The White Hat

I worked as a professional chef at the White Hat, an Italian/American eatery in Los Angeles.  I was really skilled with my hands and had a sense of what goes good with other things.  I hoped to someday own the place- I’ve been working towards that for the past three years that I’ve worked here.
         “Craig! What are you doing! I need that pasta!” This big fellow Randy, we call him Chef Cotton, grabbed my wrists. I shook myself to wake up and snapped out of my daydream. Everyone knows you can’t doze off on a Saturday night rush.
         “Pasta…pasta…” I said, stirring my boiling pot. “Wheat noodles?” I asked.
         “Nah, the normal noodle. Stay on track Craig.” Cotton said.
          I had daydreams that I’d finally make it as top chef of the West Coast. Who didn’t really? Even the girl I knew that worked at Burger King wanted to be the top chef. Just as I reached into the draining pasta pot, the back door slammed open and a guy still clad in his casual clothes rushed in apathetically. I tried hard not to laugh.
         “James is looking miserable this shift”. I chuckled. James struggled to move his black hair out of his eyes and put a company baseball cap on.
         “Oh shut up Craig. Moron.” James muttered aloud and quickly changed into a white apron. One of the waitresses that worked at the restaurant came rushing in, nearly crying.
         “Oh! Someone just knocked a plate over again at table 31. We’re going to need another chicken breast.” She huffed and puffed to get her words out.
         “Screw that. It isn’t my fault. I just walked in.” James said.
         “Good job James Miller. How productive of you.” I rolled my eyes and put the finishing touches on my dish. I sprinkled some green leaves on it- even a professional chef such as I has no clue what that green stuff is.
         “It’s alright Ashley. I got you covered.” My friend Simon “Chef Brain” said. He strapped his apron on and got a warm plate from the shelf. Simon to me was a brain, hence why we always called him Chef Brain. He’s always got the answers to every problem at anytime. He knows the entire contents of this very restaurant. James on the other hand, snorted in disgust.
         “Think you’re getting best chef of the West Coast aren’t you Simon? I came in here late and look at me, I’m on a roll.” He laughed obnoxiously. I started to get frustrated with his sour attitude. Looking at the restaurant calendar, I noticed a big red circle on April 13th- the day the national magazine “Fork and Spoon” came by to nominate a chef for West Coast. Today was the 12th.
         “Just between you and me, I don’t think James is even within a spitting distance of being the best chef of West Coast. I wouldn’t worry about him. If he does anything stupid, I’ll take care of him.” Cotton whispered to me. I shrugged it off.
         “Obviously. Thanks a lot though.” I laughed the anxiety off and continued to work until I left at 11. Deep in my mind I knew that James was good, he was just a total spaz when it came to courtesy. I looked at my big friend Cotton and smiled. He reminded me of a big teddy bear or maybe a huge bucket of cotton candy.
         “James! I want some rolls over here and some butter too.” I called to him. Quickly and immediately a basket of hot brown rolls came my way.  I put the rest of the meal on the serving tray and a waiter came by to pick it up. I hoped for the best. Chef Brain strolled by, rubbing his tuft beard and laughing.
         “Watch your back Craig. Fork and Spoon is coming by this weekend, even the manager said so. He’s starring us all down like a fox. Even with the late night clean up crew.” Chef Brain sighed and tried to get his hat straight on his head. I knew we were all in competition and only one of us would win. Being named best West Coast chef meant a huge raise, and even a new car. Looking around the noisy and kitchen full of shouting commands and plates clattering, I saw a bloody battlefield. All of us wanted that honor bad and we knew that this weekend was judgment day. James cursed loudly as he dropped a hot pizza plate to the ground. All of us laughed loudly and some of us even clapped.
         “Oh shut up!” James snapped. “It’s the quality of the finished product that counts! Right Craig?” He looked at me with his fiery black eyes and slowly grinned.
         “Umm, of course Chef Black Eye. It was just a kid’s pizza after all.” I said back.
