THE FOLLOWING IS THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF JEFF GARLAND

Jeff Garland

Shredded Duck Confit

“Working with language is a means by which we can identify the bullshit within ourselves (and others).”                                                                                           

                                                                                                                            –George Saunders

                The Union Ballroom looked immaculate. Forty round tables, all dolled up in ivory linen with a vase of white roses in the center, rested comfortably on the glazed hardwood floor. Ten chairs, also draped in ivory linen, encircled each table, making the large, gothic room feel warm and intimate—and as pure looking as a hospital nursery filled with sleeping newborn babies.  Each place setting featured a gold charger around which were painstakingly placed, from left to right, one b ‘n’ b plate with a warm roll, butter, and a butter knife, one salad fork, one dinner fork, one dessert fork (placed above the charger) one dinner knife, one coffee spoon, one champagne flute, one wine glass, one pre-filled ice-water goblet, and one coffee cup and saucer. The silver and gold of each place setting, catching the day’s last glimmering light, gave the room a sparkle usually reserved for royal eyes only—and, of course, for the caterers who serve them.

                I was busy stacking water goblets for the water station so that the undoubtedly drunk socialites could stay hydrated throughout the night, when my supervisor, Miss Jones, found me. I’d just begun my fourth tier—an impressive height for water goblets, and was visualizing the splendor of a fifth. I was a slave in ancient Egypt, yes, but this was my great pyramid.

                “What’s, uh…what’s happening here, Alfred?” Miss Jones began in her typical passive-aggressive manner.

                I reached into the rack on my right and pulled out another goblet to stack. The key’s taking the time to build a solid foundation—smooth corners and straight lines. When you’ve got your solid foundation, the stacking is easy.

                “You know, we’re quite busy in Pendleton right now with the, uh…Western Women United’s cocktail hour,” Miss Jones continued. “And we’re just so short-staffed tonight, as I’m sure you know.”

                I reached into the rack and pulled out another goblet to stack. Focused on my creation, I was determined to see it completed. I wasn’t just haphazardly putting it together for the drunks, who with one uncoordinated lurch could bring the whole thing crashing down, but rather, I was building this glass pyramid for my fellow caterers and me to appreciate.

                “Joe had to leave early,” Miss Jones explained, “you know, for his, uh… rehearsal. So now we don’t have enough hand-passers in Pendleton.”  There was a pause, then, with all the emphasis of a plea, she added: “Unless…”

                I turned to face her. She was tall and thin, and with such a plain expression on her face, she looked like nothing more than a breadstick in a bow tie. I smiled, but didn’t say a thing. I just looked into her poppy-seed eyes and waited.

                “You’ve hand-passed before, right?”

                “Nope. Never.”

                Miss Jones received my answer plainly. Yet now, it was she who was looking into my eyes and waiting. I didn’t want to leave my creation unfinished, especially considering how much I’d already done and how little I had left to do, but, technically, the arrangement of water goblets at the water station is considered a non-essential task (so long as there were enough goblets out there, which there already were), and since I was a slave to my job, I had no choice but to oblige the wishes of my superior.

                “Let us go then, you and I,” I finally proposed, and with quick steps and awkward glances we headed toward Pendle-TRON and away from the immaculate ballroom.

                On our way, Miss Jones told me that, essentially, it is the hand-passer’s job to walk into a room full of drunk or otherwise anxious men and women (in this case, only women) with a tray full of food and let them all know—without shouting, that he’s the keeper of the free appetizers. Under no circumstance, she added, should the guests feel required to contain themselves, except that they please take a cocktail napkin and use the tongs to remove the morsel from the tray. So on and on and round and round the room the caterer goes, hand-passing his appetizers until his tray and/or the room is empty.

                When we arrived at the Pendle-TRON servery, Miss Jones pointed out the hotbox where the appetizers were being kept, and told me to figure out with the other caterers which appetizer to hand-pass. She then abruptly left the room.

                Immediately, I stood up tall and pulled my arms in as tight as I could, doing for my fellow caterers my best breadstick impression. Then they did theirs, and we all laughed.

                “Whatta we got today?” I asked as I pulled open the hotbox door, enveloping myself in warmth.

                “Dunno,” Serena replied quickly, still a little laugh-happy. “Jasmine took the contract and ran off, probably to go chill on the fourth floor or something.”

                “Mhmm,” John groaned. “I was tryna go chill, but that girl beat me to it. Now I gotta hand-pass, or Miss Jones will be servin me.”

