The Hope of D.C.'s Aproned Ranks

Miguel spins toward Chef. "You confuse me because you jump on top of my head."

"It's my system, plain and simple."

Miguel angrily grips his tongs. "You don't let me breathe, man."

Chef only presses harder. "THAT RIB-EYE IS DYING RIGHT NOW."

Miguel will later curse the Culinary Institute of America that trained Chef, but for now he works in sullen silence. A manager stands in the corner of the kitchen, timing the orders. Sweating in his flame-retardant white jacket, Miguel steals a glance into the dining room. He studies their faces. None of his orders have been sent back. This is a good sign.

But even on a night when everything is free, expectations remain impossibly high. Out in the dining room, at a table with two trim young men, a server is going over Merkado's exotic list of cocktails, which includes a ginger cosmo with Japanese plum liqueur.

"Does it taste like pomegranate?" the dark-haired man asks. "Kind of a grassy flavor to it?" And then, "What kind of vodka are you doing tonight?"

Absolut, the server explains.

The man makes a face. "Can you use a different one, like Ketel One?"

The server returns with bad news. Gravely, the man closes his menu. "Absolut," he says. "That's the only one ?"

Back in the kitchen, Miguel's rubber clogs are slipping in the grease, but he's moving steaks with precision. A prep cook named Carlos can't keep up. He works construction all day. He and his family were evicted from their Columbia Heights apartment building that was going condo in the rush of gentrification. His eyes are red and stinging. At the stove, he cheats, tossing flour into a pan to thicken a sauce. Another cook sees him. "What are you doin' with that hotel [expletive]?" he asks, referring to the shortcut that some hotels use on sauces.

The next day, Carlos is fired.