in the kitchen

The guests are dull these days. There are lots of them, but they are relatively unremarkable. There was a wedding party a few days back. It was a wedding between an Argentinian woman and a German man. There were onehundred germans and argentines milling around the grounds and eating barbeque under a large white tent. The athletic adults played a spirited soccer match on a field that we had specially set up for them while the children jumped around in an inflatable castle. Then we had a group of Americans here for someones 60th birthday. They unhinged me. It was four couples, in their fifties and sixties from Grenwich, CT. They reaked of investment banking and spoke often of Duke, Yale, Princeton, of team colors and golf scores. They were bores and I hated them. The girls could not understand why these seemingly inoffensive guests aroused such dislike in me. I explained one afternoon to Vani and Xime that these were the odious people that more or less owned America. They listened with owl-wide eyes. They came and went along with some lively british couples (flyfishing enthusiasts), a young attractive Swiss couple (fitness enthusiasts) and some friendly Argentines (leisure enthusiasts).
The season has a feeling of slowing down. Even the weather has become chillier. The nights are crisp and the afternoons less appealing for swimming. With fewer guests, Manu, the chef, works alone. Maria, her unpleasant counterpart, has left along with Gabi and Mica. For this I am glad. I like Manu more and more. She is both harsh and controlling, stormy and unpredictable. Her face reveals, with expressive drama, her everchanging mood. I have learned to read it very well. Her wide dark eyes watch my every move, they check and recheck that I have set the tables correctly, placed the gristini in the bread basket correctly, filled the water glasses the correct amount. But she rarely finds fault. She likes me, which I realize is a rare priveledge. She talks to me about her private life--she lives with her boyfriend, Luis, in town. They live in a big house but will soon move to a smaller apartment. She shows me magazine pictures of the kitchens she would someday like to have-dream kitchens. Unlike her country people, she doesn´t like to share mate and she hates sharing food. She asks me questions about my life and we often have a sort of stilted version of what would otherwise be girl talk. We are both not real sharers and we recognize that in one another and exist in one anothers company quite happily. I somehow know she feels the same. I love to watch her work, the way she plates the food, the way she watches (like a hawk) the guests eat, the way she gets flustered, annoyed, often nearly enraged. I also love to hear her speak in english, timid and sweet. Speaking english makes her blush. Most of all, I love to see her at the end of a shift when she is out of her chef´s shirt, apron and hat. Her hair is wavy and long and she wears tight jeans and worn t-shirts, sometimes puffy jackets and big sunglasses. She drives a little black VW Golf, which she drives very fast on her way out, down the long dirt road and home to Luis.
Manu has an understudy, Silvana, who does prep work and prepares dinner or lunch when there are only a few guests. She has a round, open face and smiles easily. Working with Silvana is always fun. It is just the two of us, two amateurs let loose to take control of the night, the meal, everything. We are like children left home alone to make dinner for ourselves. She is very nervous when she plates the food and when each course is brought to the table, she exhales loudly, releases her tense shoulders and paces back and forth in the dishroom, smiling, giddy. She always makes an extra dessert for us to share and she does not judge me for eating the guests leftovers and drinking wine on the job. She likes this about me, I can tell. We are always teaching eachother words, as she has more patience than the others, always glad to spell out words for me on dirty napkins. When the meal is done, her joy and relief is palpable, the mood is celebratory. I want to break out the champagne and toast to a night well done. But instead, she leaves, breathless and exhausted, usually with some scrap of leftover venison, and I am left with millions of dirty wine glasses to wash, dry and polish.