Rice Cooker Revenge – Chapter 3

RICE COOKER

The Chef is yelling at Ryu again, this time for not having enough plates ready for the lunchtime crowd. He’s careful about the words he lets fly in the back kitchen, only beating down on Ryu when there are no customers in the building. Ryu stands and takes it. I want to say “like a man” because I’ve heard this phrase before. But what do I know? I’m a rice cooker, not a human being. I take my own punishment everyday.

Slam! Jab! Crack. Another batch of washed rice and water goes into my belly, and my buttons are pushed for a sushi rice cycle. At least this means I’ll get a solid forty-five minutes of peace. Maybe Ryu will as well since The Chef is wiping his hands on his rag and heading out the back door to smoke a cigarette and wait for the produce delivery. He cracks the large, dented, steel door with a block of wood and the sound of his lighter relaxes Ryu’s shoulders.

“Did you get any sleep?” I ask, humming away as my insides warm up.

“No.” Ryu wipes down a plate with a clean towel. “I’ve been sitting up at night and thinking about how I can get Chef-san to teach me more techniques. I really don’t want to get fired.” His skinny arms flex as he grips the side of the steel table in the middle of the room. “I decided that this was my last chance to get something right for once.” He wipes his towel along the edge of another plate before stacking it with the others. “If I can’t do this then I might as well give up on a restaurant job and drive a cab or something.”

“Do you think you’d be good at driving a cab?”

Ryu shrugs his shoulders. “I’d be passable. I’ve lived here all my life and my English is pretty good.”

“But you love cooking, right? I see the way you handle a knife and your technique is solid. Who taught you knife skills?”

Ryu’s cheeks color, and he turns away from me. “My mother. She has arthritis now and doesn’t cook much anymore. She buys a lot of precut vegetables from the market and makes do. My older brother hated cooking, so I always helped out.”

Ryu’s eyes scan the kitchen, landing on all the different components of this small tempura shop: the fryer, the counters, the refrigerator… These are all stations he wants to work at, but The Chef keeps him away.

I think for a moment, rice and water bubbling away in my bowl and steam piping from my lid. Ryu has potential, more than any other kid who has come through here for the past seven years. First there was The Chef’s nephew. What a loser. The kid barely knew how to weigh flour and getting him to mix the batter was another story entirely. He didn’t have any muscles! Couldn’t work a whisk to save his life. The Chef’s wife cried when he was let go, certain her sister was going to disown them.

Then two years later when The Chef twisted his ankle he took on another trainee, but that guy was too ambitious. He was always pushing, pushing, pushing for more responsibility, and The Chef’s warning bells were going off all the time. He would mumble to the delivery men about the over-achiever and eventually he fired the guy for dropping a plate on its way out to a customer.

Several other young budding chefs worked here until Ryu walked in the door. And forget women. The Chef is a misogynistic asshole. He doesn’t even hire women servers. One old man works here who takes orders and delivers plates to the four tables in the house. The line is out the door most nights, The Chef’s sought-after shrimp, fish, and vegetable tempura is on every hot list on the internet, so Ryu tells me.

Ryu sighs and adds another plate to the stack. “Anyway,” he says, glancing at the propped door and The Chef beyond, smoking his cigarette. “I won’t get anywhere if I can’t learn more.” He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “I keep trying to look over The Chef’s shoulder when he’s preparing the tempura, but he won’t let me see anything.”

“Who’re you talking to in here?” The Chef rolls into the kitchen, patting his belly and eyeing Ryu as he slips his double-breasted uniform back on.

Ryu glances at me, but I stay silent. Cooking the rice is my only real job, after all.

“Nobody. I was reciting some sutras from school.” Ryu counts the plates. Twenty in all.

“Good. I can’t imagine I pay you enough to get psychological help.”

“No, Chef-san. What do you need me to start on next?”

The Chef grunts, Ryu having jabbed him about the fact he underpays by a landslide. If Ryu got sick, he’d be short the thirty percent he’d need to pay of his medical bill. I only know about the National Health Care system after watching enough trainees cut themselves, trip or slip on something in the kitchen and then spend weeks recovering and grumbling about the bills. The Chef is supposed to help pay the thirty percent not covered by the government, but he’s never lifted a finger to help anyone else.

Really, The Chef is an asshole of huge proportions, and I hate him.

If anyone ever wondered what happens when you piss off a rice cooker, I’m about to show them.