. Once she told me that she was named for the girl group from the 60s; her mom switched the vowels around, but the pronunciation stayed the same. She started as a sandwich maker, just like me, and she made the most delicious tomato sauce we served, just pureed tomatoes with fresh garlic and rosemary. 

And I'll never forget the time "Like a Prayer" came on the radio in the kitchen. The song was new, and our stations were next to each other that day. "Have you seen the video for this song?" she asked me. I had not, but Sherrill described it to me in amazing detail. "And then Madonna mouths, He didn't do it, at the end," she finished and shook her head incredulously. 

Those were probably the most words Sherrill ever spoke to me at one time, and to this day, I cannot hear that song without thinking of her. And as an aside? Of all of us, she is the only one who still works for the company; she is the chef de cuisine.

C & C Part 10

For the first few weeks I worked there, Regina was the kitchen manager. She knew everything about the operation, and to me, Regina seemed almost like a third partner in the business. She worked very closely with them, ordering food from the suppliers, filling the schedule, making the daily job lists, and planning party menus. She was an even-tempered problem solver, and a great cook to boot, and when Regina was in the kitchen, everything seemed completely under control.

But she wasn't a partner; Regina was an employee just like the rest of us and subject to the same capricious outbursts from the owners that we were. We pretended to be really engrossed in our cutting boards when she called on the carpet because someone was frustrated about something.

And when she had the chance to leave the company for a position where she could be part owner? She quit without even giving her 2 weeks notice. Or maybe she gave it, and it wasn't accepted. Either way, we never saw or mentioned Regina again.

C & C Part 9

Martin was kind of the yang to Linda's yin. About the same age, early 40s, where she was an uptight party girl, he was a laid-back stoner guy, at least on the surface. Like Curtis, he rocked an impressive mustache, although his was gray, and he had almost twinkly eyes behind square wire-rimmed glasses. At first, he was kind of like a mentor or guru to some of the younger staff, inviting people over to hang out at his house to drink beer, listen to Windham Hill, Steely Dan,  and Rickie Lee Jones, and shoot the shit, but there was a lot more going on underneath that kindly, cool-uncle facade

Martin was from a long line of cooks; his father had been a chef, and his grandparents were restauranteurs in France. He had recently married his second wife, a woman at least 15 years younger than he, and he was estranged from his 20-something son from his first marriage. He was a soldier when it came to knocking out his cooking list every day, but it was clear to all of us that he felt this place and this food was beneath him. 

As time went on, there was muttering from Martin about how tight the roux in the common bucket was, and eye-rolling about the use of Uncle Ben's long grain and wild rice mix, and he obviously hated picking the shells from crabmeat or peeling shrimp. Sometimes he was sulky and grumpy, and soon there were clashes between Martin and Linda and Martin and Gertrude over silly things, but they all thought they knew best, and none of them were the type to back down.

One Saturday, it was Martin's job to stuff 140 chicken breasts with wild mushrooms and par-grill them for a wedding reception that night. He slogged through the task for most of the afternoon, counting out the finished product on sheet pans, covering them in foil, and sliding them onto a rolling rack. He personally loaded his entree into the truck. 

Martin and Curtis and I were all working the kitchen at the party that night, where the 250 guests had the choice of salmon or chicken. A service that big takes a while, and by the time we got to plating up dinner for the last tables, the waiters were almost ready to clear the first tables. 

"I need 8 chickens!" someone yelled. 

"That's impossible," Martin said.

I looked up from where I was placing julienned vegetables on each plate as it came by. 

"Count again!" Martin insisted, red-faced and searching the rolling rack for a sheet pan that wasn't there.

The line froze. Unsure what to do next, we looked at the owner who was running the back of the house. Just then, waiters started coming back to the kitchen with the plates they had cleared from the head tables. Several of them had leftovers from the generous portions we had served. 

"Don't throw those away!" snapped the owner. "Martin, slice those up into portions. With sauce, no one will know."

And Martin did it. The rest of the chicken dinners went out as medallions, instead of whole breasts, never mind they had already been to the party once. 

C & C Part 8

Curtis and Martin started on the same day I returned to work after my father's death. The business was expanding, and they were additions rather than replacements. 

Curtis was just a year older than I was, tall and skinny with dark, moppy hair and a mustache to rival Groucho Marx. He was broody, and bossy, and had a huge smile and an even bigger laugh. He rode a motorcycle; in fact the only time I've ever been on one was when we rode together to work a party at the Virginia Living Museum out in Newport News. He insisted I wear my leather jacket and, handing me a helmet told me, "If the bike goes down, you want to tuck and slide like you're stealing base." 

There was no conversation over the roar of the Harley, so for 45 minutes I was alone with my thoughts as we rode out the toll road, along the bay, and through the shiny white glare of the Hampton Roads Tunnel. I wasn't afraid, but I didn't love it, either. 

If we had a choice, Curtis and I usually worked at adjoining stations. We spent our days talking and bickering about recipes and music and life in general. He loved asking "big" questions. "If God was a celebrity," he asked me one day, "who would he be?"

