At Your Service

CW: Strong language, Depiction of Death

Transitioning from a high-level restaurant executive in the city to a private chef hasn’t been as easy as advertised. From having a brigade of knuckle-dragging restaurant team that I delegated to create and serve excellence, I have now become a one-man army that shops, preps, cooks, serves, entertains, and cleans. I basically am an overeager Octopus wrangling all eight arms in all directions in pursuit of perfection. Speaking of, I'd better stop by the fish market for the Pulpo Gallego on tonight's menu...

Pay and benefits are way better than the paycheck-to-paycheck life I was living during the restaurant days. The trade-off? A few: One, I have to serve creepy Oligarchs or a few of the Botox-ed cast on a certain obnoxious reality show depicting their grandiose lifestyles. Two, would be the constant traveling. I’ve put in a lot of miles on my kitchen Clogs and my Mazda CX-3. Where the bosses decide to go for the weekend, or for the month, my Sabatier knives and I would go with them. These clients would have mansions in the most dreamy locations that I could never afford: One day, it could be West Palm... The next could be Nantucket, Monaco, or St. Moritz.

Considering how flashy those aforementioned locations are, I didn’t know what possessed my boss to purchase an estate in the quiet town of Nyack, NY. I mean, sure- it does have a sprawling view of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow across the Hudson River. It was closer to Hook Mountain than the noisy bridge with the sale racleur ex-governor...Whatever his name was. This place was so quiet. C'est ennuyeux.

At sunrise, all service staff must report for duty at the new estate to ensure everything is immaculate before the client's arrival. I was the first one to get to the gated neighborhood. I would then get clearance from the resident security staff, turn off the alarms, and unload all my equipment and supplies. Then the housekeeping staff trickles in to vacuum and dust the rest of the mansion. The first day of transitioning to a new place was always challenging, since everything was dormant and dusty. Regardless, I would be expected to serve a full day's meal for the clients who were due to arrive from Battery Park on their Yacht. Time is of the essence!

What was really counterproductive was a sloppy, mischievous colleague who kept pulling out utensils I didn’t need every time I turned around, or repeatedly cranking up the temperature of my ovens, or switching off my Sous Vide immersion circulator. I tried my best to play nice, but they were really getting on my nerves! Just as I’ve promised my Rabat-joie therapist, ‘-I will no longer rush to judgement- and let go of resentmen...’ That’s when I heard the lid of my Rondeau pot clang loudly to the floor upstairs. I annoyingly came out of the basement pantry and went to the kitchen. Standing by the dining room table, I saw my chiante co-worker shivering, with an unwavering gaze toward the kitchen stoves across from us. I condescendingly accused her of causing all of the rukkus, but she still would not look at me. So rude!

“Ah Casse-pieds, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but if you want something from the kitchen, ask me first. Especially stuff on the stoves tends to be hot. I don’t have time for fun and games. I would appreciate it if you don’t mess with the oven temp...”

-That was when we both witnessed the corner drawer with linen napkins being rapidly pulled out and thrown up into the air, like confetti in New Year's Times Square. I jolted in shock and immediately looked at my colleague for confirmation. She silently nodded. Oh merde. Do we... Have another...Erm... ‘Help’ working here?

After a brief pause, no other ‘activity’ occurred. I snapped back into my Chef-mode and glanced at my Casio. “Ok, this was interesting, but our bosses arrive in 85 minutes. Let's get this cleaned and set everything up perfectly, D’accord?” I don’t easily scare. The Michelin guide coming unannounced, or anything that forces me to lose credibility, is far more frightening.

Nothing terribly disruptive happened that day... Well, other than this Casper Enculé turning the light off wherever I go. It’s more annoying than heart-stopping. If it wanted to make me piss my pants, it should re-enact the 1982 semi-finals, when Maxime Bossis missed the penalty shot that cost France the match against the Germans. That was traumatisant... Makes me shiver just thinking about it! So, yeah - this ghost better try harder, or stay out of my way.

All of the other staff were acting like Couille molle- all shivering, scared shitless. Apparently, they ‘saw’ a shadow move through the client's bedroom, and ‘voices’ in the walls, blah blah blah. Big deal! Just ignore them. We have our own servants’ quarters on the first floor, but they all refused to stay and drove back home to the city after their shift. I don’t feel like driving back to Whitestone and spending on tolls, gas, and car mileage. I will have the patio room all to myself. It’s actually nice to hear the Hudson River swoosh right outside my room. What’s not to like?

