The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard Elijah Douresseau (read aloud books .txt) 📖

I also want to keep on creating simple, good food that only a customer might care about. I want to be better about commanding that within myself.”

“You want fame?”

“That wouldn’t be too shabby. But how many people walk into art museums, to spend only a few minutes in front of something someone spent days – months – sweating and bleeding over?”

For the first time, the interviewer took down some notes. Alvin heard the scratching, but the quiet, the lack of vocal cords in use was no more evident than in that brief pause.

“I think I need to grow in that respect. I want to be the informed museum guest, but I want the equipment to keep my food true creations in the spirit of artistic expression. I want the knowledge, technique and skills. And I’m willing to work for them.”

“Who or what inspired this outlook of food in you?”

Alvin used much of his preparation time for such a question, but not after saying everything he said some minutes earlier. The inquiry was brand new. Something to explore in the present.

“My grandma passed just over a year ago.”

“I’m sorry. But please, elaborate.”

“She raised me. I like to think she left this world peacefully. No diagnosis of something awful or terminal. She was fit as an ox. And she ate like one. She gave me the – particular umph I have to cook. To want to cook for others.”

More intrigue on the part of the interviewer.

“Was there more to that ‘umph’ to get you from there to here? You always saw yourself applying to culinary school?”

The question – familiar, again, but the two were in uncharted territory. Alvin was feeling things.

“The odd thing about Grandma passing was the day before. She called me over. Just wanted to see me. No sign this was the very last time I would see her. I was always happy to meet and catch up with her. So I thought nothing of it. But she didn’t care about what I was up to, though she indulged that for a while.”

“What did she want?”

The interviewer seemed interested beyond the formality of her meeting with Alvin.

“Dinner.”

“What did you cook?”

“Her only request was to ‘fix something like it’s my payday,’ as she put it.”

“What was that?”

“She was a Caribbean grandma. So I tried to give her some island loving. Fried up some fish and made some macaroni pie.”

“Barbadian.”

“Yes! Impressive.”

“I do work here.”

Alvin was humored and disarmed. He had few joys those days. The biggest was reminiscing about his dearly departed, grandest of all grandmas.

“Grandma loved eggs with everything. So I turned he pie into a little bit of a quiche. Spiced it up with some jalapeno hot sauce and curry powder.”

“Sounds like she died happy. Or perhaps, very full.”

“She enjoyed it thoroughly. Never saw her eat my food with so much enthusiasm. It bugged her out not being able to separate the egg from the noodle or the cheese. So I did my job.”

“When did she pass?”

“We finished and I packed up the leftovers for her. Cleaned up. Then I hugged her and left. Got a call the next afternoon from the caregiver. She died in her sleep the night before.”

“What a last meal.”

“I was obviously devastated. Inconsolable for a minute. But she died with a wish fulfilled. She died content. She died with something that lifted her spirits.”

The interviewer was awestruck for a moment. Nothing but stares.

“Didn’t mean for the food to lift her spirit right out of her body.”

“Boy, was that something,” the interviewer laughed back.

“It took that for me to realize I wield a dangerous weapon.”

“Food.”

“Few other things can make people forget who they are or where they are. But it can also remind you who are and how much you can feel.”

“We are in an amazing business, aren’t we? But it’s still a business. Why can’t you continue to cook for friends and family and just be a hero at the occasional function?”

“I’ve watched too many movies to only cook for my loved ones.”

“You see your food doing more than that?”

“I take pleasure in cooking for those who love me. I could be doing this or anything, they still would be there.”

“Seems like a decently tangible thing to aim for.”

“Believe me, there might be a few who may not make it with me, if I gave up cooking. But that very love allows me to try to do more with the food I hold dear.”

“Your Caribbean cooking.”

“I want to unify all the islands. Make it big enough to see from space, from any blog or newspaper review.”

“There are not too many of them around,” the interviewer added thoughtfully.

“You have more Cuban and Jamaican than anything. And that’s great. But there should be more. Pulling from other countries in the tropical region.”

“You need a restaurant to do those things. Or maybe a pop-up. You seem to want to do something else. Do you know what that is yet?”

Alvin did not know.

He was most relaxed minutes ago. The tense energy was back. He was sure he had to know everything for an interview. He did not quite see that coming. A pointed question aimed at him.

How could he not?

Maybe he did not want to be honest with himself. Or he did not know until that moment of asking. Being upfront seemed to be working. If he was not going to get into culinary school, he was not sure what he was going to do.

“I know I want to take my food and cooking wherever I go. Into different things. I’ve chosen my arsenal. They don’t make me invincible or the most dangerous, but I want to know how to use them. Then I’ll have a chance. Then I think I’ll be prepared.”

“So you see food as something to get right.”

“To make it as effective as it can be while I’m dealing with it.”

“I’m happy to hear you say that, because that’s what we do here. You’re allowed to have your dreams, but we focus on the food and