“You realize,” Devonte Best said, “that you’ve been speaking to me in Russian, right?”
They were in the office upstairs from Schatzi, the German restaurant. It was closed in and spartan, but incredibly organized. The wall had only three pieces of decoration: a small, highly discolored portrait of Chancellor Helmut Kohl, who had shepherded German Reunification; a large portrait of Sigmund Jähn, the first German Cosmonaut; and a German flag with what Devonte thought was a Freemason symbol in the middle, hanging on the wall beside the only window.
“What?” asked the chef, who had introduced himself as Hermann by email, and who had just finished a twenty-minute point-by-point evaluation of the financial health of the restaurant and its prospects for continued operation, neglecting to mention even one sentence about the food.
“I speak Russian. You were speaking Russian. You gave me the whole introduction to this restaurant in Russian. You gave me detailed financial information about this restaurant. I’m still interested in the job, very interested, but I’d love to hear about two things. First, the food, and second, why you chose Russian instead of German. You’re lucky I speak Russian, honestly.”
‘You’re Lucky’ was the code, so Hermann Krenz continued.
Launching again into German-accented Russian, Chef Krenz described how he had built the restaurant into a respected establishment, and how the plan was working. “This year, I can do two million. If the hipniks keep coming, maybe next year three or four!”
Devonte interrupted him. “But the job. Will you hire me to be a server? I speak German too, you know.”
“Ok, fine. You’re hired. I hire you. But you need to tell me, am I still in? You still can use me, true?”
Devonte’s befuddlement did not last long. The maitre d’ came in and addressed Chef Krenz. “There is a very large man outside. He says his name is Mr. Chorny, and he wishes to apply for a position. I told him he needed an appointment, he showed me a pistol. I advise you not to hire him. I will send him to you in two minutes.”
Chef Krenz delivered a string of invective, in German this time, musing angrily about how a Black man could be named Black and not actually be Black. “I should have known” he said over and over again, “Chorny, Chorny. I should have known.”
Composing himself, he said to Devonte, “I will see you at work here tomorrow. You will receive three times minimum wage, in exchange for forgetting the contents of this conversation. If after a month I hear you have told a soul of this, you will sleep with George Moscone, that dirty Italian.”
“If I’m in a bargaining position, which I suppose I am, you’ll promote me to beer sommelier, pay me four times minimum, give me 40 hours a week, and hire my friend Jim as a server.” Devonte’s father had taught him negotiation at an early age. The lessons were paying off again.
“I have been in need of a cicerone for weeks now. This is an acceptable arrangement. But remember my words.” Chef Krenz drew from his kitchen jacket a butcher’s cleaver. He held it over his head and turned. There was a flash, and a timpani thump, and the clatter of splinters on the floor. The cleaver was in the wall, now the only thing holding up the formerly framed portrait of Helmut Kohl.
"I see you tomorrow," Chef Krenz was glowering now, "and now I see Mr. Chorny."
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