Making the Cut

Chapter One

The shrimp tail, glistening with its coating of soybean oil, described a high arc as it whirled end-over-end to join six of its brethren in the breast pocket of Midori’s shirt. She’d spent hours practicing that trick, after closing time in her parents’ restaurant that her family called Umenohana and everyone else called Plum Flower, first under the tutelage of her brothers and later on her own. Line up the shrimp. Slice off the tails. Flourish. Slide the spatula under the first tail. Flip it up. Catch it in the pocket. Smile. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The shrimp trick was the easy one.

Her brothers smiled and laughed at her, but not in an unkind way. Tall, spare Ichiro, at twenty-nine already the spitting image of their father; rotund David with the infectious giggle; and Michael, who never spoke unless he had something to say. All three of them had willfully gone against a thousand years of traditions as well as the express wishes of their parents to teach their youngest sister Midori teppanyaki. It was just something that was not done, girls cooking on the teppan. They waitressed. They brought the customers drinks and bowls of clear soup. They did the restaurant financials. But the actual cooking? That was men’s work, and Hiroaki Yamiguchi wouldn’t have it any other way in his restaurant. Like most Asian restaurants, Umenohana was a family business, and Hiroaki’s word was final in all respects except when it came to managing the money. That was the domain of his wife Kisumi, and they had made it clear that they expected Midori to follow her mother’s example. Someday, they told her, it would be Ichiro’s restaurant, but it would be Midori who ran it. She should have been proud. Should have been pleased to honor her parents’ wishes. Should have been thrilled that her future and livelihood was already set in place.

Except she wanted to cook.

The egg tricks were next, and they weren’t her strong suit. She set three eggs on the teppan and started them spinning. The first time she’d tried that, she’d burned her fingertips on the hot surface. Of course they blistered, and for two weeks she cried silent tears as she washed dishes in the restaurant kitchen. She didn’t dare let her parents see. The eggs spun on the surface. She gave each of them another twist as she spun the spatula around in her fingers.

Ichiro taught her the egg tricks. He was the unquestioned master. He could actually juggle them, using nothing more than the flat spatula blade. Midori wasn’t nearly as good, but she slid the blade underneath the middle egg and lifted it, still spinning. She rocked it back and forth a little, keeping it spinning. She had to hurry, because if the other two eggs lost their momentum, their spins would turn into rolls, and then she’d be mopping egg off the floor.

Flip the egg up high. Turn the spatula ninety degrees. Catch the spinning treasure on the edge. Balance the broken shell as the interior rolls down the blade onto the skillet. Flip the broken shell back up. Bow the head forward. Catch the shell on the crown of the tall hat. Second egg. Last egg.

Her brothers applauded as she snagged the third egg just as it rolled off the table. I thought for sure you lost it there, said David.

Learn to give the third an extra spin with your off hand as you catch the first, said Ichiro.

How? asked Midori as she scrambled the egg on the hot surface below her and added in a bowlful of chopped scallions and carrots. "I can’t watch the egg on the spatula if I’m trying to spin the one on the teppan, and if I don’t look down, I’ll burn my fingers again."

Practice, said Michael, and took a drink of his sake.

Ichiro and David raised their own glasses to that. Practice, they echoed.

Practice was their mantra, their philosophy, their Dō. Everything in the art of teppanyaki cooking boiled down to hours of practice. Repetition beyond the point of boredom, beyond the point of caring, beyond the point of mastery. Even Ichiro, who could probably prepare an entire meal blindfolded, practiced the art every day. Growing up, Midori had always seen her brothers as a band of samurai, who wielded spatulas and long forks and knives instead of katanas. She had longed to join them, but instead her mother guided her into waitressing, with her hair carefully pinned up and a kimono wrapped around her slender figure.

It was much later, when Ichiro had found her struggling to make her own onion-ring volcano one night after closing, that he’d taken pity on her and showed her his technique. One lesson became two. Two became four. One brother became three and soon the siblings had their own little late-night secret club. They would offer to close the restaurant themselves, allowing Hiroaki and Kisumi to leave early and perhaps enjoy an evening riding the cable car, or walking through Golden Gate Park. Then, after the last customer left, they would teach Midori.

