Tyler
On Friday night before service really picked up at the restaurant, I was wiping down my counter for the umpteenth time when Tyler called my name quietly. I looked up. He was standing over a piece of tilefish on the plancha, and he just cocked his head, calling me over wordlessly.
Oh my god, I thought. I’m in trouble. What did I do? I’m in trouble. He is so scary. He’s going to hit me! No, he’s not. He’s totally going to reprimand me strongly in his typically intimidating, authoritative manner. I’m totally in trouble. I’m totally in trouble.
I shuffled over and raised my eyebrows. Pleeease be nice, my wide eyes and slightly open mouth said.
He didn’t look at me or acknowledge my silent plea. Instead, he pointed to the fish. “C’mere, look at the scales. See how they pop up when it’s cooked?” He was speaking softly, just to me, and to anyone else in the kitchen it might’ve looked like I was getting reprimanded for a broken aioli.
I leaned closer and touched the skin-side with my index and middle fingers. It was bumpy, like braille. “Oh!” I said.
“Yeah, it’s so cool. You can’t tell by looking at it, but when you feel it compared with a part that has no scales, you see the difference.” His attention was still focused on the fish.
“It is cool,” I said. “I like that we leave the scales on.”
He smiled and his cheeks rounded up like Seckel pears. “They’re like fuckin’ popcorn.”
“Hee-hee,” I said, giving the tilefish one last stroke before walking back to my station.
I took a long drink of my quart container of water. “Hmm!” I said to myself, laughing at my perpetual surprise by both cooking and people.