                “Shit. Well, I guess we can just go with the old taste-and-guess approach to figuring out what these little things are,” I said as I reached for one of the appetizers. “Seeing as how Miss Jones is gone…”

                “Done and done,” John replied. That top one there’s that ginger chicken cake everybody loves, with the garlic aioli dip. And that bottom one’s just a tomato, basil, and mozzarella bruschetta. But the one you’re holding—shit, I’ve never had anything like that before.”

                “It’s cold,” I said. “How long have these been in the hotbox?”

                “I just put ‘em in there a few minutes ago when I got up here,” Serena admitted. “They were on top of the hotbox, so I just figured someone left them out.”

                “I don’t know if you should’ve done that,” I said. “They’re probably meant to be served cold.”

                “All right, Chef J. Alfred Prufrock,” John quipped, “you can serve that one since you know all about it.”

                I smiled, took a close look at the morsel in my hand, and then, like an ape, shoved it whole into my mouth. A big crunch was followed by several smaller, chewier crunches and an explosion of flavor. The crunchy component was definitely a fried wonton wrapper, which served as the morsel’s base and handle. On top of the wonton wrapper was a combination of roasted red peppers and seasoned, shredded meat—probably duck, considering how tender it was. But there was also something sweet about this salty, crunchy, and delicious appetizer. Something citrusy that, in tandem with the seasoned duck and roasted red peppers, created an explosion of flavor I’d never before experienced. It was orgasmic. I was overcome. This tiny morsel was so crunchy, so salty, and so cold, yet it was still so tender, so sweet, and so well cooked that its flavor was extreme—so extreme it made my hair grow and my balls bounce. I kept chewing, more slowly and deliberately now, trying to squeeze every drop of flavor out of it before conceding and swallowing what remained.

                 “Good, huh?” Serena asked as she loaded up her shiny silver tray with ginger chicken cakes.

                “Fuck yeah,” I said, suddenly pulled back into reality. “These clowns are gonna love this one.”

                We zipped up our black ties and tucked our black shirts into our black pants and walked out into Pendle-TRON through the service door with our fully loaded trays in one hand and a stack of cocktail napkins in the other. We were ready to serve.

                In the room the women come and go…

                Pendle-TRON was a sea of elegantly dressed women who moved like mermaids about the room, swimming back and forth from the bar to the tall, round tables that floated on the surface. As I moved a little deeper into the room, I was struck by an obtrusive odor that thickened the air, so much so that I felt like I might drown if I went too deep. It was the mermaids’ perfume, of course, and from my perspective, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to throw up or be drowned in it with them.

                 I walked around the room, expecting these women—particularly those who were hungry, to make eye contact with me or to use some gesture or other to signal to me that they wanted me to bring my tray of delicious appetizers over to them, but such was not the case. They appeared consumed by themselves and the tedium of the evening’s events. Still, I approached a pair of women who were floating nearest to me and asked if they’d like an appetizer.

                “Good evening, ladies,” I began. “Would you like to try an appetizer? This’n here’s a fried wonton wrapper with shredded duck and roasted red peppers on top.”

                The women didn’t say anything so I continued on. “It’s also got a nice citrus zest that gives it a real explosion of—”

                I noticed the woman on the right wince, and, with that, I gave up. Their loss. Apparently, a nice citrus zest is just too extreme for some people. Whatever.

                Unfazed, I moved to my right towards the next group of women who were passionately chatting about something or other. I raised my tray, pushing it closer to the women in an attempt to steal their attention, but they just kept on chatting.

                “Did you see what Mary Kate did with her hair?”

                “Oh my God, I know, it looks ridiculous!”

                I pushed my tray ever further into the faces of these chatting women, but they just turned their heads and railed on.

                “If you ask me, I think her hair is sculpted quite beautifully now.”

                “Shut up, Michelangelo! Nobody asked you.”

                I lowered my tray and moved invisibly on to the next group of women. And then to the next. And to the next. And to the next. But none of these women, it seemed, had any interest in trying one of my delicious appetizers, which surprised me, because, if nothing else, I was offering them free food and they were refusing. I mean, there’re plenty of people I know who’d absolutely lose their shit if someone put a tray of free food in their face. No questions asked, that tray’d be empty in thirty seconds or fewer. But, evidently, we don’t cater to those people.  

                Momentarily put off, I walked out of Pendle-TRON through the service door and back into the servery.

Serena and John were in there when I arrived, reloading their trays.

                “They’re goin bonkers for these ginger chicken cakes again,” Serena said as she pulled another batch from the hotbox.

                “And they’re killin this bruschetta, too,” John added on his way back into the room for round two.

