Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,2
Charlie Sheen and the word “WINNING.” On the wall just to my left is a large painting that takes up the entire wall. Light brown strokes of paint cut a wide swath over the canvas. I can’t make out what the painting is of. I blink and lean back just as Brad stops typing and checks his cell phone. I take in the entire painting. As he sets down his cell phone, sighs, and leans back in his chair, I realize what the painting is of. It’s of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton in the front seat of a car. It’s an artist’s rendering of that infamous paparazzi gutter shot—quite literally—where we the public got to see every last inch of Britney . . . whether she liked it or not.
“I’m going to have to let you go,” Brad says. I whip my head around from staring at the painting and meet Brad’s disappointed, half-masted gaze.
“Why?” I ask, moving forward in my chair.
“Come on,” Brad says, his voice offhand and cutting.
“It’s not about the food,” I say.
“Never is.”
“So?”
“We’re in the hotel business. The food’s an afterthought.”
“That’s kind of bullshit.”
“True.”
“So?”
“You yelled at some poor schmuck from Iowa or whatever because he wanted to put ketchup on your eggs.”
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Who puts ketchup on eggs?”
“Who the fuck cares?” Brad laughs.
“But don’t you love that I do?”
“Not really, no.” Brad has stopped laughing.
“What?”
“These tourists want some free food before they head out to buy mugs, T-shirts, and shit with I heart New York on them. They want to take pictures of the Statue of Liberty. And if they want to put ketchup on their eggs, we let them.”
“But don’t you want to own a hotel that’s known for its cuisine?”
“I already do and it’s definitely not the McCormick. I’m going to be renovating it later this year anyway.”
“Well, then put me at another hotel?”
“You’re kind of a bitch, Queenie. And . . . I get that—I mean, I’ve already got these other asshole chefs, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not as if you’re known for any one kind of food, right? You cook what we tell you to cook. Adding your down-home whatever to our recipes every now and again isn’t enough to have to deal with your attitude.”
“Down-home whatever?”
“Yeah, you know, wherever you’re from. The south?”
“Texas.”
“Yeah. The south. I mean, if you came to me with some really cool southern recipes and tried to do something with the McCormick’s menu, we’d be having a very different conversation.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“I don’t have to tell the other chefs.”
It’s as if the wind has been knocked out of me.
“And I don’t have an attitude.” My voice is a defiant growl in a feeble attempt to resurrect some shred of dignity from this meeting.
Brad just looks at me.
“Fine. Maybe I do, but it’s because I’m passionate about food. That should be a good thing.”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s not. Plus? Your passion about food only goes so far, doesn’t it? You’re passionate when it comes to complaining about our menus, but not passionate enough to suggest any recipes of your own.”
I’m speechless.
Brad continues, misidentifying my stunned silence as an invitation to enlighten me further. “People put up with a lot of shit when someone is talented. Believe me. But if you’re just going to be another drone? You’d better be a quiet one if you want to continue to get work.”
“I don’t want to be just another drone,” I say.
“Yeah, well . . .”
Brad’s phone vibrates and he checks it. Tapping and scrolling through a few e-mails as I begin to have a nervous breakdown in a chair decorated with pillows that look like iPhone apps. I tug at the Twitter app pillow that’s now folded itself into the small of my back. I bring it around and clutch it tightly. Brad smiles at something in the e-mail, absently flipping the phone back down on his desk. He looks up as if he’s surprised I’m still there.
Brad continues, “I know you’re living at the McCormick, so I’ll be flexible with you moving out, but you will move out. We’re done.”
“Don’t I get probation or something?”
“You were already on probation for telling that British dude that your bangers were probably bigger than his dick, so what would he know about it? Remember?” Brad’s cell phone vibrates again.
“Oh yeah.”
“Look, I’ve got to take this. I’ll give you a good recommendation or whatever, so don’t worry about that. You really