“Run this by me one more time.”

“She is not a big fan of spicy ketchup for her home fries.”

“You put ketchup on the fries?”

“No. Who serves any potatoes that way? You don’t have to be a chef to know that.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why she gave you that black eye.”

“It was just a little Tapatio mixed in. I didn’t think she’d react violently to a minor tweak.”

“Don’t make us begin to think we chose the wrong CI for the job.”

“Then I should go. She’ll be expecting the smell of breakfast to make her stir soon.”

“Odd demand.”

“Hence my black eye.”

“Stay the course and continue to fade into the background. Check in later.”

Get in. Get loyal. Get trustworthy.

Then step aside.

That was the job.

Alvin Gates did not know what would break him more that day. Really, it was going to be a hellish several months. The FBI was close. Whatever they needed, Alvin, the personal chef to Coco – his baddy boss – was going to help the Bureau get it. But it was definitely strange – being in the middle of Lady Justice’s path.

Should not someone help her wield her sword and hold those scales? Alvin did not want to come across as an ableist bigot, but who could actually use a sword in real life?

What the man was dealing with was not some action movie. Although it felt a tiny bit that way.

It did not help that the young cook was cornered. Nor did the threat of life imprisonment after he landed what he thought was the gig of his dreams. Cooking for a high-profile, wealthy client, Alvin just wanted to be able to pay for good cable on his own without stressing about it.

The personal chef warned Agent Matts he had to go a smidge before he really needed to. So he could get down to business. It was time to plan the week’s menu.

Within five minutes, Alvin was already distracting himself with the prospect of his predicament being something of cinematic importance. If everything at hand was in an action movie, the menu would be for him to plan and for his boss to accept.

The film would be some Italian mob drama, in which the Don, his trusted officials and goons powwow on the next illegal operation. They would also discuss any internal issues and squash them then and there.

Why?

They were meeting over life-changing food. Taken for granted only by the viewer. But the organization, they did not just meet anywhere. They were willing to compromise their most precious information for a chance to have soul-filling Arancini, just one more time. You never know if it was going to be your last day.

But the chef in the back, the one the kingpin knew by name, his credit was good from there to the old country. Whatever he needed, he was taken care of.

Alvin had to prove himself. Even though he was sure he and the other third-round job candidates broke some laws during the interview and examination process.

He did not care. At some point.

He was too ambitious not to get hired. There was something else to it, too. But he made it through the fire, and it also seemed to be too late to throw up his hands and go home.

And he promised his granny he would make something of himself.

A month in, Coco had appeared to have no interest in letting Alvin just do his thing. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she wanted specific plates of food. The dishes did not have to be the same, but they had to contain the ingredients the boss requested. Tuesday and Thursday, Alvin just had to keep her happy. No holds barred.

He was not allowed to be around on the weekends. Which for the cook employee, was icing on the cake.

He could work on personal projects. Entertain friends. All while pretending not to sell his soul for a little more money.

Alvin was not selling who he was if he was sure his employer was into some shady dealings, right? He should have gotten some points for being aware of it. He just had not seen the crimes directly.

Whatever Coco was doing was major. Enough for the government to be concerned. She had the FBI’s attention. The Federal Bureau of Investigation. Most people in the nation lived their whole lives not interacting with the agency so closely. Although the tax-paying public probably disrespectfully disagreed.

Alvin would have happily concurred two months ago that the FBI was a mostly obscure outfit, never having to deal with them.

The cooking dreamer shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed one last street before heading up to his Los Feliz apartment. And suddenly – a ring. From the work phone.

“Al.”

“Morning, Hendrix. Everything okay? I’m not due for another hour.”

“Right. Yeah, but she wants you here ASAP.”

“You sure everything is okay?” The good, old classic work knots of anxiety started to form in Alvin’s belly.

“If you want everything to be, I suggest you get off the phone and shoot over here. But as far as I can tell, no. You’re in the clear.

“Good looking out, sir.”

Click.

Alvin could not help but feel like something was up. Should he have second guessed his preparations for the week ahead? Was he going to be fine on the menu? Surely, Coco could not sense there was something wrong with his end of things. After the black eye, he was going to always be two steps ahead, as far as the food was concerned.

He rushed into his place, grabbed his knives and work Crocs, and was back out the door.

***

“I know you need to prepare my meals, but you need to be aware of this as soon as possible.”

“Sure. What can I do for you?”

“Shouldn’t you be using a writing pad? This is probably a good situation for notes.”

“I wasn’t planning to meet with you so early.”

There was a healthy amount of measuring in Coco’s silence. And then –

“How much experience do you have catering events?”

“Is that the info I need?”

“Answer the question.”

This was the first time in Alvin’s employ he saw Coco visibly occupied with something other than herself. She was not shuffling around a bunch of objects or had papers in her office she was working through. She was in her head about a get-together?

