Read Online Bobby Gold Stories by Anthony Bourdain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Bourdain
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he took a bite of fish, a little risotto. It truly was amazing.
"Really, really good. Thanks. So much," he said, trying desperately not to stare at her tits anymore, focussing intently on
her eyes.
"Bon apetit," she said, hopping down off the table and removing her apron. She crumpled the food-smeared cotton/poly object
into a tight ball and hurled it casually across the kitchen, where it dropped neatly - all air - into a laundry bin. "Three
points," she muttered.
The other cooks were melting away one by one. Bobby and Nikki were almost alone in the large kitchen, when, looking like she
was getting ready to leave, she turned back to him and asked, "What are you doing later?"
Flustered, Bobby found himself saying that he was working — which was patently obvious.
"Until three," he finally managed to say.
"You got a girlfriend or something?"
"Uh. No," said Bobby, no phrase book available for this conversation. Totally at sea.
"So. You want to meet me later for a drink?" she asked. Just like that.
Bobby hadn't had a "date" since before prison. "After work?" he asked, feeling terribly tongue-tied. "I uh . . . okay. Sure.
That would be nice."
There. He'd said it.
"Sooo . . . I'll go home. Shower all this fish jiz off, change — and I'll see you back here at three . . . Meet you out front."
With that she turned her back and was gone.
She had a drink at the mezz bar on the way out. The bartender there never denied her anything. She'd fucked him in the dry
goods area at the last Christmas party - an experience she was unlikely to repeat. His cock, she remembered dimly, leaned
noticeably to the left. And he'd smelled of patchouli. The glass in her hand suddenly empty, she had another one, as she felt,
strangely enough, nervous about her imminent meeting with the mostly silent and (they said in the kitchen) dangerous Bobby
Gold.
"You know what that guy does?" Lenny had said in the locker room, his voice lowered to an insistent whisper. "He's like a
bone man! He busts people up for Eddie Fish! He's a fucking gangster, Nick! I heard that he maybe even kills people!" Lenny
had been waiting for her in there when she arrived to peel off her soggy, reeking whites.
"Bullshit," said Eric, unseen on the other side of a row of graffiti-covered lockers.
"He's a fucking faggot. What's with the all-black clothes? Who does he think he is? He's all talk. Another punchy-ass doorman
been sprinkling steroids on his fucking Froot Loops. Probably got balls the size a cashews."
Nikki, in her underwear, peeked around the corner. Eric was cutting a few lines of coke on the lid of a plastic fish tub,
a shaker glass of Long Island Iced Tea sitting on the floor next to him.
"Think so?" she said. "I'll let you know."
"I'm tellin' you, man. He's into some serious shit," said Lenny. "I know . . . I heard from reliable sources. He's been to
prison — for like a long time. For murder or some shit."
"Bullshit," said Eric, unwilling to believe anything so interesting about the quiet security man who his number-one line cook
was clearly planning on fucking. "All those muscle guys are faggots," he sneered. "They all take it in the twins."
Seeing that Eric was too high and drunk to talk to — and not caring what he said anyway - Nikki struggled into her jeans,
pullover and leather jacket, slung her knife roll over her shoulder and prepared to leave. Lenny looked stricken.
"It'll be fine," she told the chubby little line cook, pinching his cheek. "I'm just having a drink with him."
She left him in the locker room looking dejected, shaking his head.
They all wanted to get in her pants. That was the problem.
Back at the mezz bar — another drink. This one the last. She was worried. All the tall, thin women around her, with their
carefully applied makeup, their club clothes. Nikki caught sight of herself in the mirror above the bar and didn't like what
she saw, an outcast, a line cook, a guy with a cunt. She
"Really, really good. Thanks. So much," he said, trying desperately not to stare at her tits anymore, focussing intently on
her eyes.
"Bon apetit," she said, hopping down off the table and removing her apron. She crumpled the food-smeared cotton/poly object
into a tight ball and hurled it casually across the kitchen, where it dropped neatly - all air - into a laundry bin. "Three
points," she muttered.
The other cooks were melting away one by one. Bobby and Nikki were almost alone in the large kitchen, when, looking like she
was getting ready to leave, she turned back to him and asked, "What are you doing later?"
Flustered, Bobby found himself saying that he was working — which was patently obvious.
"Until three," he finally managed to say.
"You got a girlfriend or something?"
"Uh. No," said Bobby, no phrase book available for this conversation. Totally at sea.
"So. You want to meet me later for a drink?" she asked. Just like that.
Bobby hadn't had a "date" since before prison. "After work?" he asked, feeling terribly tongue-tied. "I uh . . . okay. Sure.
That would be nice."
There. He'd said it.
"Sooo . . . I'll go home. Shower all this fish jiz off, change — and I'll see you back here at three . . . Meet you out front."
With that she turned her back and was gone.
She had a drink at the mezz bar on the way out. The bartender there never denied her anything. She'd fucked him in the dry
goods area at the last Christmas party - an experience she was unlikely to repeat. His cock, she remembered dimly, leaned
noticeably to the left. And he'd smelled of patchouli. The glass in her hand suddenly empty, she had another one, as she felt,
strangely enough, nervous about her imminent meeting with the mostly silent and (they said in the kitchen) dangerous Bobby
Gold.
"You know what that guy does?" Lenny had said in the locker room, his voice lowered to an insistent whisper. "He's like a
bone man! He busts people up for Eddie Fish! He's a fucking gangster, Nick! I heard that he maybe even kills people!" Lenny
had been waiting for her in there when she arrived to peel off her soggy, reeking whites.
"Bullshit," said Eric, unseen on the other side of a row of graffiti-covered lockers.
"He's a fucking faggot. What's with the all-black clothes? Who does he think he is? He's all talk. Another punchy-ass doorman
been sprinkling steroids on his fucking Froot Loops. Probably got balls the size a cashews."
Nikki, in her underwear, peeked around the corner. Eric was cutting a few lines of coke on the lid of a plastic fish tub,
a shaker glass of Long Island Iced Tea sitting on the floor next to him.
"Think so?" she said. "I'll let you know."
"I'm tellin' you, man. He's into some serious shit," said Lenny. "I know . . . I heard from reliable sources. He's been to
prison — for like a long time. For murder or some shit."
"Bullshit," said Eric, unwilling to believe anything so interesting about the quiet security man who his number-one line cook
was clearly planning on fucking. "All those muscle guys are faggots," he sneered. "They all take it in the twins."
Seeing that Eric was too high and drunk to talk to — and not caring what he said anyway - Nikki struggled into her jeans,
pullover and leather jacket, slung her knife roll over her shoulder and prepared to leave. Lenny looked stricken.
"It'll be fine," she told the chubby little line cook, pinching his cheek. "I'm just having a drink with him."
She left him in the locker room looking dejected, shaking his head.
They all wanted to get in her pants. That was the problem.
Back at the mezz bar — another drink. This one the last. She was worried. All the tall, thin women around her, with their
carefully applied makeup, their club clothes. Nikki caught sight of herself in the mirror above the bar and didn't like what
she saw, an outcast, a line cook, a guy with a cunt. She
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