         “Oh, but it had extra cheese, don’t forget that.” James sarcastically gave me the thumbs up and picked the mess up off the floor. Sometimes that guy really scared me. Rumors circulate all over the place about him throughout the entire restaurant. Everyone calls him Chef Black Eye now because the guys are saying he beat his wife. James said he never had a wife. Strangely enough after a few reported background checks, everything was negative. I think the manager was either fed up with us “normal” chefs or this peculiar man cooking mindlessly. We couldn’t tell.
         This tall beastly guy came in wearing a suit and tie. Everyone shut their mouths and looked straight ahead. Brain sneezed snot all over the place, making me jump an inch. James was biting his fingernails, spitting the nails on the counter. My manager looked at the group and tried to smile, but it came out looking like a mix of constipation and acid reflux.
         “Okay the time is now 11:30. The night crew is coming in now. So have a good night and remember you guys have that important magazine judging tomorrow. I want no funny business.” The manger turned around and James spit on the floor. Poor manager thought we were hopeless cases that night.
         When I went to sleep (or at least tried to) I felt more anxious than ever. The darkness starred at me right back. It only felt good because I wasn’t wearing my cooking clothes, which made me feel depressed and stressed. The red digital clock read 2:30 am. I wondered if maybe the other guys- Brain, Cotton, and Black Eye- felt as crappy as I did. I clambered out of bed and went to smoke a cigarette, steadying my shaking hands. What the heck is wrong with me? I thought. I come in tomorrow, heat up my food and I’m done and ready for the judging. Well, maybe that higher god up in the clouds will be on his good side tomorrow.
         I was the first one at The White Hat that early morning, so early the dew covered the Los Angeles sod. I came up to the locked door in the back and mindlessly put on my chef-wear.
         “Sup Craig.” Chef Brain said behind me. He strolled in casually like this morning was his life.
         “Oh hey Brain. You ready for this West Coast thing?” I asked. I felt around my pockets for another cigarette. I hated being a nervous smoker.
         “Sure, I just don’t know what to cook.” Chef Brain shrugged and walked into the kitchen, turning lights on. I waited out back for the rest of the people. I felt like I was going to vomit a mouthful and this magazine crap wasn’t making things any better. Just out of pure boredom and depression, I ran over to the Office Max across the street and fell asleep in a leather chair.
         I felt high, like I just did a bunch of drugs. I was eating my own cooked food, but there was so much wrong with it. The spiral, this crazy arrogant world, I burned and cooked it all in one huge pot. Every problem, anything that ever irked me threw itself into my stew. Drool gushed out of my mouth as I realized how much I coveted such a thing.
         “Jesus Christ Craig, you dead? Get over to the restaurant quick! Something’s happened!” I woke to the sound of James yelling and screaming.          
         “What James? Gosh.” I wrestled with some stray hairs covering my face.
         “It’s an emergency! Someone’s poisoned!” He bellowed. He grabbed my wrist as I tried to wipe the slob off of my chin. As I ran behind James, those words he said registered in my head.
         “Food poisoning? Was it food poisoning?” I asked quickly.
         “No Craig they’re dead. Two of the judges wanted to try some of our food. They hit the ground moments later. The sad thing is it’s your food they tasted.” James shook his head and led me through the back door, which was now covered in police tape. I muttered something under my breath and began to sweat. I didn’t do this, there was just no way. How can I prove that I didn’t commit the crime?
         “James you don’t think I did it do you?” I sputtered. I nearly fell over when I saw two bodies in rubber bags being hoisted into a truck.
         “I really don’t know okay? Just…just leave me alone.” He looked back at me with those deep holes that were his eyes and sighed. At that moment I wish he went back to being in that band instead of being a chef. The police glanced over at me, thinking that I, Craig Riker, done such a thing. I felt the distance between me and the real world. The sirens made me deaf and the flashing lights made me blind. After what seemed an eternity of police questioning, it was over. They closed The White Hat for a long amount of time and I had no job. I decided to call Brain and tell him what I was about to do.
         “Brain, how’s it going?” I said in a false state of content.