                “The fuck?” I blurted, surprised. Ginger chicken cakes and tomato, basil, and mozzarella bruschetta are tasty items, no doubt, and for sure very popular, but not one of the women in that room even considered trying one of my citrus-zested fried wonton wrappers with shredded duck and roasted red peppers. They’re crunchy and chewy! Sweet and salty! And they’re fucking delicious. Clearly all the women are hungry, so what the fuck? “Not one of those clowns in there even tried one of these guys,” I explained.

                “What’s, uh…what’s happening here, Alfred?” Miss Jones unexpectedly inquired.

                “Sorry, Miss Jones,” I said, turning around. “But no one has tried one of my appetizers yet.”

                “As I’m sure you know, Alfred, we try to refer to what we hand-pass as hors d’oeuvres, not appetizers.”

                I smiled, but didn’t say a thing. I just looked into her poppy-seed eyes and waited.

                “Well, certainly something’s happening here, but I don’t know what it is,” she observed, her facial expression as plain as ever. Then she abruptly turned and walked out of the servery.

                “Follow me,” Serena said. “Maybe I can help.” Together, trays held high, we walked back into the room via the service door.

                In the room the women come and go…

                Like a mermaid, Serena swam gracefully through the sea of women in the room. She glanced back at me, and, together, we stopped before a group of wide-eyed women.

                “Ginger chicken cake?” Serena asked, somehow capturing the undivided attention of the group.

                “Don’t mind if I do,” the women said in unison, reaching their braceleted arms out to take first a cocktail napkin and then, one by one, via the tongs, a tasty morsel.

                “Don’t forget to try the garlic aioli dip,” Serena added, to which the group gave ringing reviews.

                It was beautiful. Serena had baited them and now the hook was firmly in their mouths. I figured all I had to do was reel them in.

                “Can I interest anyone in another tasty morsel?” I asked. “This’n here is a shredded duck wonton wrapper with roasted red peppers and a citrus zest, served chilled.”

                “Oh my,” one of the women responded.

                “That sounds too Asian,” chimed in another, nasally.

                But the duck is so tender! It has been slow cooked in its own fat for hours and seasoned with only the freshest herbs and spices. Plus, what about those roasted red peppers—so soft and so sweet! So…juicy.  They’re a delicacy goddammit. What’s your problem? I mean, do you even know what citrus zest is? It’s literally the orange of an orange. Yeah, that’s fuckin right—it’s that colored skin you’ve always neglected, somehow unable to realize on your own that it’s actually full of flavor. Couple that with the freshly ground Himalayan pink salt crystals on that fried wonton wrapper, and you’ll never have to deal with soy sauce again, you racist clown!

                I walked away in disgust, leaving Serena alone to feed the frenzy.

                I next approached a group of particularly raucous women figuring they’d be too drunk to refuse me and my offer of free food.

                “Fried wonton wrapper with shredded duck, roasted red peppers, and a citrus zest, served chilled?” I asked, trying to imitate Serena’s method.

                “Is that like, raw? Because, I don’t really like raw food. Why would you try to serve me something I don’t like?”

                I did my best to ignore this woman’s idiocy and turned to the rest of the group, lifting my fully loaded tray towards them as I did. But they just put their hands up as if to say, “Don’t shoot!” so I walked away.

                At this point, my fully loaded tray was feeling heavy in my hand, and so I’d periodically switch my hand-passing hand with my cocktail napkin hand. But even this maneuver did little to ease my pain, and with the more rejection I got, the heavier my tray felt. “Free food, here,” I called out like a vendor at a stadium. But no one responded. I even broke from proper catering form by using my forearm to help support the weight of my increasingly heavy tray, but this maneuver also didn’t work. And all the while, Serena and John were dishing out appetizers like they were hanging out at home with their loved ones. The fuck?

Spinning uncontrollably as if I had been drawn into a whirlpool, I caught a glimpse of a woman standing alone in the middle of the room. I drifted in her direction as best I could—my ship barely still afloat, and attempted desperately to right myself. “Would you like to try something delicious that you’ve probably never tried before?” I begged, my hand waning under my tray.

                The damsel looked at me and smiled. Her puffy cheeks had a rosy red hue, bringing out the sweetness in her face. “Whatchu got for me?” she asked.

                I took a deep breath, hoisted my tray, and proclaimed: “I’ve got a combination of herb-seasoned shredded duck and juicy roasted red peppers on top of a fried wonton wrapper with a lovely citrus zest accompaniment. And it’s served chilled.”

“I don’t know about all that,” she said, wrapping her arms about her shawl. “Sounds like a mouthful.”

