text: “OK people, you know the drill. Bigger the risk, bigger the reward.” Big Paul pushed his thin, greasy hair back off one side of his sweaty forehead. The air shimmered as he waved a pudgy hand towards the huge whiteboard on the back wall of the kitchen. Names, dates and the promised payment filled in. Sheila watched in awe, as every column and row appeared with text. Since starting as a sous chef three years ago, she had never seen a single week where the pledge board at Light Fantastic, the hottest restaurant on the north shore, wasn’t one hundred percent booked. They were the best, the hottest, the most unique dining destination in three states. It was a point of pride for most who worked here. But not for her, or in fact for most of the other chefs. For them, seeing the board full, and the astronomical prices pledged for payment, was a mirepoix of disgust, fear, and desperation. “You’ll see some big names up there,” the owner continued, “with big pledges right along side. A good cook could make a pretty penny if they bring their A-Game. So don’t be shy, don’t wait too long, and get your name up there before you miss your shot. That’s it for now. Service starts in thirty. Get to work.” Sheila went to her station, where her knives were slowly honing themselves, floating a few inches off the thick cutting board. She glanced up at the board, looked nervously around the kitchen at her fellow staff, and thought hard about what some of those paydays could mean. That top one would pay off her mortgage, her car, her school loan, and go a fair way towards holiday presents for her twins. She looked around the kitchen again, snapping her eyes down quickly just in time to avoid making eye contact with the ever-confident Margo, who was on fish tonight. Margo regularly signed up for a top-ten dish, inspiring both envy and surprise in the rest of the team. Light Fantastic had earned its fame quickly after opening. Not only was the food made by hand, a rarity in these days of wish fulfillment, spellchefs and wiztaurants, but by branding its staff with a sygil that guaranteed the recipe would vanish from the chef’s mind forever, within thirty minutes of the service. Cooking a single, treasured dish for a single high-paying client meant losing it forever. So nobody could wrap their heads around how Margo was able to continue turning out so many world-class meals. Sheila dutifully focused on her work, even earning a comment from one of the passing head chefs who was impressed with the uniformity of her rose-flavored onion batons. But she couldn’t help but to glance up each time a small chime alerted the team to a chef claiming one of the dishes on the board. About half way through her shift, she looked up after the familiar ding, to see that Margo had signed up for the third listing. There weren’t many details offered, it just read ‘childhood, truffles, meatloaf’ and the pledge of $150,000. Who had truffle meatloaf as a child? Sheila thought. Then her eyes drifted up the list to the top item. ‘Homemade, pasta, family + togetherness’ coming in at a whopping $375,000. It was one of the highest checks she had seen. There was one dish a year ago that paid $500,000 for ‘Childhood birthday, homemade, favorite dish’. Sheila remembered the chef, a nice guy named Andy, who took the check. The dish was sublime, the client tipped heavy, probably an additional hundred grand or so. Big Paul was ecstatic. Andy left the restaurant that night, sobbing uncontrollably, vowing to never cook again. Who pays that much to devour someone’s most special memories? Sheila thought. But she knew who. She had seen the names over the years, movie stars, business moguls, crime lords...even politicians. Anyone who could afford it and who bought into the belief that eating someone else’s memories somehow made you wiser, stronger, more powerful. She didn’t believe it. No one in the kitchen did. She knew when she looked around, when she made eye contact or gathered small talk on the short breaks they sometimes got. Everyone was thinking the same thing, best summed up by a line scribbled anonymously on the wall in the bathroom stall. What do you call a parasite that feeds on another parasite? A chef. To her surprise, near the end of her shift, she dragged her paring knife across the sygil on her left arm. It was deep enough to see the blood start to trickle out before the symbol flashed bluish-red, the skin sealed itself and her name appeared on the top line next to the half-million payday. The eyes of her coworkers tried to find hers, but she turned with renewed vigor to her prep work. They were probably thinking about what they would do with that money. But that wasn’t what she was thinking. She was thinking of the vat of sauce bubbling away on the stove, of her siblings gathering around Nonni at the counter, rolling out gnocchi as a family, the platter piled high with the homemade dumplings, meatballs, and sausage after all the hard work. She blinked back tears, knowing it would all be gone soon. That week, she ate gnocchi every night. She ate until she was ill and couldn’t stomach another bite, then forced one more. She ate until she was sick of them. Until she never wanted to taste them again. Then, she was ready. All eyes were on her as she took a new spot at one of the featured chef stations that night. Margo was already working on her dish. Sheila watched her for a moment, the smooth, mechanical movements, the grace, the unflinching smile. But then she saw it. Something, quiet and dark, behind Margo’s eyes. Pain. Just a glimmer, but it was there and it was growing. “What are you looking at, grunt?” Margo said when she caught her looking. “Nothing. Good...Good luck tonight.” Sheila thought she saw something then, a quick flash of what? Humanity? Regret? No. It was something else. Something like respect, or even sisterhood. “You too,” grumbled Margo, before turning back to her prep work. Sheila started her dish, hand crushing the tomatoes, cutting the garlic into paper-thin slivers, adding a handful of spices. Then she made her dough. No potato, like the common recipe, but a mountain of flour and grated cheese. She made the well in the middle and added eggs and salt, carefully