Bone in the Throat by Anthony Bourdain Page B

hinges where a door used to be. Tommy looked through the books on the shelves for something to read. There was the Larousse, of course; The Professional Chef; Le Repertoire de la Cuisine; cookbooks by Roger Verge, Paul Bocuse, Raymond Oliver; The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook. There were food-stained copies of Gourmet and Cuisine, Film Threat, Food and Wine, and a stack of Wednesday food sections from The New York Times. Tommy found a pile of paperbacks; in between Naked Lunch and a book by a man named Jack Black called You Cant Win, he found a scotch-taped copy of Down and Out in London and Paris. He read the blurb on the back, was interested, and tried to read a few pages. He was unable to concentrate; the words swam in front of his eyes, made him dizzy. He put the book in his back pocket to read later.
    He went idly through the chef's desk. In the bottom drawer was a jumble of objects that told a story: rolling papers, a film canister containing a dried-up bud of sensimilla, a parisienne scoop, an accordian file filled with recipes, a pastry bag and assorted tips, some barquette molds, pastry cutters, the propane torch that the chef used on meringues . . . Rolling loosely around in the bottom of the drawer were a few cut-down plastic straws and some Bic pens, the metal tips and ink cartridges removed. There was a new syringe, of course, still in its paper wrapping, some spare vegetable peelers, an electric shaver, and on top, a five-pronged ice shaver with a thick wooden handle, a nasty-looking object if he'd ever seen one.
    In the top drawer, underneath a pile of new kitchen utensils, still in their clear plastic sleeves, Tommy found a framed black-and-white photograph of a young boy, unmistakably the chef, standing with what Tommy guessed was his mother in front of a two-story white stucco house with a tile roof and heavy wood shutters. The boy wore short shorts, a denim smock, and tattered espadrilles. The mother and the son had squinted into the lens, the sun bright in their faces. The mother was smiling proudly, the chef looked glum; unhappy, perhaps, about the shorts.
    Tommy was staring at the picture, trying to imagine a boyhood in France, when the bell rang.
    It was Skinny and he was alone.
    Tommy led him into the kitchen. Skinny looked around, saw the sauce-splattered range top, the overflowing buspans, the sinks stacked with pots, and the food mashed down into the holes in the black rubber floor matting.
    "Jesus, this place is a mess. Remind me not to eat here," he said.
    "No porters," said Tommy, nervously.
    Skinny walked the length of the kitchen. He looked inside the changing room, the dry-goods area, and the liquor cage. He went upstairs, Tommy following, and checked out both bathrooms, taking a peek inside the toilet cubicles. He looked behind the bar, inside the tiny cloakroom, pushing aside the forgotten umbrellas and raincoats before walking over to the window and peering through the shutters. Satisfied, he went back downstairs with Tommy, his rubber-soled shoes padding quietly. Tommy took him to the office and sat down behind the desk in the chef's ripped swivel chair. Skinny sat on a milk crate.
    It was awkward. Skinny had the kind of face that made you think twice about small talk. Looking at him, Tommy had no idea what a person like Skinny's interests were. He didn't want to know, either. Tommy didn't know what to say, what to talk about, even what to do with his hands, with Skinny sitting there, unsmiling, in the cramped room. There was a nearly full bottle of Stoli on the desk, and Tommy offered some to Skinny. Skinny just frowned and shook his head. Tommy reached for the bottle himself and knocked over a stack of Restaurant Hospitality magazines; they slid onto the floor by Skinny's feet.
    Skinny lit up a Pall Mall and pushed some papers around on the crowded desk looking for an ashtray.
    "Use the floor," said Tommy, lighting his own cigarette.
    Skinny looked disapprovingly at a rusted brioche mold