The Botel was a seasonal job. May through August. It’s the day after Labor Day and I am out of work, and money. My co-workers have amassed small fortunes. Not me. Naïveté in full bloom, I was unaware that one could sublet one’s apartment. I paid rent, electricity, and phone even though I wasn’t living in the place. By the end of the summer I have a grand total of thirty bucks. I skedaddle back to Manhattan; go directly to bed. I wake up early, take a shower, brush my teeth, get dressed…and call François.

BRAIN FOOD

1983

Chez Pascal occupies the lower level of a brownstone on East 83rd Street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Highlights are exposed brick walls, gray suede banquets, salmon-colored tablecloths, snooty waiters. I’m sitting at a table in the rear of the dining room, just off the hallway to the bathrooms, eating family meal with the staff. In French restaurants everyone partakes of family meal, no exceptions. Tonight, it’s chef Bernard, sous-chef Machismo, waiters François, Miguelito and Jorge; Goh-Goh the busboy; Nestor, the porter/dishwasher; Robey the owner; and Vachon, the maître d’hotel. They chat, chew, argue, guffaw, drink, and spit food in French and Spanish. Cigarette smoke swirls above their heads, wafting to the push-pull of flying hand gestures.

Every few moments they stop and harrumph…at me, the new guy. It’s the French method of waiter training: Torment the new guy until he quits or falls into place. I endured the ritual at Le Provençale.

I’m on to them.

I nod. I smile. I shove a forkful of their food into my mouth. It’s my third helping of white meat, possibly veal, in a light butter and garlic sauce, sprinkled with chopped chives. No adjective can aptly describe its deliciousness. I am overcome and can’t stop eating.

“Où l’as-tu trouvé? Le zoo?” says Robey.

Robey, tall but refusing his height, is constantly lowering his head into his neck, a continental turtle. He’s little-boy turned big-boy handsome with sweet demi glace eyes, thick eyelashes, gigolo hair. A lit Gauloises smolders nearby at all times. A throat-cancer survivor, when he speaks he sounds like he’s gargling with wet gravel.

“We worked together at Le Provençale,” François says to Robey.

I hear Le Provençale, and say, “François told me if I ever needed a job, to look him up.”

“This morning he looked me up,” says François.

Vachon grunts. He sports a sexy two-day beard and a gorgeous suit, but his visage is that of a deranged Marcel Marceau. He holds a lit cigarette to his mouth with tight white fingers. He isn’t smoking; his lips are clenched too tight to get a cigarette past them. Rocking back-and-forth he stares at me with such disgust, I shudder. I am determined to show him that I know what to expect and say: “I understand there is to be no formal training. I am to watch everything François does, and do the same, just as I did at Le Provençale. It’s the French way, I guess. Toss the new guy into the deep end of the pool. If he doesn’t drown, he can come back to work tomorrow.”

“Je n’aime pas ce cochon,” says Vachon.

“Laisse-lui le temps,” says François.

I know they’re talking about me…in French, no less. Then again, François isn’t really French, he’s Spanish, but he sounds French, particularly when he speaks it. People who speak French sound, well…French. The French and people who speak French aren’t easy to impress; I try by stabbing the last morsel of white meat on my plate, dragging it through the sauce, and shoving it in my mouth.

“What is this?” I say, chewing with enthusiasm.

“Il mâche la bouche ouverte,” says Vachon, pretending to spit.

“Je vais lui parler.”

“It’s just delicious,” I say, thrilled to be included in an international conversation. “What is it called, again?”

“Sautéed cerveaux de veau sur le pain grillé,” says Vachon.

“What is that? Let me guess. Something French?”

Vachon to Bernard: “Nommez-moi cette célèbre vache Américaine.”

“Elsie,” says Bernard.

Vachon turns on me with eyes full of hate, “You eat the fried brain of Elsie the Cow’s daughter. On toast.”

“Moo,” says Goh-Goh, and I excuse himself to the bathroom.