My best friend at 15 was a scorpion tattooed convict and sous chef named Omar.  We met working the dinner shift at Shirley’s, an upscale mid-80s-yuppie steakhouse more famous for who ate there than what they served.  For me, it was a summer job I could get to using my learner’s permit.  Omar had invested years there, starting out as a dishwasher.  I first knew the place as a standby for sundry milestones: junior proms, birthdays, and wedding anniversaries.  The guys I ran with thought all their waitresses were Bryn Mawr sophisticates, who could buy beer, and quote from Metamorphosis.  Their house uniforms were starched white blouses and velvet black pencil skirts that coaxed from their wearers a discomforting metronome-wobble which ignorance mistook for deliberate allure and sultriness.  Job applications were done on paper and left in a wooden box near the maître d station.  My only prior work experience was tutoring geometry and hauling green clay to surface tennis courts, so it was surprising to get a call for an interview.  “Michael, this is Suzy from Shirley’s, would you like to come in and talk about your career opportunities here?”

Suzy was a southern woman with the complexion of wallpaper glue.  She wore her red taffy hair in a Dolly Parton-like perm and had a laboring lisp.  Having to say “Suzy from Shirley’s” dozens of times a day would have been enough for me to find a new job, change my name, or just greet people with a “hey.”  The interview consisted of several questions on ethics and honesty which seemed designed to ensure a 100% pass rate.  “Michael, if the cash register is open, should you take money from it or close it and call the manager?”  “What if it’s closing time and a guest left their wallet on the table?  Do you pick it up and follow them to return it or leave it in the lost and found?”  I was hired on the spot and put under Omar’s tutelage where he taught me kitchen tricks one can now learn on YouTube: how to make potato skins (the trick is to partially bake and skin them before frying or baking), skewer shrimp (head to tail), and cut pineapple into intricate garnishes (use cookie cutters not pairing knives).  He had track-line-like scars on his forearms from handling hot plates and bumping up against the grill too many times, so I was pleased to be relegated to the junior space captain work.

We bonded over college basketball, pre-Brewster’s Millions Pryor stand-up, and the paper napkin score card we kept tacked to the walk-in freezer - our guesses as to who was sleeping with whom at Shirley’s.  Restaurant policy was you could eat for free on-site but no take-out.  Anyone messing with that napkin wouldn’t get fed by Omar.  The kitchen would often reach 110 degrees and so the freezer was also our multi-purpose room, a place to eat dinner and when things were slow do impromptu yard calisthenics.  Pistol squats a favorite.  Omar stretched the rules on foodstuffs.  Often, he’d make me a cheeseburger wrapped in foil.  “You put it under your hat Michael, and walk-out, ain’t nobody going to check a man’s hat for food.”  Other food shenanigans followed a similar pattern, like double bagging steamed lobster tail, tossing it in the trash to be retrieved after clocking out.  My grandfather’s 70th birthday party cake was catered by Omar, flourless chocolate lava cake, carried out under my polyester maroon driver’s cap, one piece at a time and then put in an Igloo in my car trunk for transport.  I should mention the pieces were double wrapped.  Omar classic.  It took a few trips.  Omar worked there at least another 10 years.  When my grandfather turned 80, we had a lunch at Shirley’s and my friend brought out a piece of the lava cake hidden in his hat ceremoniously unwrapped at the table.  Forever known by my grandfather as “hat cake,” as in “Let’s get some hat cake.” “Remember that hat cake?”