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up the skillet and flipped whatever was in it, setting it back on the stovetop as the flame went out.
    Looking back at James, I said, “You could have done the dishes.”
    â€œCould have, but they need me on the line.”
    I think James could have gotten along just fine without me, but I’d agreed to be the stooge.
    â€œThe runners bring trays of dishes, you scrape ’em, sort ’em, and put them in the dishwasher.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œIt’s not hard, Skip. It’s minimum wage.” James always had a way of making me feel small.
    Minimum wage. That was about what the two of us weremaking from our regular jobs. Not much more. For all the high-end dreams that we both had, for all the what-ifs, and mistakes that we made, we were still struggling. Maybe age would bring more maturity, but I doubted it.
    The steamy sizzle of meat, the bubbly boiling of liquids, the clanging and banging of pots and pans, and the shouting back and forth between cooks when an order was placed and when that order was ready for pickup all filtered through the small kitchen as I tied on the apron and pulled on the rubber gloves.
    â€œChef Marty,” James touched a white coat on the sleeve, “this is Skip. He’ll fill in for the next few nights.”
    The man studied me for a moment. His irritation was obvious.
    I turned and frowned at James. The next few nights? Nothing had been said about the next few nights.
    The thin man nodded, his brief gaze ending when another burst of flames flared from a broiler. Wiping his brow on his jacket sleeve he walked over, picked up a pair of tongs, and turned a steak, checking its char with a seasoned look. He moved down the line, watching over the shoulders of several cooks as they stirred their pots. As busy as everything appeared, it seemed everyone was calm.
    â€œChef’s name is Marty,” James said. “I’ve read about the guy. He’s been with Bouvier since the beginning.”
    â€œGood. You’ve already started sizing up the suspects.” I realized I sounded a bit sarcastic, but I was genuinely pleased that James had already made some inroads on the staff.
    â€œOne other thing that would help here, Skip. If I’d only thought to take Spanish lessons. I’m missing about fifty percent of what’s being said.”
    I eyed a tray of dishes and started scraping the scraps of what was an hour ago a delicious presentation on someone’s table.
    â€œSpanish, huh?”
    â€œThey go a mile a minute.”
    â€œA French American restaurant, where you have to know Spanish to survive? It doesn’t seem right, does it?”
    â€œI’ll get by, pard. I will survive.”
    â€œYou always do. Getting back to who knows what.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œDoes this Chef Marty know?”
    â€œWhat? Does he know Spanish? Or does he know who we are? No. He has no idea. At least Bouvier said he didn’t.” Speaking in a hushed tone, James said, “Chef Jean told the staff that he feels I have the talent to be a good chef, and he’s taking me under his wing.”
    I’d always been a fan of James’s cooking. I thought he had talent, but then almost anything beat Taco Bell or Macs, and that was about what we could normally afford. That and a cheap pizza and beer.
    â€œDoes anyone know who we are?”
    He shook his head. “There’s been no sign that this crew has a clue. I’ve got the college background, a culinary arts degree, and I would be surprised if more than one or two of these misfits even knows how to do a Google search. It wouldn’t matter if they did. I’ve got creds, Skip, I’ve got creds.”
    He did. Even if he couldn’t speak Spanish. And, if someone did research, if they conducted a background search, James came from working in a restaurant. A real restaurant. Not anything high-end, but his job had been in the Cap’n Crab kitchen.