Back at the Falstaff Room, piece by piece, once again they unloaded the truck and stored their supplies. Jimmy showed Bill how he put things but told Bill to feel free to set up the way he wanted. He told Bill that he alone was going to be the broiler cook, so wherever and however he wanted things placed would be up to him.
Bill immediately had his own ideas, ideas he thought would simplify things for them both, but he consciously decided he would not change anything until he saw how the service went at least a few times.
By four-fifteen, now two hours and fifteen minutes into his first day’s work, they were all set up. Bill noted that at the last minute Jimmy cut a lemon and squeezed half of its juice into the Hollandaise sauce. He also put some salt and a touch of pepper into it. He stirred it once with the ladle and left it there away from the heat.
Caesar.
Mikhail Caesar was his name. He was Hungarian, in his ancestry like Bill actually, except Caesar, as he insisted upon being called, was born in Hungary and was fortunate enough to immigrate to the United States.
Caesar was the room’s maître d’hotel. As such, he was prominent. He stood tall, straight, some six feet. He was clean shaved with a tapered moustache, very black. He waltzed right up to the kitchen’s entrance, stepped in as if he owned it, looked at certain things, stirred one of the sauces in the bain marie.
Bill would have said something. He would have said something not nice if this were not his first day. Jimmy, however, intervened.
“Ya,” he said, “yasou Caesar.”
“Good afternoon,” Caesar said. “The sauce looks thin.”
Before Bill could say anything, Jimmy told him the other Jimmy had made it. Caesar quickly turned his attention to Bill.
“And who are you?” he barked more than said.
“Who are you?” Bill asked.
“Excuse me?” Caesar said.
“This is Bill,” Jimmy said. “He’s the new broiler cook.”
Caesar looked Bill up and down. “You’ve done this before?”
“Bill Wynn,” Bill said. He reached out his hand to shake.
Caesar ignored Bill’s action and words. “I asked if you’ve ever cooked before,” Caesar said.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Bill said to Jimmy. “Want to show me where it is?”
“Ya,” Jimmy said.
“Excuse me,” Bill said. He stepped past Caesar, brushing him slightly. “And please don’t touch any of my things while I’m gone.”
Bill stepped through the double doors before Caesar could say anything, Jimmy walking behind him. Jimmy said something to Kalista in Greek as they passed her by.
“Ya,” Jimmy said, leading the way now. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He was rude. And he shouldn’t have touched anything in the kitchen.”
“Yes, but he runs the room.”
“He’s just a maître d’ and I don’t work for him.”
Jimmy led Bill to the nearest bathrooms. He told him there were many and Bill would learn where they all were. He also told him not to mess with Caesar.
“I found this job,” Bill said. “I’ll find another one if I have to.”
Jimmy smiled. “I like attitude,” he said, “but don’t say I don’t warn you.”
Bill didn’t really have to pee but he peed anyway. Then he asked Jimmy where he could get a drink and Jimmy told him out by where Kalista was there were soda fountains and cold water.
Bill didn’t want to go straight back to the little Falstaff Room kitchen. He wanted to have a little break, was hoping that Caesar would be out of the kitchen by the time they got back.
Well, he was out of the kitchen when they returned. But the executive chef, the man who had hired Bill, was there. Caesar was standing not far from the entrance, clearly interested in watching what was going to happen.
