Pasta

“Hey, Andre,” Gordy called from the door of his office. “Come over here; I need to talk to you.”

Andre said a few words to his sous-chef before walking across the kitchen to the restaurant manager’s office, wiping his hands on his nearly floor-length apron as he went. When he was within arm’s reach of Gordy, he asked “What’s this about, then?” in his unusual not-quite-British-but-not-quite-American accent.

“Just come inside, will ya?” Gordy said, motioning with head.

With annoyance clearly written across his face, Andre stepped inside the small office. He took the only seat opposite the desk, the chair creaking as he sat down. Gordy sat behind the desk, removed his glasses, and looked at his computer screen. After a second or two he put his glasses back on and turned to face Andre.

“Andre,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve got to talk to you about your new menu items.”

Andre did not appear surprised. “Have there been complaints?” he asked in a way that made Gordy think he already knew the answer.

“As a matter of fact,” Gordy said, his thick Brooklyn accent flavoring every syllable, “there have. I know you said you wanted to experiment with some of the dishes, but we still gotta serve food people want to eat.”

“We still serve food that the uncultured and insipid will recognize,” Andre said, haughtily. “I am simply interpreting a scant few dishes in new ways. Few geniuses are recognized during their lifetimes, so I expected just as much of a negative reaction.”

Despite trying to be diplomatic, Gordy rolled his eyes slightly at the word “genius.” If people hadn’t been coming to the restaurant because of its famous chef, Andre Spicoli, Gordy wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Gordy had been a restaurant manager all around New York for the last twenty years and had seen plenty of chefs become popular, but never like Andre. The restaurant owner, Tom Jones (no, not that one), had promised Andre the chance to experiment with the menu—along with a big pay increase—if he left his job and came to work at Casa di cibi e bevande. Andre spent his first year simply refining what was already on the menu and the public loved it. Andre and Gordy had disagreed here or there about ingredients or plating, but the past year had really been a smooth one, all things considered. Now, Andre was doing brand new stuff, but … well, people didn’t like it.

“Fine, kid,” Gordy said, stroking his greying goatee, “you know better than the simpletons, but they’re the ones keeping us open. I’ve gotten multiple comment cards about the lasagna.”

Andre perked up a little. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his bulky frame causing it to creak some more. “And what have they said?”

“They said it tasted off. People aren’t going to order it again or tell their friends about it if doesn’t taste right.”

“What was the exact wording they used to describe it?” Andre asked. “Was it ‘off’?”

Gordy sighed. He took his glasses off and turned to his left and read a few comments on his computer. “Uh, the word most of them use is ‘funny.’”

“Ha!” Andre exclaimed, a condescending grin on his face. “Then they experienced exactly what I intended!”

“You actually wanted to make food that people would think tastes weird?” Gordy asked, genuinely surprised.

“Not weird; funny. It’s a comedic interpretation of lasagna.”

Gordy was dumbfounded. He honestly had not expected this. He put his glasses on and looked at the large, blond man sitting across the desk from him. “Huh?”

“As you know,” Andre said, more than a little smugly “Mr. Jones has allowed me to try new interpretations with some of the dishes. Artists across other mediums have taken classics and reworked them, so why not me? The Scream has been repainted to include famous icons and I have seen several of the Bard’s tragedies retold as comedies. I am simply taking the same approach with my art.”

Gordy never liked it when chefs called themselves “artists”; artists aren’t known for having to clock-in. “Who’s ‘the Bart’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

This time it was Andre’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shakespeare.”

“Look,” Gordy said, ignoring the eye-roll, “we ain’t a theater. We’ve gotta feed people what they want.”

“They don’t know what they want,” Andre said, turning his nose up slightly. “If we only fed people what they thought they wanted, we’d be serving nothing but deep-fried butter and candied sugar-cubes. Food can be so much more and I’m allowing our guest to discover that.”

“Okay,” Gordy said, both annoyed and curious, “what else did you do? What other ‘interpretations’ have made?”

“Why don’t I ask you: what are people saying about the fettuccine Alfredo?”

