Stanley Park

Stanley Park

Language: English

Pages: 0


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

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You drop a plate, you torch something. I’m yelling at Henk to fire prawns and you realize you are fucked. So. You step back from your station and you tell me what’s happening. You breathe deep for eight seconds, no more, no less, wipe down your counter area. Then you get the hell back in there, all right?” Despite the lack of capers, both dishes went down huge. Dante was effusive; he came back into the kitchen, with some of the servers, saying, “You see? You see? The man is a genius. I loved the

laughed. “All right, all right,” Jeremy said to the squad. “A little dignity, please.” But he was smiling. Benny could see it. Dante could see it. The Chef was smiling. There was warmth there, pride too. Dante leaned over to Benny. He whispered in her ear. “I did not make a mistake, did I Benny?” Dante said to her. Benny leaned away from Dante so she could see his face. “Of course not, Dante. You thought you might have?” His eyes were back on Jeremy. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.” Back

well have been waiting for her out front of the prison. But the image lingered as he moved on; Salome the patron had so airily inspected the proffered head as it dripped in front of her, held high in the hand of the workmanlike executioner, whose face reflected technical satisfaction in a distasteful assignment. Bueckelaer’s Well-Stocked Kitchen. It made him smile. A meta-image of thankfulness and plenty. Christ sat with Martha and Mary, surrounded by skewered game birds, Dutch hares, ducks,

relieve pressure. You need space to do what Jeremy does, to make the interesting food for the interesting people. I only want to give you that space.” Jules laughed out loud when she heard that. To say that she and Dante had not hit it off was to say that the angel Gabriel and Beelzebub had been uncomfortable seated at adjacent tables. The first time they met, Jeremy read it in her eyes. Bottomless distrust. Dante had been on one of his typical, slightly possessive walkabouts, touring the

concession stand under a dumpster full of broken pickle jars. “A swan goes for that smell?” Jeremy said, looking around self-consciously. It was just six in the evening, dusky, but the seawall was still full of scuffling sneakers and the sound of nylon track suits, one leg zipping against the other. “Believe it or not,” Caruzo said, delighted to have found something Jeremy didn’t know about food, “swans like this smell. Love this smell. OK, so. Here goes.” They walked to the lagoon and stopped

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