Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler Read Free Book Online

night, a stifling tropical storm. Perhaps someone struck a match and held it to my cheek. Perhaps someone cleaved my life into before and after. He looked at me. And then he laughed. From that moment on he became unbearable to me.
    —
    YOU WILL ENCOUNTER a fifth taste.
    Umami: uni, or sea urchin, anchovies, Parmesan, dry-aged beef with a casing of mold. It’s glutamate. Nothing is a mystery anymore. They make MSG to mimic it. It’s the taste of ripeness that’s about to ferment. Initially, it serves as a warning. But after a familiarity develops, after you learn its name, that precipice of rot becomes the only flavor worth pursuing, the only line worth testing.

IV
    The sardines are insane tonight.
    It’s true, Chef called him a faggot.
    HR is freaking out.
    Have you been to Ssäm bar yet?
    No, the best Chinese is in Flushing.
    I’m playing a show Wednesday.
    Scott is on fire.
    I was obsessed with Chekhov.
    I’m obsessed with Campari right now.
    I need to get my cameras out again.
    I’m fairly well known in the experimental dance world.
    Table 43 is industry—Per Se?
    If one more bitch cuts me off to ask for Chardonnay—
    If one more person asks for steak sauce—
    What the fuck?
    Carson is in again—without the wife.
    That’s twice this week.
    Sometimes I think, Fuck the pooled house.
    I’m not jealous.
    Technically I texted first. But he responded.
    You don’t get it.
    I’m on day three—I feel great, high all the time.
    Will you water 24?
    Will you drop bread on 49?
    Move.
    Fuck off.
    Fuck you.
    It’s like the rude Olympics in here today.
    They’re just French.
    And after I took the LSAT, I was like wait, I don’t want to be a lawyer.
    I still paint sometimes.
    I just need space. And time. And money.
    It’s so hard in New York.
    Allergy on 61.
    It’s not really romantic.
    I’d fuck the mom.
    Does she come in drunk?
    It’s just lemon, maple syrup, and cayenne.
    It’s just Nicky’s martinis, never drink more than one.
    I just need representation.
    It’s like banging against a brick wall.
    I need soupspoons on 27.
    Chef wants to see you—now.
    I’m dropping soup now.
    What did I do?
    Fuck—the midcourse.
    —
    “PICK UP.”
    The tickets came from a printer on Chef’s right. They flew into the air like an exclamation and fluttered down in a wave. He yelled: “Fire Gruyère. Fire tartare. Hold calamari. Hold two smokers.”
    From that code the cooks on the line went into action. Chef lined up the tickets, bouncing from foot to foot like a child who had to go to the bathroom. He was a small man from New Jersey but classically trained in France. He screamed anecdotes at the cooks, recalling “real” kitchens where chefs would slam you in the head with a copper pan if you couldn’t chop the parsley fine enough. Chef’s voice was too loud and he couldn’t really control it. The servers and managers were always complaining that you could hear him from the dining room. Everyone, even Scott, his number two, kept their eyes averted if he was on a tirade. The man paced the kitchen red-faced, primed for explosion.
    The line cooks were a blur of movement while essentially staying in one place. Everything was within arm’s reach in their stations. Sweat funneled off their eyelashes. There were open flames or salamanders at their backs and heat lamps in the pass at their front. They wiped the rim of each plate before passing it to Chef, who inspected it mercilessly, eager to find smudges of stray sauce or olive oil.
    “Pick up!”
    “Picking up.”
    I was the food runner, I was next. I covered my hands with bar mops. The plates heated up like irons, I expected them to glow.
    “I heard you don’t know the oysters yet,” said Will, startling me. Will was Sergeant, the guy who’d been in charge of me on my first day. Even though I had my stripes now, he still seemed to think I was his project.
    “Jesus,” I said. “Everything is a lesson around here. It’s just dinner.”
    “You don’t get to