Read Online Bobby Gold Stories by Anthony Bourdain - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Bourdain
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wordlessly back to her cutting board, reached down once again into Lenny's box to retrieve some arugula,
turned, stirred the risotto again, added a little more stock and stirred again — then lowered the heat, looking satisfied,
lost, seemingly in thought. Bobby saw she was chewing her lower lip.
"How do you like your fish?" she asked Bobby.
"Uh . . . I don't know . . . Whatever . . .' said Bobby. Noticing that she seemed to shake her head slightly at this, he corrected
himself. "Okay . . . uh . . . medium rare." This seemed to please her.
"Good. You didn't look like a well-done." As she turned back to the stove to once again give the risotto a stir, she said
"Good" again, softly this time.
In went the crayfish tails, the mushrooms and the truffle peelings. She reached down into the oven, a side towel protecting
her hand, and removed the fish. Bobby watched as in a small saucepan she heated a little sauce from a cooling crock a few
stations down, whisked in a little knob of whole butter, lowered the flame. Pulling the risotto off the stove, she folded
in some arugula, then carefully piled a neat mound in the center of a plate, spun back to the stove and gingerly transferred
the fish from pan to plate, resting it at an angle atop the risotto. When the sauce seemed reduced to her liking, she drizzled
some around the plate with a large spoon, then stepped back to examine her work, head tilted, seemingly unsatisfied with something.
She reached for a bottle of truffle oil over Lenny's station, reconsidered, and then, looking both ways, quickly dodged back
into Lenny's lowboy and removed a single, fresh white truffle from inside a moist towel. She was shaving a few paper thin
slices over the plate with a small grater when Eric looked up from his cocktail and his stack of dinner dupes.
"White truffle!? White fucking truffles you're giving the guy?" he spluttered, speaking as if Bobby weren't sitting right
there. "Fresh fucking white fucking truffles? Why don't you just yank down his fucking pants? Give him a nice sloppy fucking
blow job?"
"I'm thinking about it," said Nikki, squaring off, giving him a hard, confrontational look.
Bobby turned crimson. Ordinarily, in such circumstances — not that there had been any circumstances like this in recent memory
— his first instinct would have been to stand up, walk over to this Eric guy and squeeze his carotid for him, maybe lift him
up off the ground by his throat, give him a few smacks, a few pointed words. But this wasn't about him at all. Nobody was
watching him. All the cooks were paying attention to a contest of wills between Nikki and the sous-chef, anxious to see how
things were going to turn out. There was something else going on here, too, Bobby saw. All kinds of history — beyond a simple
struggle for control. The other cooks looked worried, protective, defensive; Lenny and Billy actually moved closer to the
lone woman behind the line, defending her — lonely, but also, somehow . . . hurt.
Eric threw down the stack of dupes with a look of disgust and a "Fuck it," and stalked back to the locker area.
"This okay?" said Nikki, bringing Bobby his meal.
"It looks . . . wonderful," said Bobby. "I hope I didn't get you in trouble." He was trying to get the blow job comment, and
Nikki's response, out of his mind.
"Fuck him."
Bobby took a bite of fish with his fork. "It's amazing," he said.
Nikki hopped up onto the stainless-steel worktable and watched him as he chewed, a look of almost clinical detachment on her
face. After he took another bite, she leaned forward, reached over and tore off a little piece with her fingers, popped it
in her mouth and tasted, pleased with herself. Leaning forward the way she was, Bobby got a good look straight down the valley
between her breasts, every tiny bead of sweat coming suddenly, vividly, into focus, Bobby wanting suddenly, and in the most
terrible way, to lick them off. Instead,
turned, stirred the risotto again, added a little more stock and stirred again — then lowered the heat, looking satisfied,
lost, seemingly in thought. Bobby saw she was chewing her lower lip.
"How do you like your fish?" she asked Bobby.
"Uh . . . I don't know . . . Whatever . . .' said Bobby. Noticing that she seemed to shake her head slightly at this, he corrected
himself. "Okay . . . uh . . . medium rare." This seemed to please her.
"Good. You didn't look like a well-done." As she turned back to the stove to once again give the risotto a stir, she said
"Good" again, softly this time.
In went the crayfish tails, the mushrooms and the truffle peelings. She reached down into the oven, a side towel protecting
her hand, and removed the fish. Bobby watched as in a small saucepan she heated a little sauce from a cooling crock a few
stations down, whisked in a little knob of whole butter, lowered the flame. Pulling the risotto off the stove, she folded
in some arugula, then carefully piled a neat mound in the center of a plate, spun back to the stove and gingerly transferred
the fish from pan to plate, resting it at an angle atop the risotto. When the sauce seemed reduced to her liking, she drizzled
some around the plate with a large spoon, then stepped back to examine her work, head tilted, seemingly unsatisfied with something.
She reached for a bottle of truffle oil over Lenny's station, reconsidered, and then, looking both ways, quickly dodged back
into Lenny's lowboy and removed a single, fresh white truffle from inside a moist towel. She was shaving a few paper thin
slices over the plate with a small grater when Eric looked up from his cocktail and his stack of dinner dupes.
"White truffle!? White fucking truffles you're giving the guy?" he spluttered, speaking as if Bobby weren't sitting right
there. "Fresh fucking white fucking truffles? Why don't you just yank down his fucking pants? Give him a nice sloppy fucking
blow job?"
"I'm thinking about it," said Nikki, squaring off, giving him a hard, confrontational look.
Bobby turned crimson. Ordinarily, in such circumstances — not that there had been any circumstances like this in recent memory
— his first instinct would have been to stand up, walk over to this Eric guy and squeeze his carotid for him, maybe lift him
up off the ground by his throat, give him a few smacks, a few pointed words. But this wasn't about him at all. Nobody was
watching him. All the cooks were paying attention to a contest of wills between Nikki and the sous-chef, anxious to see how
things were going to turn out. There was something else going on here, too, Bobby saw. All kinds of history — beyond a simple
struggle for control. The other cooks looked worried, protective, defensive; Lenny and Billy actually moved closer to the
lone woman behind the line, defending her — lonely, but also, somehow . . . hurt.
Eric threw down the stack of dupes with a look of disgust and a "Fuck it," and stalked back to the locker area.
"This okay?" said Nikki, bringing Bobby his meal.
"It looks . . . wonderful," said Bobby. "I hope I didn't get you in trouble." He was trying to get the blow job comment, and
Nikki's response, out of his mind.
"Fuck him."
Bobby took a bite of fish with his fork. "It's amazing," he said.
Nikki hopped up onto the stainless-steel worktable and watched him as he chewed, a look of almost clinical detachment on her
face. After he took another bite, she leaned forward, reached over and tore off a little piece with her fingers, popped it
in her mouth and tasted, pleased with herself. Leaning forward the way she was, Bobby got a good look straight down the valley
between her breasts, every tiny bead of sweat coming suddenly, vividly, into focus, Bobby wanting suddenly, and in the most
terrible way, to lick them off. Instead,
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