The Bear Between Flames and Memories (eBook)

Khalid Elhind (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
290 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
9780000813770 (ISBN)

Infos

Have you ever wondered how one smell can take you back to the past in all its painful and beautiful details In the heart of bustling Chicago, amid the burning flames of a family kitchen on the verge of collapse, Leo Carmody called on the brink of war. After the death of his older brother Mikey, Leo finds the reluctant heir to a restaurant burdened with debt and jealous Nirvana. This is not just a story about cooking; I am delving deeply into the human psyche, where squeezing out every grain of buried sadness, every recipe is a desperate attempt to build a new life from the ashes of the past. Get ready for a literary experiment that will touch your feelings, make you wonder about the meaning of the legacy, the strength of the family, the treatment of hope even in the darkest circumstances.

Reveal the story of the novel 'behind the scenes of the original beef restaurant in Chicago', where hot meat is ordered with the smell of bitter memories. Leo, a talented chef who has escaped from the pressures of his family to the luxurious kitchens of New York, is forced to return to the ghosts of his past and the challenges left by his brother. Between the exhausting lack of daily work, a skeptical and loyal work team, and only family tactics to the exclusion of the rest, Leo is fighting a new multi-front war. Everything that he plans and prepares is not just an attempt to manage the restaurant, but a step towards his full understanding, reconciliation with his brother, the discovery of his new passion in cooking.

'Man: among the memories' is a novel par excellence, set around an influential character, offering an insightful study of human relationships and the internal conflict that we all face when trying to reconcile our past with our future. A clever and realistic narrative novel, which takes you on a touching emotional journey, exploring how Ferdinand's professional passion will heal, and how family ties, despite their risks, can be an inexhaustible source of strength. It's a story about grief and redemption, and it ponders the meaning of the chaos in the midst of it, and the hope that springs from the pain, like a delicious dish that emerges from between the flames.

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Chapter 2

First Cuts, Deeper Wounds

 

The knife felt alien in his hand. Not because of its make or balance – it was a decent, if well-worn, Sabatier, the kind of workhorse found in countless kitchens. No, it was the task itself, the mountain of onions before him, that felt foreign.

 

He, Leo Carmody, who had recently been tweezing micro-cilantro onto artfully plated crudo, was now faced with the unglamorous, tear-inducing reality of prepping bulk aromatics. It was a return to basics, a humbling descent from the rarefied air of fine dining.

 

Sydney watched him for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before turning back to her own task of meticulously portioning giardiniera into small plastic containers. Her movements were efficient, precise, a stark contrast to the surrounding disarray.

 

Richie, meanwhile, continued his rhythmic assault on the flat-top, the scrape and sizzle a constant, percussive backdrop to the kitchen’s quiet despair. He hadn’t offered Leo an apron, and Leo hadn’t asked. A small, unspoken power play, perhaps. Or maybe just an oversight.

 

Leo found a reasonably clean cutting board, though “clean” was a relative term in this kitchen. He picked up the first onion, its dry skin papery beneath his fingertips. He remembered Mikey teaching him how to dice an onion, years ago, right here.

 

“Fast, Carmy, fast, but don’t lose a finger, eh?” Mikey’s voice, rough and warm, echoed in his memory. The memory brought a fresh pang, sharp and unexpected. He blinked, focusing on the task, pushing the image away before it could overwhelm him.

 

His knife skills, honed over years of intense training and demanding services, were still sharp. The blade moved with a practiced grace, slicing, dicing, the rhythmic chop a familiar comfort. It was muscle memory, a language his hands understood even if his heart was lost.

 

Yet, even this simple act felt different here. In New York, prep was a meditative process, a quiet prelude to the storm of service. Here, it felt like a desperate attempt to plug a hole in a sinking ship, each diced onion a tiny, insufficient sandbag.

 

The air grew thick with the acrid scent of onions, mingling with the ever-present aroma of beef and grease. Leo’s eyes began to sting, then water. He blinked rapidly, refusing to wipe them, not wanting to show any weakness, however mundane.

 

He thought of the immaculate, well-ventilated prep kitchens he was used to. This place was a relic, a testament to a different era of restaurant work, an era Mikey had never managed to escape, or perhaps, had never wanted to.

 

The onions piled up, a fragrant mound of translucent dice. He worked steadily, methodically, trying to lose himself in the repetition, to quiet the noisy grief that clamored for attention in his mind. It was a temporary reprieve, at best.

 

He glanced over at Sydney. She worked with a quiet intensity, her focus absolute. He wondered about her story, what had brought her to The Beef, what hopes she had pinned on Mikey and this struggling restaurant. She was an enigma.

 

Richie, on the other hand, was an open book of grudging loyalty and simmering resentment. He clearly missed Mikey, but just as clearly, he seemed to view Leo as an unwelcome disruption, an outsider who didn’t understand the soul of this place.

 

The silence between the three of them was heavy, broken only by the sounds of their work. It was a silence filled with unspoken questions, unvoiced fears, and the towering, invisible presence of the man who was no longer there.

 

Leo finished the first bin of onions and moved on to the next, his movements becoming more fluid, more natural. He was a chef, after all. This was what he did. Even in the depths of his sorrow, his training kicked in.