"That's easy," I replied without hesitation. "Paul Simon."

When Curtis moved into the extra bedroom in the house I shared with my sister and my girlfriend, it was probably a little too much togetherness. As simpatico as we were, he was like an older brother, condescending and annoying. So when he broke up with his girlfriend and moved back to Northern Virginia, I was glad to get a little space.

A few months later, the rest of our household moved north, and we weren't there more than a week when Curtis called me with a job opportunity. I accepted, but what happened next is another topic all together.

And then? There was Martin.

C & C Part 7

The front of the house staff wore pink shirts and khakis beneath the green aprons that the shop issued. Their job was to run the register, keep the case full, make coffee, heat up and dish out eat-in meals, and weigh and pack to-go orders. My sister worked out front, and she got me the sandwich-making gig. Because of the nature of the job, people came and went, but even so, there was a core group on the schedule for most of the time I was there.

Suzy was the manager; her asymmetrical bob was 80s cool, but she was strict and no-nonsense with her staff. The corners of her mouth would turn down and her blue eyes would flash with irritation at any unfilled serving platter, empty coffee pot, or unwiped counter.

Kate was the assistant manager. She had graduated from Rutgers a few years earlier with a chemistry degree, and she was living in the area temporarily because her husband Paul had been stationed there out of West Point. Peter was a local guy; barely five feet tall, he had the slow and lazy speech of a surfer and a matching reputation as an airhead. Gaye was a southern belle; her hair and makeup were always perfect, she lived with her wealthy mother, and read fashion and travel magazines. Hope was the high school sweetheart; blond and pretty, she was dating a local cop who turned out to be a big jerk. 

With such a cast, there was always some drama, and we spent countless off-hours talking endlessly about the people we worked with. It was enough to drive other people from the room!

C & C Part 6

Linda was in her mid-40s and single, and she had that year-round beachy tan. She wore her hair in a messy bun when she was working, but her look was totally different, all tube tops, crop jackets, strappy heels, and white jeans, when she clocked out and hopped into her white Fiero convertible. Her parents owned one of the oldest Italian restaurants in town, but she came to work with us after some kind of fallout with her dad. Her 23-year-old son still worked for the family restaurant, and it was clear that he was being groomed to take over the business when her folks retired.

Linda was 3rd generation Italian with a southern Virginia accent, and her specialties were Pizzaiola Sauce and Brunswick Stew. She was also very bossy, and being closer in age to the owners than the rest of the younger staff, it wasn't long before she started telling us what to do. At least that's what it felt like to me. By this time, I had worked my way up from sandwich maker all the way to cook, and I had a reputation for being quiet and competent; I always got along with everybody in the kitchen. 

One Sunday morning, though, Linda and I were on the opening shift. Our first job was to put out the case, filling bowls and platters with salads and entrees. On Sundays there was usually party leftovers in the walk-in, too, and we either put those out as specials, or created something new with those ingredients. That morning, Linda wanted to start cooking, so she set up her station and proceeded to micromanage me as I finished the case. 

I had my own list of cooking to do, and I didn't consider ordering me around as helping put out the case. "Let me know when you need to use the bathroom," I finally told her after she gave me one direction too many, "then I can wipe your butt for you, too."

C & C Part 5

Lisa was the baker at the company, but anywhere else? She would have been called the pastry chef. A round-faced girl from New Jersey of about my age, Lisa had graduated from the CIA and was easily the best cook in the kitchen. She turned out chocolate chocolate cakes, sour cream apples pies, carrot cakes, and chocolate mousse pies by the half dozen, not to mention cookie dough, and an assortment of pick-up desserts for all the catering jobs, and she made it look easy.

Lisa lived with a friend named Amber, whose husband, Ron, was a sailor on active duty and often gone for months at a time. Amber and Ron had a three year old daughter, Savannah, who Lisa loved like her own. Times were rough when Ron was in town; Lisa didn't like the way he treated his family and, living under the same roof, it was a struggle for her. Ron was always trying to set Lisa up with guys he knew, probably to get her out of his house, although financially the arrangement worked for him (and emotionally it seemed to work for his wife and daughter).

That was how Lisa met Ernie, and things were going really well for a couple of weeks until he had to go to jail to serve the prison sentence he had received before Ron introduced them. Lisa stayed faithful to Ernie, though, talking to him on the phone when they could, and visiting him on her days off. As summer approached that year she grew increasingly concerned. Ernie wasn't happy; Ernie was worried for his safety; Ernie was distant. She did what she could to help, and she planned a surprise visit with a cake and all sorts of goodies for Ernie's birthday on July 14. 

That morning the phone rang in the kitchen and whoever answered it called Lisa over. I can still remember the look on her face as she twirled the cord around her finger, listening. "I don't know anything," she said and then hung up. "That was the police," she announced to the kitchen. "Ernie escaped."

Well, it was Bastille Day.