Page 45 of Cuts like a Knife
He shrugs again. Does he know any other gestures, I wonder?
“Any port in a storm,” he says.
Someone hurries by — a proper waiter, not the PA, and drops our drinks on the table. Despite my initial protest, and the two strong drinks already in my stomach, I take a big gulp of the liquor. It would be a very long night indeed were I to abstain. I know that much.
What the heck, I think. I decide to make friends.
“So who are you with?” I ask, meaning, what outlet or publication.
“Sentinel” he says, without bothering to look at me. Filming has started in the kitchen and he’s watching the screens. Every now and again, he taps a little bit on his phone on the table. Making notes, maybe.
“Seriously?” I ask.
He nods, once.
I’m … well, frankly, I’m shocked. Sentinel is a serious national paper160.
“You’re surprised,” he says, eventually. It’s a statement, rather than a question.
“Well, yeah. I mean … don’t take this the wrong way, but Hot Slice doesn’t really seem like something … I mean, it’s not what I imagine when I think of, like, a subject for a serious publication.”
“Well that’s pretty f—ing stupid. Sentinel is a newspaper. With an arts and entertainment section. We cover f—ing everything. Have you never read it?”
Wow. Harsh. That’s real journalists for you. Always foul-mouthed. Always harsh.
“Is that what you usually do? Cover entertainment?”
“Not usually.” He take a sip of his bourbon and keeps watching the monitor. The intros are over and the cooking contest portion of the taping has begun. On screen, I see Pete mouth something I can’t make out to Savannah Jack, who looks away in apparent disgust. Do they already know each other? Jack has already gotten into a heated argument with her partner chef — a big, handsome guy with food tats — following a kitchen collision resulting in food spilled all over the floor.
“Come with me, and you’ll be, in a world of OSHA violations…” I sing quietly to myself. The man snorts.
“So what do you usually cover?” I ask.
“Investigative stuff,” he replies.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Who did you piss off to land here?”
“Don’t bother praying to that deity or any other, kid. It doesn’t work.”
“I don’t get it,” I say.
For a second, his eyes leave the screen and he looks at me across the small table.
“What’s to get? This is the job. You go where they send you. You write about the news. This show happens to be news. So here I am. Here you are. Working. That’s life.”
For awhile, I’m silent, contemplating the truth of that statement and whether I find it more depressing or enraging. I land somewhere in the middle.
“Nice effort in the conference back there though,” he continues. “Inappropriate, but spirited. That was fun to watch.” He chuckles and mocks me with a high-pitched girlish voice. “I’m Alexis Madison, from an unpronounceable magazine. That was cute. When he said he’d never f—ing heard of you I almost pissed my pants laughing. You looked so serious. And so mad.”
“Well, at least someone is trying to interject a little seriousness into this whole affair. It could use it,” I say.
“If you say so.” He keeps sipping at his drink as we watch the kitchen drama unfold.
Maylee Wise’s chef is instructing her on how to properly sear a steak161. Pete is ignoring his partner, who I know is a top chef from LA and who looks seriously annoyed. And Savannah Jack has started a small fire. (quickly controlled by her partner162) and appears so out of it, she doesn’t even seem realize her burner isn’t even on and the chicken she is supposed to be cooking is completely raw. Her partner looks pissed. Hm. There’s some sexual tension there. He may not like her in kitchen, but I bet those two hook up. I’ll have to keep an eye on them.
Rhiannon is debating with her chef about whether or not you can put sugar in tomato sauce to offset acidity. She keeps insisting they try it, while her partner keeps making that WTF gesture Italians make with their hands and he looks like his head might explode. We all watch the screens as she pops some sugar in the sauce when his back is turned and the whole dining room makes an oooh sound as one163.
Soon, however, the bourbon has softened the room’s edges a bit and I find I care a lot less about what’s happening in the kitchen, and a lot less about the day’s various humiliations. Not caring is good. It’s a nice break.