 

He wondered what Mikey would think, seeing him here, back in the old kitchen, trying to pick up the pieces. Would he be proud? Amused? Disappointed that Leo had left his prestigious New York job for this beautiful, chaotic mess?

 

He suspected Mikey would have made a wisecrack, clapped him on the shoulder, and then immediately started barking orders, pulling him into the familiar, frenetic dance of service. The thought brought a faint, bittersweet smile to Leo’s lips.

 

The smile faded as quickly as it came, replaced by the dull ache of loss. It was an ache that had become a permanent part of him, a shadow that followed him everywhere, even into the supposed sanctuary of the kitchen.

 

The Cold Reality of the Line

 

The lunch rush, when it arrived, was more of a hesitant trickle than a flood. A few regulars, their faces etched with a similar sadness, ordering their usuals with a subdued air. The usual boisterous lunchtime chatter was missing.

 

Leo found himself pushed onto the sandwich station by a grunt from Richie and a nod from Sydney. It was Mikey’s old station. Standing there felt like sacrilege, like wearing his dead brother’s clothes. The counter was worn smooth in places from years of Mikey leaning against it.

 

The orders came in, handwritten on small, greasy tickets speared onto a spindle. “Beef, wet, hot,” “Combo, sweet, dipped,” “Sausage, no peppers.” The shorthand was familiar, a language he hadn’t realized he still knew. His hands moved, almost by instinct.

 

He sliced the beef, piled it onto the crusty Italian rolls, ladled the jus, added the peppers or giardiniera. It was a dance he’d learned as a teenager, working summers here under Mikey’s often impatient tutelage. He was rusty, clumsy.

 

His movements lacked Mikey’s effortless grace, the practiced economy of motion that came from doing the same thing thousands upon thousands of times. He fumbled with the tongs, splashed jus on his arm, his carefully constructed composure starting to fray.

 

Richie watched him from the corner of his eye, a silent, critical observer. Leo could feel the judgment, the unspoken comparison. He wasn’t Mikey. He would never be Mikey. And this kitchen, these customers, seemed to mourn that fact with every order.

 

Sydney, surprisingly, offered quiet assistance, anticipating his needs, sliding a container of cheese closer, handing him a fresh stack of napkins before he even realized he was running low. Her support was subtle, professional, and deeply appreciated.

 

He managed to get the orders out, slowly at first, then with a bit more rhythm. But it was a struggle. His fine-dining reflexes were all wrong for this kind_of service. He was thinking too much, trying too hard to be precise where speed and instinct were prized.

 

He remembered the effortless way Mikey could juggle six orders at once, bantering with customers, keeping an eye on the kitchen, all while seemingly never breaking a sweat. It had been a performance, a daily miracle of controlled chaos.

 

Leo felt sweat trickling down his back, the heat of the kitchen pressing in on him. He was out of his element, a fish gasping for air on dry land. This wasn’t the elegant, controlled pressure of a Michelin-starred service; this was a brawl.

 

A customer, an old man with kind eyes who Leo vaguely recognized, peered over the counter. “You Mikey’s brother?” he asked, his voice gentle. Leo nodded, his throat tight. “He was a good man, your brother. Made the best damn beef in Chicago.”

 

The simple, heartfelt words were like a punch to the gut. “Thank you,” Leo managed to choke out, turning away quickly, busying himself with an order that didn’t exist, fighting back a sudden surge of emotion. He missed his brother with a ferocity that stole his breath.

 

The “rush” subsided, leaving behind a trail of dirty dishes, a greasy counter, and a profound sense of inadequacy in Leo. He had survived, barely. But he hadn’t thrived. He hadn’t felt the joy, the connection, that Mikey had so effortlessly exuded.

 

He looked at his hands, stained with beef juice and grease. They felt clumsy, foreign. These were the hands that had painstakingly crafted edible works of art. Now, they felt like blunt instruments, ill-suited for the raw, unpretentious work of The Beef.

 

The cold reality was stark: he was failing. Not just the restaurant, but Mikey’s memory. He was a ghost in his own brother’s kitchen, unable to fill the void, unable to replicate the magic. The weight of it was crushing.

 

He wondered if Sugar had been wrong to call him. Maybe he wasn’t the answer. Maybe some things, some legacies, were meant to fade, to become cherished memories rather than struggling realities. The thought was a bitter pill.

 

The quiet of the post-lunch lull descended, amplifying the hum of the refrigerators, the drip of a leaky faucet, the heavy silence of unspoken disappointment. He felt Richie’s eyes on him again, and this time, Leo met his gaze. There was no triumph there, just a shared weariness.

 

**Echoes in an Empty Space**

 

After the meager lunch service, Sydney began her meticulous cleanup, while Richie disappeared out back, presumably for a smoke and a moment to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Leo found himself adrift, unsure of his next move.

 

He wandered towards the back, past the walk-in cooler with its perpetually loose handle, towards the tiny, cluttered space that had served as Mikey’s office. He hesitated at the door,...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 27.5.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Lyrik / Dramatik ► Dramatik / Theater
• ISBN-13: 9780000813770 / 9780000813770