“We – um – always worked at least one per semester in culinary school. And the best money in the summers was working with caterers for corporate events. So I’ve had my fair share. Do you need me to cook for a party you’re throwing?”

“It is not a party, Al. That’s what I need you to understand. It’s a chance to transform.”

There it was again. Coco was not much older than Alvin. And yet, she spoke in such grandiose ambiguities. She assumed the big sister role immediately. Or a big sister playing auntie.

It actually made the cook work much harder to satisfy his employer.

Never mind that she already did much more than the average rich client did when it came to food. She took micromanagement to a new level, emailing meal calendars to Alvin every Friday – of the following week’s Monday, Wednesday and Friday dishes. Nothing specific. Just feelings and updates on her mood and her existence.

Alvin had to somehow be a time-traveling mind reader and console Coco with the few ingredients she managed to mention in her spiritual cries for help. So serving her on Tuesdays and Thursdays was a bit tricky. The food could not be juxtaposed to Monday’s, Wednesday’s or Friday’s meals, but Coco had the warmest receptions to bizarre dish complements.

Alvin dealt with affluent foodie clients before, but not to the extent they were adamant about their details. They were just happy enough to have their parameters met: allergies and intolerances and the like. Other clients simply enjoyed the prestige of a personal chef. It was not quite the same thing, but to them, the people without painstaking requests – they were eating at a white tablecloth restaurant within the confines of their home daily. They were certainly paying that way.

Coco wanted the simplicity of food to be full and strong and pure and satisfying without much else. She depended on the nutrients like Alvin had not seen with anyone else before. He had never felt so free and so challenged with his cooking.

“Then, what can I do?”

“I need you to cook like there was a bomb strapped to your chest.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. I need you to cook!”

Alvin thought he understood, but the fragile urgency in Coco’s voice, and the meager widening of her eyes made it sound like this was connected to who she was involved with professionally. Matts would want him to push for more information.

“I’ve cooked for executive parties before and—”

“I’m not asking you to cook for executives now. Just listen.”

It was not hard for Alvin to bite his tongue. He would be filthy rich if someone paid on the silence. The life of a cook in service.

“The problem with dreams is, they’re so darn amorphous. It almost makes you envy people who don’t want to do much. You know what I’m saying?”

“As much as cooking has been in the limelight, it’s still a humble occupation for many. I can’t disagree.”

More staring and analyzing from Coco. A bit of ticking time bomb, but Alvin just needed to clock the blast. He did not need to go anywhere near it.

“What was the hardest thing you had to cook before you got into culinary school?”

“It wasn’t food. That came to me okay. And it wasn’t what I cooked, but how it was going to be received that held me captive. Even as a kid, I understood what food could do, but I always questioned what the best way to wield it was. As a kind of weapon.”

“You see food as a way to attack. To manipulate?”

Coco was genuinely curious. She was too proud to ask directly. But this way, she could keep it less shallow. This way, she could still understand.

“To disarm, I think.”

“Aaaah. That is it, isn’t it?”

“That’s what?”

Alvin’s boss had reached some destination. She seemed no longer on edge. For an unknown amount of time, she felt largely, cooperative. Maybe in the present instance, she would have given her employee something useful to the hidden operation.

There was more unnerving silence before Coco started. Alvin was sure she did not see him in the room for at least a minute. Then her first soft words felt as if they would have cut through any tornado of chatter in a room.

“For a very long time, I have given it my all to disarm people. I do not have to tell you how much we seem to be good actors because when people look at us, they see a black woman or a black man who would be perfect for countless roles.”

It was true. Alvin was being a double agent in that very moment. 

He did not know how many cooks also played spies.

He probably would not have seen the movie that promised such an absurd position on screen. Too many opportunities for it to be a bad comedy. But her words certainly disarmed him.  

Black people had been in the kitchen for centuries. And still, he continued to get those searching eyes once a night if he was back of house. Leave it to someone with your skin to play the race card. Coco continued:

“They’re usually the roles that are the last we thought we would play.”

Alvin could egg her on. Keep her going but she really needed someone to hear her out. A vaguely positive and agreeable, “Yeah,” was all that was required to let Coco continue to speak her heart.

“I try to disarm to get me, to get us on fighting ground. We try swinging our arms so much as we get tackled and our legs get pinned. But Al, I need you to provide the arena for us to attack way before we need to defend. I don’t need you to impress some executive in my organization. I need you to blow away the whole company.”

That was a lot to ask. So much for Alvin thinking he was tracking with what his boss was speaking of. It felt like some impromptu motivational speech shift managers occasionally felt obligated to impart to their team. But Coco took an entirely different freeway exit.

What was she getting at?

No doubt, the thing Matts and the FBI wanted to catch her mucking about in.

Alvin nodded his assent and understanding, hoping Coco would release him to get to his food. He also needed to process what he was getting into.

“Very good. We’ll keep in touch on this. I’m sure you won’t let me down.”