Read Online Bobby Gold Stories by Anthony Bourdain - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Bourdain
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cook, however, kept staring, a look of unrestrained hostility fixed on the new intruder.
"It's not necessary, anything special . . ." said Bobby, not wanting to get in the middle of some arcane tribal political
situation. "I can have this. I can have the chicken."
"No way," said Nikki, pushing wet hair out of her face. "No way you eat that mung. I make you something nice . . . Fish okay?"
"Yeah. Great," said Bobby, no longer thinking about food at all, really. Trying not to look at the pale expanse of bare flesh
between Nikki's sports bra and check pants underneath the open jacket. It looked smooth and hard.
"Ricky!" Nikki barked, calling over a runner. "Get him a chair and a setup!"
The runner dragged over a chair from the nearby wall phone, disappeared for a minute and came rushing back with a rolled up
napkin and silver. Bobby sat down at the end of a long steel worktable in the center of the kitchen, feeling all the cooks'
eyes on him.
"You want something to drink? We got beer, Iced Teas — anything else you want. Just ask Ricky," said Nikki from behind the
line.
"Water. Water is good," said Bobby, uncomfortable with all the furtive looks and barely concealed scrutiny.
"Ricky!" she yelled, again. "Bring him una boteilla de Pellegrino! Rapidemente!"
Richard, the Chef, poked his head in the kitchen, a clot of white powder hanging from one nostril, a snap undone on his check
pants. "Eric! How many?"
"About three hundred," said Eric, not looking up, the last dupe just hitting the spike.
"Smooth?"
"Like Lenny's ass. Like a well-greased machine. No bumps. We didn't get weeded at all."
"Returns?"
"Just the one. A refire steak."
The Chef grunted and went back to his office and whatever he had been doing.
Though there were at least twelve felonies, or violations of club policy, in evidence at this precise moment, Bobby didn't
care. He watched Nikki prepare his dinner, absolutely transfixed by her smooth, economical movements behind the line. She
seasoned a thick slab of monkfish, grinding black pepper from a mill, then rubbed it with sea salt. She fired up the stove
and noisily slapped a pan on it, waiting for it to get hot. Without looking, one hand darted out, grabbed a wine bottle with
a speed pourer, and drizzled a little olive oil into the pan, stood back a few seconds, waiting for it to get hot, then laid
the fish in the pan with a sizzle and gave it a shake.
Twirling, she fired up another burner, reached for a small saucepot and positioned it over low flame. Bobby saw butter go,
a little oil, some shallots. He was amazed how quickly her hands moved, how effortlessly she seemed to handle her knife, chopping
the shallots into uniform small dice before scooping them into the saucepot. When Lenny saw her pouring hard pellets of arborio
rice into the pan, stirring it with a wooden spoon, he looked shocked. She nudged him out of the way and reached into his
lowboy.
"Hey, bitch," he protested, "don't fuck with my meez!!"
"Shut the fuck up, bitch," said Nikki. "I need stock. Gimme some . . . And some porcinis. Some porcinis would be nice."
"Fuck, man . . . they all the way in the back," complained Lenny.
"Suck my dick," said Nikki, ignoring him. "I need stock. I need porcinis. And haul me out some truffles while you're in there,
cupcakes." She gave Lenny's fat ass a gentle pat as he ducked into the low reach-in refrigerator to get her what she wanted.
She laid out a few crayfish tails from her own stores, a bottle of white truffle oil, turned to stir the rice, poured in a
little stock when Lenny finally managed to extract some from his crowded refrigerator, stirred the risotto with the wooden
spoon. Judging the fish ready to turn, she flipped it with a pair of tongs, put the whole pan in the oven and casually kicked
the oven door closed with the side of a food-encrusted clog.
"Damn!" said Lenny, seemingly appalled. "You making the man truffle risotto?"
Nikki just turned
"It's not necessary, anything special . . ." said Bobby, not wanting to get in the middle of some arcane tribal political
situation. "I can have this. I can have the chicken."
"No way," said Nikki, pushing wet hair out of her face. "No way you eat that mung. I make you something nice . . . Fish okay?"
"Yeah. Great," said Bobby, no longer thinking about food at all, really. Trying not to look at the pale expanse of bare flesh
between Nikki's sports bra and check pants underneath the open jacket. It looked smooth and hard.
"Ricky!" Nikki barked, calling over a runner. "Get him a chair and a setup!"
The runner dragged over a chair from the nearby wall phone, disappeared for a minute and came rushing back with a rolled up
napkin and silver. Bobby sat down at the end of a long steel worktable in the center of the kitchen, feeling all the cooks'
eyes on him.
"You want something to drink? We got beer, Iced Teas — anything else you want. Just ask Ricky," said Nikki from behind the
line.
"Water. Water is good," said Bobby, uncomfortable with all the furtive looks and barely concealed scrutiny.
"Ricky!" she yelled, again. "Bring him una boteilla de Pellegrino! Rapidemente!"
Richard, the Chef, poked his head in the kitchen, a clot of white powder hanging from one nostril, a snap undone on his check
pants. "Eric! How many?"
"About three hundred," said Eric, not looking up, the last dupe just hitting the spike.
"Smooth?"
"Like Lenny's ass. Like a well-greased machine. No bumps. We didn't get weeded at all."
"Returns?"
"Just the one. A refire steak."
The Chef grunted and went back to his office and whatever he had been doing.
Though there were at least twelve felonies, or violations of club policy, in evidence at this precise moment, Bobby didn't
care. He watched Nikki prepare his dinner, absolutely transfixed by her smooth, economical movements behind the line. She
seasoned a thick slab of monkfish, grinding black pepper from a mill, then rubbed it with sea salt. She fired up the stove
and noisily slapped a pan on it, waiting for it to get hot. Without looking, one hand darted out, grabbed a wine bottle with
a speed pourer, and drizzled a little olive oil into the pan, stood back a few seconds, waiting for it to get hot, then laid
the fish in the pan with a sizzle and gave it a shake.
Twirling, she fired up another burner, reached for a small saucepot and positioned it over low flame. Bobby saw butter go,
a little oil, some shallots. He was amazed how quickly her hands moved, how effortlessly she seemed to handle her knife, chopping
the shallots into uniform small dice before scooping them into the saucepot. When Lenny saw her pouring hard pellets of arborio
rice into the pan, stirring it with a wooden spoon, he looked shocked. She nudged him out of the way and reached into his
lowboy.
"Hey, bitch," he protested, "don't fuck with my meez!!"
"Shut the fuck up, bitch," said Nikki. "I need stock. Gimme some . . . And some porcinis. Some porcinis would be nice."
"Fuck, man . . . they all the way in the back," complained Lenny.
"Suck my dick," said Nikki, ignoring him. "I need stock. I need porcinis. And haul me out some truffles while you're in there,
cupcakes." She gave Lenny's fat ass a gentle pat as he ducked into the low reach-in refrigerator to get her what she wanted.
She laid out a few crayfish tails from her own stores, a bottle of white truffle oil, turned to stir the rice, poured in a
little stock when Lenny finally managed to extract some from his crowded refrigerator, stirred the risotto with the wooden
spoon. Judging the fish ready to turn, she flipped it with a pair of tongs, put the whole pan in the oven and casually kicked
the oven door closed with the side of a food-encrusted clog.
"Damn!" said Lenny, seemingly appalled. "You making the man truffle risotto?"
Nikki just turned
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