“I understand. I want that.”
“Very good.”
More notes.
“I’m curious. Prepared for what? What are you getting ready for?”
That was something else the young cook wished he knew, to blow away the woman sitting across from him. He did not have a magical answer. Their exchange was one of the first times he said most of the things he mentioned out loud.
“I think company is important to a cooking operation. From my standpoint – ours – the food is the thing to highlight and elevate. But whoever I cook for, I want them to know I made what I created with them in mind.”
“If you’re a candidate for a degree here, that’s supposed to be the idea.”
“I want people to rediscover the core idea of that service. That someone wants to reward them with food. No matter what they did or what they’ll do, the food can be the top of the mountain they had to climb. Or make them think twice about what they’re trying to do.”
“You think your food can save people.”
Alvin hoped so. It saved him. But that sounded corny. The superhero with the chef’s hat and kitchen tool utility belt.
“I think there’s potential to meet people where they are to make them appreciate the beauty of good food. And they probably want to make sure that that good food continues to have a presence in their lives.”
“And you believe your food will be highly favored by patrons from all over?”
“Well, a hotdog with an interesting person can be a great meal. A five-star dinner with an asshole can be a nightmare. Sorry about my French.”
The interviewer took that in.
“Here, here, goddamit,” she smiled.
That was the final hump. The rest of the hotseat episode consisted of simple, informational questions. Easy softball lobs Alvin took special care to blast to the stands.
Except for the last moment.
The interviewer stood up and extended a hand.
“That will do it. I appreciate your time, Mister Gates.”
“This was a pleasure. And – illuminating for myself. Thanks for giving me the chance to explain my case.”
“Make them hate you for what you do.”
It was a curveball. Alvin could not process the implication of such a parting comment. He could not be witty about a response, could not give a convincing chuckle like they were in on some chummy inside joke.
“I don’t think I follow.”
He tried not to look as confused as he felt. There was no need to let even the smallest detail make the applicant or the interviewer question the success of the last thirty-five minutes.
“Make them choose your food. Above anything else. You’re being selfish, only because the food can’t choose itself. Whatever decision someone has to make in your travels or your encounters, make them consider your food.”
She said it with the warmness of a friend.
“I hope to learn how to do that.”
“Whether it’s in our facilities or someone else’s, I believe you will get there.”
With that vague decision about his admission to the culinary academy, Alvin thanked her again and exited the room. Before any other questionable details managed to convince him he blew his shot.
Chapter 10
Alvin was in a room inside of a room. He must had fallen asleep before the sudden stop of the car shook him awake. They were no longer on the road. He was still inside the black Suburban that had taken him from his anonymous solitude in Witness Protection. It was apparent he and his traveling companions were in some sort of garage.
The harsh flood of artificial light kept him awake. It was likely showtime. Already. Was Coco somewhere above him? What time was it? Where were they exactly?
The Suburban descended a few more floors before stopping in front of a double door. Hendrix walked out to greet the approaching vehicle. The sight of his old colleague did make the special guest cook a bit more comfortable. He could also get some answers, instead of dealing with the British royal guard who did not entertain his real offer for some early morning grub.
Hendrix opened one the back doors.
“Mister Gates. In the flesh.”
The escort detail was quite insulated. They were no longer around, but Alvin’s car was in the middle of two other civilian tanks on the way over. In addition, the cook sat in between two stone-faced goons. So Hendrix’s greeting had to go deep inside the Suburban.
It must have been safe at that point. Alvin’s guards both exited and Hendrix extended a hand to help the chef out.
“I have arrived,” Alvin responded, stepping out.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for arranging this.”
Alvin reached in his satchel and produced a container with wrapped contents. Hendrix was all smiles. He took it before Alvin could properly gift him with it.
“Man, you shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t yet. You wanna know what it is?”
“I can guess. Best to see for myself though. As soon as I can.”
“Enjoy.”
“That is all I’ll likely do.”
The last of Alvin’s cooking stuff was unloaded and the guards stood at the ready of Hendrix’s further instructions.
“Where am I? If you’re here, I’m guessing she’s not far behind.”
“Walk with me and I’ll fill you in.”
It was not the man’s signature way to dodge a question. Alvin must not have been in dodgy territory yet. But with as much power as Coco contained then, there was no longer any such thing as funny business. She was capable of making anything legitimate or a had-been.
There was no sense in accelerating anything for the time being. The chef did not know anything Coco was up to. Not even a single show she watched – just by virtue of cooking for her every day.
Alvin contacted Pharaoh the day before he was scheduled to leave. He mentioned his network was starting to have many of its members poached by Skyrise, much to Pharaoh’s heartbreak, because he was not on assignment from Coco and had time to talk to the