Ichiro, of course, taught her the shrimp and egg tricks, how to joke with the customers while cooking, and how to cut an onion properly. David, always the showman, taught her a wide variety of spatula and fork flips, and even how to spin a knife, although Midori was desperately afraid she’d cut off a finger if she ever tried. Michael taught her about the hiss of perfectly-cooked steak on the grill, the subtle color variations of soy sauce in the rice, and the poetry of proper seasoning.

Midori put that knowledge to good use as she dumped the bowl of rice onto the egg and vegetable mixture and hashed it up quickly. She tapped her spatula rhythmically on the teppan as she poured soy sauce onto the rice from a squeeze bottle. Michael’s nostrils flared and she pulled the bottle away before she could over-season the rice. Away went the spatula and fork and out came the shakers.

One for salt. One for pepper. Beat them on the teppan. Whirl them through fingers. Toss them. Catch them. Flip one behind the back and catch it. She was still working on that last part, and tended to drop it more often than not, but that time the shaker dropped perfectly into her outstretched hand without missing a beat.

Then she tried her own trick. She’d practiced it, practiced it until her fingers were numb and her calves aching. She flipped the salt shaker up high and did a quick pirouette on the toes of one foot. In practice, she’d turn around with her hand out and the shaker would fall right into it. She’d done it once before for her brothers, but hadn’t attempted it in weeks. Instead of a perfect technique, the shaker caught the edge of the overhead hood and ricocheted at a bad angle, and it bounced off her cheek as she spun. She yelped, more from surprise than pain, and then felt shame race up her spine as the shaker hit the floor.

David giggled; he couldn’t help it. It was his nature, and Midori couldn’t fault him for it.

Ichiro, though, took offense. I’ll run him through if you want, Midi. Dishonoring you like that.

Yes, please, said Midori.

Ichiro went for David, brandishing a chopstick, while David howled with laughter and tried to keep away from his brother.

Midori caught Michael’s eye. At twenty, he was her closest sibling, both chronologically and emotionally. He winked and smiled as if to say boys will be boys. His indulgent silence put Midori at ease and she retrieved the fallen shaker, relieved to see it hadn’t cracked.

Ichiro and David wound down their shenanigans at last and returned to the table as Midori finished scooping rice into bowls. She flipped each bowl once, caught it on her spatula, and slid it to a place setting. "Bon appetit," she said, and bowed.

Her brothers applauded and dug into their food. Ichiro had steak and lobster, David chicken, and Michael had chosen scallops and shrimp. They all complimented Midori on the flavors and how well she’d cooked everything.

And that leads me to something important, said Ichiro as he wiped his mouth. Last month, while you were cooking for us, we shot video of you. He pointed to the corner of the restaurant where an innocuous webcam had been stuck to the wall with sticky-tac.

A chill ran down down her back in spite of the heat from the teppan. Why did you do that? You didn’t show Dad, did you?

"No, of course not. He wouldn’t understand. We submitted it to Making the Cut."

Midori’s hands flopped down to her sides. You did what?

Making the Cut was the breakout hit show on FoodieTV, the newest of the various cooking-and-eating-oriented cable channels. In the show’s inaugural season, a group of eight recent high-school graduates had competed against one another for a ten thousand dollar prize and tuition to a prestigious New York culinary school. Midori and her brothers had recorded every episode on the DVR and watched them together late at night after closing. The winner, a bubbly blonde girl from North Carolina had come from a poor early showing to eventually take the big prize. Midori had felt a tremendous stab of envy. To be eighteen and heading off to culinary school on the network’s dime, that was amazing. She’d said as much to her brothers in an off-handed comment.

She hadn’t realized they’d taken her seriously.

I can’t believe you did that without telling me! When did you do it? Did I screw up that night? I mess up something every time. What happens now? Do they look at the video and call me or what?

Ichiro laughed. Easy, Midi. You’re too young to have a stroke.

They called, said David. They said yes.

Yes? What does that mean? Midori felt her heart fluttering like a hummingbird riding a massive sugar high.

It means you’re in, said Michael. You’re going to be on the show so long as the producers feel you’re appropriate television material.

Midori squealed and threw her arms around Ichiro, who happened to be closest to her. She wished she could have embraced all three of her brothers, but being boys, they weren’t so much into the affection. She felt like dancing and throwing up all at the same time. What’s appropriate television material?

David held out his cell phone with the video camera pointed at her. "So, Ms. Yamaguchi, tell us about why you think you should be on Making the Cut. And make it good. This one’s getting emailed right to the producer when we’re done."