Did the fantôme leave me alone? Non. It would change the channel on the TV while I was still watching, flicker the room lights, slowly open the cabinet doors, jiggle the doorknobs to my locked door... All so unimaginative and childish. Ça me gonfle! It really reminds me of my spoiled nephew, that petit Andouille.

After getting my wine glass knocked off repeatedly, I decided to drink my Côtes du Rhône straight from the bottle. This ghost was more in common with my boss’s Cat, which gets its filthy paws into everything. At least he gets the message to faire voir with a few sprays of the water gun. Lucky for the Malpoli fantôme, I don’t have holy water. Seriously, what a pain in my ass! Could I just watch and yell at the contestants on Top Chef in peace, without your interruptions? I had a long day, Casper. Seriously, Va te faire enculer!

The Vin worked its magic, and I dozed off on the couch with the TV on. I was awakened by the voices of suffering from the next room. The more I ignored it, the louder it got. I peeked at my watch, and it read 3:33 am. Putain! I have to get up in two hours. I turned off the TV and went into the washroom to brush my teeth. My reflection in the mirror just stared back with hollowed out eyes that were as dark as Squid ink. It desperately tried to make eye contact with me, while its mouth moved to make words, but nothing was audible. Does it not know I’m just hungover at this point? Don’t talk to me until I have my coffee later. T’es qu’une merde.

The sounds of anguish became more surround-sound, and there were bangings by the glass door to the outdoor pool and garden. Where the hell is the resident security?! I annoyingly opened the large panel-glass door and yelled at whoever was making all of the noise. While doing so, I noticed countless handprints on the mirrored finish of the door. C'est dégoûtant!

“Ferme ta gueule!! Casse-toi, pov’ imbéciles!!! You village idiots have nothing to do at this hour?!” ... Yet there was just me yelling at the panoramic view of the other side of the river, luminescent with the full moon above the indigo night skies. Grabbing the neck of the empty wine bottle in my hand, I marched forward, surveying my surroundings and patrolling the estate premises. It was strange- despite my eyes adjusting to the darkness, things seemed... Hazy, like walking into a thick fog.

Suddenly, I was grappled to the floor by a dozen invisible hands that dragged me through the lap pool, the yard full of blooming Hydrangea, and past the man-made beach. It happened so fast that I did not even hear the wine bottle I was holding hit the Travertine patio pavers. I was being dragged eastward parallel to the bridge at very high speeds. My head would bounce across the surface of the Hudson River, like a skipped rock. I was screaming, but no voice would come out.

I soon passed the lighthouse and the Kingland Point, and was lifted above Tarrytown, and straight towards the Washington Irving Grave. All of this upside-down rollercoaster ride was making me so nauseous. Then, as soon as it began, my abduction was suddenly concluded by being thrown down onto the open field of a cemetery. As I gathered the strength to get up, I was gazing upon a... Temple? -Or was it a Mausoleum? While I tried to figure out what was happening, out of the darkness, shadowed silhouettes encircled me. Putain, this has got to be a horrible dream, right? All of this must be from that Côtes du Rhône?! Or maybe the Octopus à la Niçoise... From dinner??

A haunting voice from inside the Marbled tomb commanded, “Enough is enough, Jean Louis. We’ve talked about this. Come on out of this mortal. You, belong here. Remember?”

Even though I have never been to this gravesite, somehow a part of me recognized the surroundings and that voice from the Mausoleum. Nique ta mère - I do not belong here! I have to prepare breakfast in 2 hours. Get me the hell out of here! However, when I tried to push past the shadows, they picked me up into the air by the neck.

“Jean Louis, you are not leaving. You are dead like us. You have been so for quite some time. So I will ask you nicely once more- to relinquish yourself from the mortal you’ve found at the estate across the river. Or... We could escalate this to another level. What say you?”

As the authoritative voice gave me the ultimatum, I suddenly latched onto the silhouette that was grabbing my neck and forced it to propel upwards to the sky, and we rocketed back towards the home on Laveta Place. As I headed eastward, hovering just above the river at great speed, I saw the shadowy entourage from the cemetery immediately tailing me and quickly closing the distance. They slashed and grabbed from all angles. I could see the semi-submerged Erie Canal Boat protruding from the bay up ahead. I am almost back to Nyack. That was when I felt excruciating pain in every limb, as if I was skewered with a Ranseur trident and electrocuted at the same time. I was held in place right above water and forced to make an about-face.

