b. Stand toe to toe.
Gordon stares at me. He doesn't back down. He never backs down. Not on Hell's Kitchen. Not on Kitchen Nightmares. Not on the soccer field. I suppose it's easier to stand your ground when you have hired network security or a herd of rugby teammates to back you up. Not this time. It's just me and him. Or is it he and I? He and me? Anyway. No one speaks. No one moves. No one even blinks. Both of our eyes are starting to bug out a bit, turning all red, our eyelids constricting.
He flinches first. It's probably my youth that was the difference-maker. He looks down and rubs his eyes with his fingers. "I don't like to admit when I'm wrong, but I shouldn't have fired you. You're a bloody fine chef."
"Thank you, Chef. Your face doesn't really look like it was burnt by a frying pan, either," I muster. "Come here, ya old sod," he offers, grabbing me around the neck and bro-hugging me.
We start to play bocci ball with some friends he brought over. Like Pierce Brosnan, Simon Cowell, Prince Harry and Steve Buscemi. We have drinks, bust each other’s bocci balls, and talk UK football scores. I have no clue, but since I’d seen the World Cup once, I figure it really is a sport. Everyone is laughing and drinking, being gay and merry. I softly suppress the image that floats to the back of my mind. An irritated Gordon Ramsay offing a soldier in the middle of an Army cafeteria.
I take another drink. I listen more closely to Gordon’s football glory days. He was quite the baller back in his day. This is nice. And it’s going to be a good night.
No comments:
Post a Comment