What? No, David. I’m a mess. I’ve got eggshells on my head and shrimp tails in my pocket. At least let me go clean up first.

Nonsense. This is who you are, Midi.

I just—I don’t know, I guess I want to show that girls can be chefs too. You know Dad doesn’t think we’re good for anything but serving drinks and doing the accounting. I hate math.

So why be on the show then? Why not just go confront your parents?

Midori sneered at him. "They’re your parents too, you goofball. And you know exactly how it would go. Yelling and screaming and end in tears. How does that help me get out from under their thumbs? Being on Making the Cut would show them that I’m better than just a waitress. I’m a cook. And I’m a good one, too."

What if you didn’t win? asked Michael.

Midori looked over at him. At least it would show that I’ve got some good skills. Maybe enough to work for someone else. Or even open my own restaurant someday. I’d love to do that.

That’s about two minutes, said David. Perfect. He traced his finger on the phone’s screen. Email is sent. If they like what they see, they’ll call us and you’ll be on the next season.

Midori shivered. That’s so exciting! And then grim reality came crashing down around her.

Oh my God, what do I do if they call me? Dad’s going to kill me.

Ichiro smiled. Don’t worry. We’ve already figured out a way around it.

Even Michael cracked a smile. Trust us.

* * *

Are you sure you can’t stay for the dinner rush just this once? asked Maria. "Feliciano called in. He said he’s sick but I know that little puto is probably drunk off his ass again."

Nicole Maynes shook her head. Sorry. I wish I could, but I have to pick up Tina by six or the daycare charges me a dollar a minute.

Maria sighed. I know. I wish I could pay you more so you could afford a better daycare.

It’s not that. Nicole shrugged her backpack on over her bulky shoulders and arranged the straps on either side of the twin back-breakers known as her boobs. Tucked into the bottom was a take-home container with burritos for herself, her baby sister, and her mom. Maria knew it was there. Neither of them spoke about it. I like working here. If my mom wasn’t working so many hours at the hospital, I’d be able to put more in here.

I hope you can work it out. I want you running my kitchen, Nicole.

Nicole smiled. That means a lot to me.

You ever hear back from that TV show? A server brought in an early dinner order and Maria started preparing it herself.

Nicole had to force herself not to roll up her sleeves and help. If she hung around much longer, she’d miss the bus and then she’d owe the daycare extra anyway. No, and why would they? I’m a fat brown girl on food stamps. Not really TV material.

Sweetie, that’s bullshit and we both know it. One of the late cooks slouched into the kitchen from the back door. Jaime, get your skinny ass onto the flat top. I’ve got two mixed fajitas and a mariscos plate waiting.

Nicole couldn’t help it; she garnished Maria’s plate and wiped down the edge. I’ve got to go. Sorry.

I know, sweetie. Maria made kissy-lips at her.

Nicole hated leaving the restaurant kitchen. Maria was her best friend. The woman was older than her mother but Nicole was far closer to her. Maria hadn’t taught Nicole everything about cooking, but she’d helped to refine Nicole’s love of food into skillful preparation. As a mentor, she was unparalleled. Nicole had spent many early mornings before school learning how to make fresh tortillas, mix up vats of green chile, and stuff tamales. She’d been like a sponge for cooking information, and Maria, childless, had taken Nicole under her wing to pass along everything she knew about cooking.

Then Maria had suffered an attack of acute appendicitis, and wound up in the very same hospital where Nicole’s mother worked. Without anyone else willing to step up, Nicole had jumped in and taken over the kitchen, making it hers for the few days that Maria was out, skipping school in order to make sure everything got done.

By the time Maria returned, two cooks and three servers had quit, but those who remained spoke glowing praises of Nicole’s innovation and abilities. Maria had offered Nicole the kitchen manager position on the spot, but Nicole had been forced to turn it down. She was behind in schoolwork, and wasn’t going to wind up as another non-graduating Hispanic statistic bandied about on news talk shows. I don’t like it, but I understand it, Maria said. You keep working here and when you’re ready, this will be your kitchen.

The bus was just pulling up to the curb as Nicole hurried out of the restaurant. The early summer heat was like a punch in the guts, and by the time she stepped onto the bus, sweat was already beading on her forehead. She slid her pass through the reader and flopped onto a seat where the driver’s fan might blow upon her a bit.