“A very foolish decision that you’ve chosen, Jean Louis. Now, we will force you to cross over and exit this realm for good.” The spirit with the assertive voice gently motioned his shadow hunters to drag me towards the direction of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery on the other side of the river. I resisted as much as I could, but then the shadows placed a chain around me that grew hotter and tighter, constricting me as if I had a famished Python engulfing me. The process felt like I was being crushed to death, while every millimeter of skin was being peeled off. I couldn’t even make a whimper of sound without any air in my lungs. I sensed my end was near when I was violently shot back into the opposite direction, smashing into the shore. I swear I could have seen the shadows pulling someone in my place, up in the sky. The prisoner was pleading for help, but I didn’t understand much of what he was saying. I lost consciousness shortly after, but even with my eyes closed from shock and exhaustion, I kept hearing-

“-Ey, Vaurien! Don’t forget to proof the Brioche! That’s for the Tarte Tropézienne... Anchoïade is for the shaved Artichoke salad for lunch. D’accord? Don’t fuck it up, Eh? You are on your own now, nil con-”

I woke up with a cold current caressing my feet. Grumbling, I opened my eyes, looking up at the pink dawn skies. Is this part of the dream as well? Then I heard the 18-wheeler rumble past on the Cuomo Bridge. As I slowly got my bearings, I realized that I was lying on the man-made beach facing the river within the Nyack estate property. An Osprey flew above, scanning the river for its breakfast. Oh! Breakfast! What time is it? Adjusting my eyes to my cracked wristwatch, it was already 5 am, and breakfast must be ready by 7. I squeezed every ounce of strength I had to crawl back into my client's home, change into my chef whites, and get up into the kitchen.

When I rushed to turn on the oven and the Espresso machine, they were already on. When I checked my proof box for the Croissants, Pain du Chocolat, and Brio... Brioche doughs. Wait, why is that Brioche seeming more important than usual... Also, who set up my kitchen exactly the way I would like? Maybe even better? I also prepared fresh-squeezed orange juice, grapefruit, and a kale smoothie for the clients. The table overlooking the garden and the river was set with place mats, silverware, and glasses. The breads were glazed with egg wash and placed in the oven. I checked my watch, and it was 6:30 am. All things considered, I was making great timing. All that was left was to make myself an Espresso and render the Bacon on the cast-iron. All of these aromas are what wakes up my bosses from their suites.

“Heya, Lenny. Did you sleep well?” My client asked while coming down from the spiraled stairs. I wasn’t about to tell him about the out-of-body experience I’ve had, so I simply lied, with my professional-grade smile, and nodded in agreement. Soon, the rest of his family came downstairs and requested pancakes, Omelets, and Brioche French Toast. Everyone began to wolf down their breakfast, but I overheard the kids having nightmares and were frightened of the ‘boogey-man’ in their closet and underneath their beds. So, I guess I wasn’t the only one getting affected by this place...

Although the breakfast service went according to plan, something felt off. As if a part of me was missing. I don’t know why. Perhaps I should share this with my therapist at my next session. I paused my self-reflections and began cleaning up the dining area, and readied myself to head to the farmer’s market to purchase lunch ingredients.

When I passed by my co-workers just arriving at work on my way out to the garage, one housekeeper whispered, “Lenny, you look like you’ve fought Godzilla all night. Are you okay? Also, why were you speaking with a French accent yesterday? Aren’t you from Queens?”

I had no idea what she was talking about. Duty calls. Chat later. I got into my Mazda and took the short drive over from Laveta Place to make a left at North Broadway. As I turned on my stereo, an unfamiliar old foreign song blared out, startling me. The stereo console indicated the song was La vie en rose by Édith Piaf. I normally listen to Slipknot, so this soft classic type of genre wouldn’t be my normal pick, but it sounded... Strangely familiar. Soothing. I kept it on and let the music take me away.

‘Quand il me prend dans ses bras-

Qu'il me parle tout bas-

Je vois la vie e...’

Wait, how do I know these Lyrics?

And why can't I... Stop sobbing??