The Knife Sharpener (5)

5.

Helmut found a way into the city through the train crossing and tram line choked outskirts. Plenty of taxis and dark cars, but not as many as usual. He saw pedestrians in overcoats, plugged into headphones with mobiles out. Eyes down. Not much looking up. It was quiet but for the sound of motors and city bustle, electric grids and that low urban pulse. Absent of much human chatter. A clean cement and tar smell mingled with heated metal. Sterile, though metallic.

            The Toyota turned down an alley edging into the CBD. Pulled up in a short-term parking spot, near shadows from the building. A few signs about where and where not to stand. A lot of rules around here. Faint piss in the air. Ghostly, though. Long washed away. Helmut pushed open the door of the van. It made a bone breaking whistle fighting its poorly tended hinges, cracking to an abrupt halt. Needs oil again. He stepped out with a new rolled Champion. Headed towards the renovated pub on the corner bearing a neon sign: The Wasatch Front. He lit his cigarette with a match. A line of people were waiting out front, given yellow stack hats by Maori security when they entered. Throbbing bass from within.

            Walked with bent knees and flat feet. Stiff and bow legged from driving. Down another smaller alley. At its rear, a heavy door and some bins already overflowed. Two white coated chefs were sitting on milk crates, smoking. One Asian and one French.

            ‘Yo, Helmut!’

            ‘Bonjour!’

            ‘Our knives missed you, man.’

            He nodded at them, smoked, and continued to the door. Behind, a massive kitchen was heaving. Hot and charred meat. Oil and smoke. Sweet bitterness and sweat. Helmut stepped in still smoking and a chef in a black jacket with a tall toque blanche approached. A burnt, cut, and calloused hand grips Helmut’s. His face was young, neatly bearded, with critical eyes and a high forehead. A large chef’s knife, Japanese steel with a polished wooden handle, was tucked into his belt. Blade bare. Nonchalant dare to cut his leg. Brian Fangman. Occupation, head chef of The Wasatch Front Bar & Grill.

            ‘You know you gotta put that out, Helmut.’

            His voice was mid-west US.

The cigarette spat and crunched below his heel.

            ‘How’s things?’ asked Brian.

            ‘They are ok. I drive. I sharpen.’

            ‘Good, man. Good. I need exactly that. Gotta get my big bad girl back to slicin, man.’

Brian pulled the knife free and flashed the blade before Helmut. Beautifully made. Thin, delicate, balanced. Still sharp. Could be sharper. The edge was too visible. The length of the blade must disappear as if first cutting into air, then becoming lost in it. Severing oxygen. A few discrete Japanese characters identified it as a Hiroshi Kato blade. Hiroshi Kato, The Thousand Thousand Cuts Master hidden away with his steel, rustic forge, gardens of tsubaki and mistresses on a hill outside Kyoto. Not many of his knives out here. Not many of his knives anywhere anymore.

            ‘She needs to perform. I’ve got somethin real special planned.’

He turned back into the kitchen.

‘Over here. I’ll show ya.’

            They negotiated chefs and burners. Brian quickly tasted a thick yolk coloured sauce. They walked to another door at the other end of the kitchen. Yanked it open. A sucking sound of air release and a blast of cold. Into the walk-in fridge.

            A skinned and headless sasquatch hung on a heavy-duty meat hook. Over six feet and blackened dry aged. Smaller with less moisture in its flesh. Smaller now that it is dead and not robbing campers of their hotdogs and chocolate. Lines of sinew and muscle around pockets of fat purpose designed to protect the beast from the coldest alpine weather. On the shelves there is produce and cheese and four vats of different stock. A mound of butter in the corner. The floor was roughed up steel stopping slippage.

            ‘Beautiful, yeah? Finest stock. Free range. Shot in the Rockies. Imported at some fucken cost, I’ll tell ya.’

Brian slapped the carcass, swinging it around in a small circle. The slap didn’t echo. It was short and sharp and wet.

‘Not frozen, mind you. No siree, not at all. Transported him just a bit chilled like this right to my front door. Servin him up for the Ministry dinner tomorrow night smoked and grilled with turnips, carrots, potato fondant and a mountain man jus of thyme, rosemary oil and blood stock,’ said Brian.

His sips were smacking. Creativity juicing. Helmut, impassive and quiet, gazed at the upside-down beast before him. His breath was coated in a crystal layer of frost. The stains under his arms were beginning to freeze.

‘But to carve this monster, Helmut, to cook it like it deserves to be cooked, the cuts need to be fine. Like surgical fine. It’s tough, all sinew and muscle.’

Fangman ran his hand down the flanks of the sasquatch, gripping and releasing. Testing.

‘My knife has to be at her finest, her sharpest to get through its thicker ligaments,’ said Brian, brandishing the blade. Exclaiming the point. He slapped the carcass again sending it swinging on its hook.

‘Just this one?’

‘For me, yes. Though some of my other chefs would like your tender loving care.’

‘Bring them to me.’

‘The usual fee?’

‘For them, yes. Yours, a bit more.’

Helmut pointed to the sasquatch gently rocking.

‘The blade needs to hold. That will blunt the blade.’

‘Whatever you need. This dinner needs to be my masterpiece. I heard Matilda Olinda is cooking at the Carlton border in the old wine rooms tomorrow night as well. She’s doing something crazy. I can’t have her distract my guests. Steal them. The Ministers, the money – they’re good business, Helmut. You know. You do their knives? Out round Hawksburn and Toorak, yeah?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Helmut. ‘Cheap factory knives.’

‘Yeah, man. But fancy, yeah?’

‘Impractical.’

‘They don’t care bout that. You know they’d dump you for a shiny, knife sharpening machine? The next pretty piece of equipment that they see in their Socials. Tailored specific for them and their shitty knives,’ said Brian. ‘Bunch of em are distracted by shiny things.’

Helmut stood and saw a pile of finely diced turnips in the corner of the cool room. Uninterested, but patient.

‘Now, don’t get me wrong, Matilda has talent. Crazy, unhinged kinda talent. But it’s all a show. Gastronomic gymnastics, Helmut. This,’ he slapped the sasquatch again, ‘this, is what matters. The produce done well. She can carry on with her search for god in cooking all she likes. I have him here, bout to be smoked and served with a fucking excellent sauce.’