                I looked at the woman and then down at my tray and then back at the woman, trying to say with my eyes what I was failing to communicate with my words. As I did, the woman threw off her shawl, so I thrust the tray forward, forcing my delicious appetizer upon her sweet face.

                “Whoa whoa whoa,” she said, backing up. “That is not it at all, that is not what I meant, at all. I think I’ll pass.”

                I retreated again to the servery via the service door. Miss Jones was waiting for me when I got there, standing perfectly still with that plain looking face and those stale eyes. A fucking breadstick in a fucking bow tie.

                “How’s it, uh…going out there?” she inquired.

                I pushed my tray toward her face with a grunt and asked if she wanted one. “Tasty appetizer?”

                “I think you mean hors d’oeuvre, right, Alfred? And I’m sure you know we’re not supposed to eat what we serve.”

Before I could respond, she turned around and quickly left the servery.

                I glanced over at my fully loaded tray that was now resting comfortably on one of the servery’s brown, fold-up tables. Was it possible that this appetizer was not as good as I thought? I picked one up by the fried wonton wrapper and tossed it into my mouth. It crunched as it had before, it chewed as it had before, and it exploded with flavor—another orgasm in my mouth, as it had before. This baby was the real deal, and I knew it. So what was wrong with me that I couldn’t give it away for free? I mean, I was just the delivery man, yes, but certainly these socialites were expecting me, so why wouldn’t they receive me? Was my tie not zipped up all the way? Should I have worn a beard restraint? How should I presume? And how should I begin?

With smiles and empty silver trays shining, Serena and John came into the servery.

                “We’re off to the fourth floor now, Alfred,” John hissed. Good luck hand-passing your little ducky.”

                I put my head down and studied the cracked, fading tile floor of the servery beneath my black shoes. This was where I belonged. Not out there with all those fish in the sea, but here, alone in a back room somewhere with the floor cracking and deteriorating beneath my feet.

                “Hand-passing get the best of you, Alfy?” a woman’s voice playfully inquired, abruptly ending my silent wallowing. I looked up to see, to my surprise, Jasmine, who must have figured the hand-passing was finished, leaning against the servery door with her outside elbow cocked and her hand holding her exposed hip.

                “Serena and John seemed to be successful,” I replied, unable to avert my gaze. “But those women out there, I don’t think they’ll sing to me.”

                 Jasmine smiled and looked into my eyes. Her hair was long like seaweed, red and brown. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a collection of folded-up papers—the event’s contract. “Which appetizer were you trying to hand-pass?” she asked, before dropping the papers onto the floor.

                “The fried wonton wrapper with shredded duck, roasted red peppers, and a citrus zest,” I hastily replied.

                Jasmine turned and, keeping her legs straight, bent over to pick up the contract. She held the position long enough to peruse the papers as they lay on the floor. Then she turned her head to face me. “You mean the shredded duck confit?”

                “What’s, uh…what’s happening here, Alfred?” Miss Jones interjected from the doorway.

                I got up off the floor and tucked my shirt back into my pants. I glanced at Jasmine who was doing the same. Together, we looked at our supervisor and laughed.

                “I know something is happening here,” Miss Jones said, “but I don’t know what it is.”

                “Well, I do!” I declared, zipping up my tie. “This tasty morsel here is called shredded duck confit, just as what I’m hand-passing are called hors d’oeuvres and not fucking appetizers!”

                I tightened my belt one notch, grabbed my still fully loaded tray, and strode out of the servery into Pendle-TRON feeling as if I had just punched a hole through the wall. I could finally speak the language and it was such a funny feeling.

                In the room the women come and go…

                The sea was still full, and, without thinking, I swam right up to the woman floating closest to me and asked: “Would you like to try an hors d’oeuvre, ma’am? I think you’ll like my Shredded Duck Confit.”

Now, all the evening’s events are over and all that’s left to do is cleanup. I return to the Ballroom that I’d spent most of my day setting up as immaculately as possible. But it no longer looks as immaculate as it had in that glimmering light. Caterers are everywhere. Racks of creamed parfait glasses, lipstick-smeared champagne flutes, and foamed pilsners—stacked ten high!—are being dragged away like wounded soldiers in a combat zone. All the silverware, now greasy and used, is being put into sorters, which will be loaded onto carts bound for the dish tank. The pure white linens that once dressed the round tables are stained, if not stripped off and lying in a heap on the hardwood floor. Whether naked, ruined, or both, these tables have all been deflowered, and not even a vase remains to remind me of what was once so beautifully alive there.  I turn, stiffly, to the water station where only the ruins of my great pyramid remain. One by one, I take a goblet from the table and put it back into the rack on my right—where it belongs.