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impress. The common room was dark and deserted. A ball of yarn sat forgotten on a sofa cushion, and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle lay scattered across a card table.
    He waved away the smell of the alcoholic cleanser and swallowed a cough, then greeted the sombre-faced woman at the reception desk. He explained they were from the health unit, here for another inspection. Her name tag said Maria, and she was in no mood to offer a cheery welcome. She was probably frightened about coming to work, but had no choice if she were to put food on her family’s table — tortillas and refried beans by the whiffs of cumin and chipotle that fought the lingering odour of the sanitizer. Zol’s well-honed sense of smell told him more about a person’s traits and habits than any photograph. He followed Natasha as the woman led them through the hollow, unlit dining room and into the kitchen.
    The receptionist disappeared without a word, leaving Zol facing Nick, the chef. He of the lukewarm soup Art complained so much about. The man stood two inches taller than Zol, about six-three. He had a slim waist and the cultivated pecs of a cyclist or soccer player who did weights on the side.
    Nick leaned against his counter, an act of possession. “None of this has anything to do with my kitchen,” he told Zol. “Me and the boys, we run a tight ship. Eh guys?” His prominent brow and massive jaw framed a face that radiated too much confidence for Zol’s liking.
    Nick’s three helpers, men in their twenties, were absorbed in the chopping, stirring, and plating of impending lunch for thirty. One man was tall and skinny with blue-black skin, perhaps a Somali, Zol thought; one short, Asian, with hooded eyes and a pockmarked face; the third, stocky with a gleaming white scalp. All three raised their heads briefly from their tasks long enough to gape at Natasha.
    Natasha ignored the stares directed at her discreetly camouflaged cleavage and removed her clipboard from her briefcase, then set about her inspection. She checked the refrigerators and dishwasher for the required temperature probes and asked to see the logs that documented the twice-daily readings. She inspected both sinks and ran the water to be sure it got steamy hot. She checked every cupboard for general cleanliness, then looked more closely for signs of rodents — footprints and droppings. She opened bins of rice and other grains and probed them with a spoon for mould and weevils. She opened the refrigerator and looked in the crisper, sniffed every container, and examined every best-before date.
    Meanwhile, Zol looked in a few cupboards, then dropped his doctor facade and tried speaking casually with Nick, chef to chef. It took some time for the man to loosen up, but eventually they exchanged details of their culinary training. Zol outlined his studies in Stratford, Ontario, before shifting gears and heading to medical school a decade ago; Nick talked about earning his ticket at Toronto’s George Brown College. They traded stories of chefs who roared at their staff like boot-camp sergeants.
    As Nick relaxed he pushed up his sleeves. He rubbed at an ugly patch of skin near his right elbow. Was it eczema? Psoriasis? Impetigo? The crusty lesion was perched at the crest of the tattooed waterfall Zol could see cascading down Nick’s forearm.
    “What are the Oliveiras like to work for?” Zol asked, finding it difficult not to gawk at Nick’s forearm.
    Nick caught himself scratching and quickly rolled down his sleeves. “Okay, I guess. But you know the Portuguese.”
    “Sorry?”
    Nick shrugged and shifted his feet.
    Zol raised his eyebrows and fixed Nick with his gaze.
    “Skinflints,” Nick said finally. “Never met a penny they couldn’t squeeze into a dollar’s worth of supplies.”
    “How does that affect you?”
    “For one thing, they never let me do none of the shopping.”
    Zol understood that grumble. A good chef liked to choose his own quality ingredients, the cornerstone