Gordy looked at Andre for a long moment, the look on his face clearly conveying his thoughts: You’ve got to be kidding me. Eventually, he swiveled around and took his glasses off to read some more comments. “Alright, this lady says it was ‘flat and lifeless’ and this guy says it was ‘boring.’ Marty Sipowitz, one of our regulars, says he was ‘unsatisfied.’” Gordy put on his glasses and turned back to face Andre, who was looking as arrogant as ever. “Let me guess: that was on purpose.”

“Indeed!” Andre said, his pale face slowly getting red with excitement. “May I assume you are unfamiliar with the feeling of ennui?”

“‘On we’?” Gordy repeated, his features crumpled in confusion.

“Ennui is the feeling of boredom, listlessness; of being unable to find satisfaction; and I provided that experience through a plate of pasta.”

Gordy leaned back and threw his hands in the air. “Because heaven forbid our customers actually enjoy their meals!” He shut his eyes, pointed his face towards the ceiling, and took a few deep breaths. He looked back at Andre and asked “What’s next?”

“Take a look at the tiramisu,” Andre said.

Gordy turned back to his computer screen. He scrolled through the comments and started nodding his head. “Okay, we’re getting a better reaction with this one.”

“And what are the people saying?” Andre asked as he looked down at his fingernails.

“They’re saying it’s ‘exciting’ and ‘unexpected.’ Meghan Carmichael, another regular, said she was ‘thrilled’ by the new recipe. What were you going for, an action movie?”

Andre actually looked a little disappointed (which Gordy thought was a nice change of pace). “No,” he said, “that was a passionate romance between the ingredients. I wanted guests to fall in love with it.”

“Well, why don’t you do that for everything?!” Gordy asked, shocked he even needed to ask such an obvious question. This whole conversation felt like he was talking to his good-for-nothing son-in-law: both he and Andre thought they knew better, despite reason (and Gordy) telling them otherwise.

“How droll,” Andre said. “I might consider a love triangle of sorts, but I’m not interested in people experiencing the same emotion with each dish. After all, if we never had any raining days, we wouldn’t appreciate the sunshine.”

“What’s next, horror?” Gordy asked, sarcastically.

Andre looked intrigued. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that one. I might try that out with the calamari.”

Gordy decided he had heard enough of this garbage. “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we can’t have customers not enjoying their food. Are you going to change the menu or do I need call Tom up?”

“No need,” Andre said, his ego cranked to eleven. “I had each of the new recipes approved by Mr. Jones himself.”

“We both know that’s a crock,” Gordy said, nearly laughing at the thought of Tom Jones (again, not that one) approving such a cockamamie idea.

“Very well,” Andre said, “call and ask him yourself.

“Ha!” Gordy laughed. He decided to call Andre’s bluff. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He picked up the handset of the office phone and hit the speed-dial button to Tom’s cell. A short time later, Gordy had him on the line. “Hi, Tom. Yeah, it’s Gordy… Oh, fine… Uh, Tony G. said the mozzarella will be late this week… Friday morning at the latest… Yeah…” Gordy glanced back at Andre, who looked like he was waiting for a punchline, only he was the one telling the joke. “No, we dropped Dom for eggplant… Yeah, we still get tomatoes from him, but I got a better deal on eggplant from Diane… I wish! No, Diane Feldman… Yeah, I’ll let you know. Anyway, I was calling about these new menu items that Andre debuted this weekend. He said you approved everything… Oh?” Gordy looked at Andre who had somehow found a way to look even smugger. “I see… Well, people are leaving comment cards and a lot them ain’t positive… A whole month?… Yeah… No, I get that… Understood… Alright, see you Monday. Bye.” He hung up the phone, pausing with his hand still on the receiver as it rested in its cradle. He finally looked up and found Andre still in his seat (Gordy had half-expected for Andre to have transformed into a being of pure arrogance).

“Believe me now?” Andre asked.

“You’ve got a month to prove that those dishes deserve to be on the menu,” Gordy said, defeated. “If you’re wanting an apology, you can forget it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said, standing up. He opened the door, but paused in the doorway before stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I would like to experiment with the pasta bolognaise, with you as inspiration.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gordy said sarcastically. “What’s it supposed to taste like, failure?”

Andre thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “I was thinking ‘shortsighted’ would be appropriate.” Then he walked back to the kitchen to oversee the prep work for the coming night.