mixing it by hand. Over the next hour her sauce thickened, her water boiled, her pasta cooked and drained. Finally, it was time to go to the plate. The mist in her eyes became a glistening, then welling into tears. Now she was full on crying. She covered her face with her towel, heaving sobs and trying to catch her breath. She wasn’t trained as a chef, she didn’t have a full complement of dishes ready to go. She cooked by feel. This one memory of food was really all she had. But soux chefs don’t make a lot and she and her kids needed a place where the hungry world wouldn’t devour them. She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and tried to focus, but broke down again. She was just about to give in, when she felt arms around her. She curled into them, feeling a soothing hand on her back. Looking up, she saw Margo there, tears in her eyes as well. “I know,” she said quietly, “It takes and takes. But this world also gives. You’ll get through this.” They held each other for a few seconds longer, before straightening up, squeezing each others’ shoulders quickly, and going back to work. Sheila finished placing the pasta on the dish, spooning over a ladle of sauce, grating on fresh parmesan cheese, and carefully placing a single basil leaf, slightly off kilter, at the top. Margo was just finishing her dish as well. It was equally magnificent. Margo slipped something into her apron pocket before making eye contact with Sheila. They nodded, picked up their dishes, and headed to the dining room. Their tables were fairly close. Margo’s had a man in a deep blue, luxurious suit. He smiled in eager recognition. A regular. Margo placed the dish before him, explaining the contents quietly before bowing slightly and stepping back. She looked over at Sheila, who was walking slowly, too slowly , towards her table. The couple that waited there looked displeased. The man had pointed features, leaning towards the woman next to him and sharply whispering, “It’s about time. That took forever. I’m starving.” The woman glanced at Sheila sympathetically, then looked down at her place setting. “This better be good,” he said, as Sheila placed the serving platter on the table. As she did, she felt the sygil on her arm blaze with pain. She felt light headed. Straightening up, she started to turn before his hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait - am I supposed to serve myself here or what?” “It’s...it’s family style sir. You serve each other.” “For what I’m paying?” he asked. “Are you kid-” “It’s fine, honey,” the woman next to him said, “I don’t mind dishing it out for us.” “Shut up,” he said, glancing at her. “I didn’t come here to have you feed me.” He turned back to Sheila. “Let’s go. Shovel this crap out or you won’t get a penny.” Her knees trembling, Sheila tried to step towards the table but almost stumbled. Suddenly, Margo was there holding her up. “Allow me, sir,” she said, stepping in front of Sheila. “We like to send two chefs out to make sure you get full service.” The man leaned back in his chair, smirking. “That’s more like it,” he said. Margo lifted the large serving spoon, digging into the perfect pile of bite-size dumplings, then paused. She turned to Sheila, her face angry. “You fool!” she said. “You’ve forgotten the saffron!” Shocked, Sheila looked at her. “What sa-” Margo took a small capsule out of her apron, presenting it to Sheila. “Don’t you remember? You specifically asked me to bring it. Aren’t you going to add it? Or do you want this dish to be eaten as is ?” She shook the small canister, eyeing Sheila hard. “This is your last chance.” Sheila stood, dumbfounded, for a minute. The man watched her, the woman watched her, the other patrons watched her. She even saw Big Paul, in the far corner of the dining room, stop what he was doing and look at her curiously and not without some malice. “Oh! The saffron!” she exclaimed, grabbing it out of Margo’s hand. “Of course, how could I be so stupid? I’m so sorry, sir, we’ll get this fixed up for you right away.” She made a flourish of carefully crushing the threads between her fingers, sprinkling the world’s most expensive spice carefully over the mound of pasta. “Here you are, sir. Just a pinch.” As the crumbled bits fell into the rich, red sauce, they made small, orange wells where they landed. And as each piece hit the pasta, Sheila felt her sygil pain decrease. “There you are. Bon appétit.” The man eyed her, silent for a moment. Recognition flashed across his face, darkening his features. But then he looked around at the other diners. Many of them had glanced at the menu beforehand and saw the price of the dishes, wondering who ordered the homemade pasta. Realizing the trap, he scowled, but grabbed a fork and speared some dumplings from his dish, pushing them into his mouth. What followed was a dramatic moan, exaggerated chewing and a deep, hard swallow. “Delicious,” he muttered. “See that you send the wine steward over.” “Of course sir,” said Margo, shuttling Sheila towards the kitchen, “Right away, sir.” When the doors to the kitchen swung shut, Sheila grabbed Margo in a tight hug. “Oh Margo, thank you so much! That horrible man...my childhood. I don’t know what I would have done.” “It’s ok,” Margo said, holding her for a beat. “I had to. It’s rare to find a cook that has that kind of passion.” “What’s going to happen now? They’ll know it wasn’t the recipe.” “Don’t worry about it. A guy like that would rather pay and be wrong, then be embarrassed and right. He flashes that kind of money around for a meal, he wants people to notice. And look, both my parents were chefs. I had a lot of good food growing up but my childhood was...well let’s just say it wasn’t much of one. Nothing worth remembering, anyway. Don’t give yours away.” “I won’t. I don’t know what I was thinking.” “One other thing. Tonight’s my last night here. I’ve finally made enough to open my own place.” Sheila’s eyes widened. “Really?” she said, wiping her nose and eyes on the back of her sleeve. “That’s great, but I’m sorry to see you go.” “Well that’s the thing,” Margo said, taking off her apron. She held up her arm and smiled, watching as the sygil disappeared. “I could really use a chef.” End