The sense of absolute trust and camaraderie hooked her. The performances were an even bigger rush: Though she never got much attention growing up in her grandma’s home, here were a hundred of her peers, hanging on her every word.
As a gainfully employed adult, Radhya is the closest thing Ari has to a proud parent. In fairness, Grandma Pauline never asked to be responsible for another child at age forty-eight when Ari’s mom realized she “just couldn’t do this anymore” and took off with a Phish Head. Over the years, her mom would reappear occasionally, sticking around just long enough to get Ari’s hopes up, before disappearing in the middle of the night without waking her up to say goodbye.
Radhya, on the other hand, has never let her down.
Radhya: Come inside.
Hot bartender working tonight. He’ll hook you up
Ari: the aussie?
Radhya: kiwi—he sounds exactly like the hotter Conchord
* * *
“RADHYA!” JOSH SHOUTS. “Put your fucking phone away. How long on the steak?”
“One minute.”
“One minute, Chef,” he corrects. “Watch the timing on that duck. Table Five is a contributor at Eater. I don’t want duck juices running all over her plate while it’s being carved tableside.” Even though it’s just past ten, the ticket printer is still whirring to life occasionally, spitting out the last of the night’s dessert orders.
Josh tweezes a single curry leaf over a piece of poached halibut: The cut of fish is perfectly diamond-shaped, covered with glistening half-moon slices of zucchini “scales,” floating on a shallow pool of turmeric fumet. He’d sketched the dish in his notebook last week and here it is: soigné, immaculate, willed into existence. The kind of thing his father would shake his head at—“What do you need to show off for?” Well, if they were on speaking terms, that’s what he’d say. While Briar and Abby had been to the restaurant to eat several times, Danny refused to step foot anywhere near Josh’s kitchen （“But I’m sure he would love it!” Abby would try to insist）。 Josh didn’t care; it was better this way.
“The oven’s been uneven,” Radhya says, sliding a lavender-honey-glazed bird into the oven. “I’m leaving the duck in for ten minutes before I turn it.”
“Eight minutes. It’s my recipe. I don’t want the risotto congealing into a disgusting, gummy mess on the pass because you’re overcooking the duck.” He pauses. “And it’s ‘eight minutes, Chef.’？”
She shakes her head. Radhya can sear the fuck out of a scallop or expertly reproduce dishes he vaguely recognizes from Le Bernardin or Red Rooster. She’s maddeningly correct about everything, like the amount of time it’ll take to turn twenty artichokes （thirty-five minutes） or the exact number of salt grains to sprinkle on each heirloom tomato slice （seven）。 But lately, she’s been sloppy. Forgetful. Distracted. Which are the worst qualities in a line cook. Even Danny was at least consistent.
Josh even thought he’d heard her sniffling in the walk-in last week, but when she reappeared at her station, her makeup was immaculate as usual.
A back waiter comes to collect the halibut and steak, balancing the plates expertly along his forearm. “There’s a girl at the bar asking for Radhya,” he says. “Says her name is ‘Twattie’？”
There’s a brief round of tittering from the other line cooks, who have a long-running joke about Radhya being gay, for no reason other than that she’s a woman chef, seems to be a soccer fan, and has nicknames for everyone. Josh is pretty sure she mentioned a husband at one point.
“Radhya’s busy babysitting this duck for the next eight minutes,” he snaps.
“Ten.”
“？‘Ten,’ Chef.” When he started on the line at Scodella, Radhya outranked him. But as he endeared himself to their boss and was quickly promoted to sous chef, he’d heard the vague, displeased mutterings from the back-of-house staff about the circumstances of his swift rise in the kitchen hierarchy. The line cooks didn’t seem to care about Josh’s experiences staging in Denmark and Barcelona, but they certainly recognized the name Kestenberg. He still hasn’t quite managed to check Radhya’s occasional, subtle insubordination. It’s probably resentment. Spite. Jealousy.
“I’m checking on the dining room,” Josh says, untying his apron. It’s a convenient excuse to escape the sweat and heat of the kitchen. And to spy on Table Five’s first course.