Dinner hour

I can sit at the counter at my favorite restaurant, watching the chefs cook.

Shem runs the place with a quiet, funny authority. He knows what he is doing. The way he moves shows it. No wasted motion. All the best cooks are like that. He’s cooking chicken parts, flames shooting out everywhere.

No one else gives him crap, but I do.

“You need a better vegetarian special,” I opine. “Linguine al pesto is so weak. What is this, 1987?”

To rub it in, I show him photos of my almond & parmesan crusted portobellos I made for lunch the other day. The sous chefs are impressed, but Shem just turns back to his chicken.

Lucky me – it’s grease-trap cleaning night. David sits the gunky full trap down in the sink, right in front of me.

“Mmmm, tasty,” I say.

“Fat is flavor,” Shem says.

“You got that right,” I reply.