She had eighteen minutes until her stop, so she checked her phone. No new voice mails, only a couple of texts from fair-weather friends. She replied to them and put the phone away again, wishing she might have been a little more popular in high school. She graduated with the rest of her class, barely, thanks to her having to work all through school to help keep food on the table. But she had graduated, which was an accomplishment because her mother hadn’t managed such a feat, on account of raising baby Nicole at age seventeen.

Lots of girls weren’t as pretty, or as popular, or as rich or thin as others, so they had to get attention other ways. The easiest way was to put out. She’d understood this the first time she let a boy reach inside her bra—the very same one she was wearing, in fact—and later, when she’d let a different boy take her virginity. He hadn’t even wanted to look at her fat, and never spoke to her again after the act was finished. In the halls at school, skinny girls would look down at her jiggling belly as they saw her approach, and whisper amongst themselves, using hurtful words like fat slut and whore.

She’d tolerated the reputation, taken her birth control pills every day, and never once compromised on the things that made her feel good, whether it had to do with sex, or knowledge, or food. Be the smartest one in the room and it will shut people up. Fake it until you make it. Some girls would pick at a plate of wilted salad, eat ice chips, and pretend that they weren’t hungry. Nicole would rather carve her way through a pint of ice cream without any apologies. She knew it wasn’t the healthiest way to live, but dammit, she was poor, she was fat, and there weren’t many sources of joy in her life. She deserved whatever of it she could find, and if that was at the bottom of a bag of chips or in the crumbs of a frozen cheesecake, so be it.

She’d entered a video into the Making the Cut auditions on a whim. Maria had helped shoot it with her cell phone as Nicole chatted her way through the preparation of a plate of her favorite pork enchiladas with green tomatillo sauce. When she was finished, she almost had Maria delete the recording. She must have been smoking crack to think she could have gotten on TV with her cooking. Eighteen years old, barely graduated from high school, and looking at a future of nothing better than low-paying kitchen jobs like it was a prison sentence. She tried to present herself as confident and skilled, and she felt that way when she was in the kitchen, but TV people dealt with fiction all the time. They’d be able to see past her bullshit. They’d see her for what she was, a sad, lonely, chubby girl.

The bus rolled past a McDonald’s and Nicole shuddered. At least she wasn’t making fries. Although she could have gone for a Big Mac. And she knew McDonald’s at least had training programs that could get her into restaurant management someday. It was a sad reality in her life that a management position at a fast food joint could be considered a long-term career choice. She dinged the bell for the next stop. She could smell the burritos in her pack and couldn’t wait until she could dive into hers.

The daycare lady was in a third floor apartment across the complex from the bus stop. Nicole had ten minutes to get there. She’d made that journey every weekday for the past four years, first to pick up newborn Tina after school so their mom could get back to work trying to support their little family, and later, on summer days, after her shift ended at Tres Palmas.

Tina had been an unplanned but welcome addition to the Maynes family, courtesy of a one-night stand that Nola Maynes had with a man she met at a friend’s wedding. Like Nicole’s dad, he’d become increasingly difficult to find and within a couple months had dropped out of sight altogether. Nola hadn’t seen nor heard from him since, and as far as Nicole was concerned, good riddance. Her mom was happier when it was just the three of them, sitting at home together on her days off, watching movies and eating popcorn. Whenever Nola was dating, she was miserable, and Nicole hated seeing her mom that way.

The summer heat was taking its toll, and by the time Nicole reached the daycare, she was feeling faint. She rapped her knuckles on the door and waited, listening to the sounds of small children laughing and running around. Mrs. Johnson wasn’t supposed to be running a daycare out of her apartment, but the price was right. Sure, she mostly served the kids junky microwave snacks that she bought in bulk at the Sam’s Club, and for the most part let them watch TV all day, but it was better than nothing. The reason Nicole didn’t delete the Making the Cut video and sent it in instead was that she had a momentary pipe dream of sending Tina to a real daycare—the kind that had lots of toys, and games, and teachers that would read to the kids and teach them things.

The kind of daycare that the Maynes couldn’t afford.

Mrs. Johnson opened the door, a cigarette in one hand and the TV remote in the other. Hi, Nicole.

Hi, Mrs. J.

Nickie! screamed Tina, and ran over to fling her arms around her sister, even though she was hot and sweaty.

Nicole bent down to lift up