Alvin grabbed it, unfolded it and sure enough, a piece of paper flittered out of its tucked insides. He let out a breath of relief. He was not sure what he was going to do if the linen closet turned out to be a dead end.
The cook picked up the piece of paper and read the description of his next job. The one to end all cooking jobs.
***
“Eat my shit.”
“What did you say?”
“I said eat…my…shit.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“No ma’am. But you is about to. ‘Cause you just did.”
Alvin was well into his resting and prepping period. He did not care too much for Coco’s instructions. There was certainly an artistic challenge in the lines, something to passionately put his hands to. The potential was far beyond the stale classics he made day-after-day, order-by-order, in Witness Protection.
But the cook was not interested in the status quo. Giving Coco exactly what she wanted would keep disastrous things going in the direction towards scores of innocent people.
Satisfying her was still important, somewhere at the top of Alvin’s rationale to take some suicidal offensive. But he wanted to best her.
Coco tried hard to make the chef’s food both intellectual nourishment and a brain game. The sport of it likely occurred first.
Alvin wanted to end the game.
Maybe well past the point no one was playing anymore.
It was Coco’s food to enjoy. But it would be his to command. To confuse and terrify. To wager.
Alvin had done it before.
Each time, it worked. Each time, he got away, triumphant. The right one. Because his food won. And human interaction was made peaceful once more.
I want my first meal of the new day to anchor me
to something of substance.
A core of goodness.
The deepness of which are folds that are a new way to exist about the twenty-four hours ahead.
Like a second brain.
It should distinguish me. Give me the most remarkable glow of satisfaction.
Or make others sense something grand. But not bother to ask.
Include: Eggs, maple syrup, fruit, and fresh cheese.
The chef was going to make her feel powerless. At odds. She was going to spill the beans with enough prompting.
It would take a lot to just speak out of turn. He had to risk it. He would have only one try after posing to have a sharper blade of conviction than Coco’s.
His food, for the forfeit of her operations execution.
He had to be bolder. But if he had any claim to know how Coco would act or respond to his demand, she would make an exception for the food.
It was 7pm. Service time was at 8:15 in the morning. Alvin made his calls to Hendrix. Assured him he was in good shape and ready to work through the night for Coco’s breakfast.
***
4:15am.
A punch-drunk hour.
Alvin’s midnight oil was almost used up, not having to pull an all-nighter for a long time, but he heeded Hendrix’s and Coco’s warning. He was mostly rested and he was doing what he loved to do.
Listening to requests and instructions and guidelines were part of his profession. And it did something to the chef to provide exactly what was asked for, the very way someone saw it in their mind. To exceed expectations by doing that exact thing the patron asked for, but assumed would not be quite provided. To be taken somewhere they once knew in the golden black of their memory.
It was more for Alvin to achieve that very feat with his culinary creation, without warrant of the textures and profiles he presented to his audience. Whatever ineffable sensation his flavor inspired out of the deepest depth of the consumer, Alvin wanted that to be the big command.
Yet, all that inner glow was only ignited through the lock and key of the utensils, and the mass of food. That was the matter at hand. And if the chef did his job, the food would be the subject for the hour. Only the food. No pictures taken to upload to some social media site. Only your eye and your soul and your tongue present.
Whatever Coco was planning, Alvin was banking on – praying – that he could plead his food. She worked too hard not to experience breakfast in its fullness. That included her chef’s curation of his art submission.
Coco needed to play with her food. In the best way. Perhaps the worst.
The power of Alvin’s creations with a top villain who appreciated it – that reunion meant something close to lightning had to strike and hit something vital.
The first time it struck, it fed the machine in Coco’s mind to take over the most dangerous organization. At least the most gruesome in the country. There were likely others in the world.
He should have sought out the opportunity to cook for the Coco of the Caribbean islands.
He very well could have.
It had only been a day, but it was enough time for the cook to forget he was at the top of the infamy food chain. Supporting countless conspiracies to defy common law, at whatever cost to the quality of life.
Alvin’s food did that.
He was not immune to losing his life in his hustling affairs. But it would be a sad day. He was likely supremely protected due to his neutral business practices. There was no fronting to get food. There was also no way an entire service industry to the professional bad people was culpable to going down with the souls who committed despicable acts for a living. Though Alvin was sure he was not the only contractor who had strived to cultivate a reliable list of clients with more than shady company dealings.
It was precisely what the chef wanted. His food was nourishing people to do things. He was a considerable length away from approving of those things. But he was the industry standard.
It would never be enough for him to wish them to stop what
