“Ms. MacRae!” he breathes, clearly incredulous to be in the presence of the high goddess. I would exchange a smile with Merrie but she’s eating this up with a spoon. She smiles at him and if she was wearing a ring, she might offer her hand for him to kiss it. “I need a job,” he says earnestly. “Working here is the only job I want. I need to learn from you. I’ll do anything!”
“I told him we’re not hiring.”
“And we’re not,” Merrie concludes. “We have to establish our cash flow first.”
I look at her in wonder, because I’m sure Merrie has never used the words ‘cash flow’ in a sentence before.
“I’ll work for free!” he cries, then takes off his backpack. He drops it to the floor and rummages in it, presenting Merrie with a number of papers. “I graduated from George Brown’s Centre for Hospitality and Culinary Arts and I worked in prep at…” He starts naming restaurants, none of which are dives or chains.
Merrie takes his documentation and solemnly surveys it. “You worked at Hana Yori Dango?”
That was a Japanese restaurant that impressed the heck out of Merrie back in the day. Dumplings Before Flowers, translated, and a bit of a joke since every dish was garnished with edible flowers. Even the dumplings. The food was delicious and beautifully presented, but it lasted only a couple of years. That’s a good run for a trendy hotspot in Toronto and a part of me respects that the owner cashed out while just starting to slide from the top, instead of sadly lingering on for a few more years.
I doubt this kid could have offered another credential Merrie would find as compelling and I feel the tide turn in his favour.
“Yes! And then I spent three years in Montreal.” Again, there’s a list of restaurants, many of which I’ve heard of.
“Did Anton teach you how to make ketchup from scratch?” Merrie asks and he falls silent, blinking in confusion.
“Anton thinks ketchup is a violation of all that is holy and should be abolished from the modern kitchen.” He’s clearly quoting Anton, who must be one of the chefs at a mentioned restaurant in Montreal.
Merrie smiles and I know he’s passed a test.
“He could have guessed that,” I note. “All chefs hate ketchup.”
“Anton hates it with the fury of a thousand suns.” The kid nods. Merrie beckons to him and he follows her in wonder. “Come. Show me what you can do.”
It turns out he has a smock in his bag. In moments, his dark hair is tied back, his hands are washed up to the elbows, and he’s suited up. He lifts the knife Merrie has offered with respect. He tests the weight of it and names the brand. They talk briefly about different kinds of steel, he peers at the sharpened edge, then he dices the onion on the cutting board with record speed.
I’m impressed. Merrie isn’t.
“A little smaller,” she says, giving him another onion.
He’s good and he’s fast.
“Thin rings,” she specifies with the next onion and her wish is obeyed. She looks around, hands on her hips, then makes her offer. “Ninety-day trial, minimum wage, we all share tips. You do prep as specified by me. You clean up and I meanclean. You do trash and you schlep whenever and whatever I decree.” He nods with enthusiasm, clearly a keen negotiator. “We’re open Wednesday to Saturday and you can crash in that room at the back until you find a place. You never ever go up those stairs and you never let anyone into the building without my permission.”
He looks happy enough to burst. “Yes, Chef. Yes!”
“What’s your name?”
“Colin. Colin Watson.”
“Okay, Colin, welcome aboard.”
He scampers to the back like a kid at Christmas.
“What are you doing?” I ask Merrie. “We don’t have any money to hire.”
“I never thought I’d complain about being so busy, but it’s tough to keep up with the prep. I’m working long days, but they can’t be long enough. He might be a godsend.”
“You have to pay him better than minimum wage, Merrie. It’s not fair otherwise.”
“Let’s get the month’s receipts in first, then give him a good surprise.”
“When did you become so fiscally responsible?”
“When I decided to listen to my partner. She’s very wise in these matters, you know.”