         “It’s Simon now.” He murmured.
         “I’m going to find out who poisoned the judges.” I cut right to the chase and flat out said it.
         “I thought you did it. Well, that’s what everyone says at least.” Simon said.
         “And you’re going to believe that bull? Listen to yourself Simon. Meet me at the restaurant.”
         Simon moaned in disgust. “But…”
         “No. Meet me there right now.” I slammed the phone on the hook and ran to my car. When I was driving I tried to put together some clues. The police had told me that it was rat poison. I really needed to talk to Simon. This guy knew everything when it came to that restaurant. He knows how to use poisons, and knew exactly when the judges get in. James is a doofus, he gets in late and the only poison he does or knows about are drugs. I pulled into the parking lot and found that Brain, I mean Simon, was already there.
         “You know I’m missing some import-“
         “I really don’t care.” I walked into the restaurant and played with the switches. There was no electricity.
         “Do you honestly think there would be light in this place?” Simon asked.
         “Dude don’t be mean. It’s getting annoying now.” We walked over to the back of the kitchen and stopped. It was the freakiest thing- everything was left just as it was when the place was still open. My food was still under the dead heating lamp. I pointed to the chicken.
         “That’s the food that-“
         “Killed them? Yeah.” Simon moved carefully around the kitchen.
         “This is too weird Simon. I have goose bumps.” I moved to the seating section. I jumped ten feet when I saw a man sitting in a booth. I poised my flashlight and was ready to hurl it. I started to flip out.
         “Jesus! What are you doing here?” I yelled. Simon came by and nearly fainted.
         “The question is what are you doing here?” James stuck his finger to my chest.
         “I’m trying to avoid getting thrown in jail.” I took out a cigarette and blew smoke into the darkness and stench of stale food.
         “So who did it then?” James asked softly.
         “I came here to look at some clues okay?” I said. I walked around some more in the abandoned kitchen.
         “So you really didn’t do it Craig?” Simon asked me. James slipped out of the room and left to go to his car. I checked the spice rack for anything different. Oregano, paprika, all the labels had Chef Cotton’s name on them. I knew that only Cotton uses these spices. James, Simon, and me make our spices only from scratch, not from some packaged box.
         “Simon check this out. I didn’t put these spices in my food. Only Cotton uses crappy spices like this.” Simon starred at the green specks covering the poisoned chicken.
         “Wait you didn’t make the chicken?” Simon asked.
         “No, no. I did, but he must’ve put the spices on the chicken when I fell asleep during the judging. The poison’s all over the spice. I’m almost sure.” I pulled out my cell phone after I stomped out my cigarette.
         “Calling someone?” Simon asked.
         “Yeah. The manager. I’m telling you Cotton did this. I don’t know why yet, but yeah.” I coughed for a little while and dialed a number.
***
         The conversation was too crazy to describe. The whole thing just happened way too fast. The manager wanted a search on Cotton’s tiny apartment. I was called to questioning so many times than I could count. Cotton was sitting right next to me during the questioning, eyeing my every move. The lady behind the desk took off her glasses and shuffled some papers.
         ‘Randy, the evidence is starring at you right in the face. I just want to know why Cotton. Craig wants to know why.” That lady’s last comment made me shuffle a bit in my seat. Cotton was looking at me. His gaze penetrated my body.
         “Everyone knows I have to look out for three children back at the house. There’s no way I can mange by just being a cook. So when I heard Spoon and Fork was doing that best chef of West Coast thing I had to win. This guy Craig is such an animal when it comes to food. I knew he would take the win. I couldn’t let that happen. I bought some rat poison from a guy off the corner and soaked my spices in it overnight. While he was across the street fast asleep I poured it on the dish. You know what happens from there.” Cotton moved his chair a few inches away from me. Tears came down my face slowly as I realized how this guy, who was once my friend, betrayed me. I heard no apology, felt no hug, heard nothing. So after they finally arrested him and he told me to “keep cooking”, I shook my head, tried not to cry, and said “I’ll leave that to someone like you.”