Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out (12 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mr. Monk Makes a Pizza

W
e came in before noon and Monk’s first assignment was cleaning the kitchen and setting the tables—tasks he not only loved but tackled with genuine enthusiasm, immediately winning over his new boss.

“This man is amazing,” Warren said to me. “The kitchen has never been so clean and the tables have never looked so good.”

“He’s just doing what he loves.”

“Nobody loves cleaning and table setting. I did it to break his spirit and test his mettle from the get-go.”

“Is that why you have me grating cheese, slicing pepperoni, and cutting onions?”

“No, I just like having you with me in the kitchen,” he said.

“If you really want to make Mr. Monk happy, ask him to wash the dishes, scrub the floors, and clean the restrooms.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Honest,” I said. “He’ll thank you for it.”

So Warren followed my advice and asked Monk to wash dishes during the lunchtime rush and clean the bathroom afterward. Monk thanked him and happily tackled both assignments. Warren was stunned.

Mama Petrocelli’s has a big lunch crowd, so I was kept busy waiting on tables with one other waitress, Erin, a bubbly twenty-two-year-old aspiring hairstylist. Erin offered to cut my hair and Julie’s for five bucks each if we stopped by her beauty college during her class. She needed people to practice on and offered each customer the same opportunity she’d given me.

Waitressing came back to me as if I’d never stopped doing it. And so did the sore feet.

Warren was mighty impressed with Monk. He must have thanked me fifty times for bringing him in. Monk also expressed his gratitude as we sat in one of the booths during our early afternoon lunch break.

“This is a fantastic job. Thank you so much for recommending me for it.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

“I think the boss is giving me preferential treatment. I’m getting all the plum assignments.”

“Like cleaning the bathrooms.”

“I hope you don’t feel slighted.”

“Not at all. You deserve it.”

“It’s true,” Monk said. “I do seem to have a natural affinity for the restaurant business. Who knew?”

“See, Dr. Bell was right—you’re discovering new things about yourself already.” I gestured to the cheese pizza that we were supposed to be sharing but that he hadn’t touched. “Aren’t you hungry?”

He leaned toward me and whispered, “I can’t eat that. It’s deformed.”

I nodded. “It’s not a perfect circle.”

“Warren is such a nice man and he’s already given me so many opportunities. I don’t know how to tell him that his pizzas are repulsive to look at.”

“So don’t do it. Volunteer to make pizzas, instead. That way, instead of raising a complaint and offending him, you can show him by example how to do it right.”

“That’s a great idea, Natalie. Besides, it’s a chance to impress Warren by volunteering for one of the menial jobs without being asked.”

“Ingratiating yourself with the boss never hurts. Speaking of which, I wouldn’t mention that you consider making pizzas menial labor.”

“Of course not,” Monk said. “What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not tactless.”

So Monk volunteered for pizza- making duty. Warren was glad to grant the request and suggested that we both give it a try.

Warren showed us diagrams on the wall that illustrated with photos each step in the process of making every kind of pizza Petrocelli’s offered. The dough was premade; all we had to do was flatten it. All the sauces, cheeses, and toppings were already prepared and kept in their own individual containers. Monk liked this very much. The process was orderly, clear, and uniform.

What Monk didn’t like was the photos of the finished pizzas, which looked like, as he put it, “crime scenes on misshapen dough.”

He used his disinfected compass, tape measure, and T square to make sure his pies were perfectly round. Then he applied an even coating of sauce and cheese.

So far, so good.

The problem came when he applied the toppings. He had to make sure that each slice had the same number of items in the same position. This made his pizzas look like targets in a shooting range, the meat and vegetables arranged in concentric circles, evenly spaced from one another, getting ever smaller as they reached the center.

This wasn’t so bad on a one- or two-topping pizza, but it looked bizarre on the combination pies. We got a few of them out before Warren finally came back with one.

“This pizza looks like it was manufactured by a machine,” Warren said.

Monk beamed with pride. “Thank you very much.”

“You can’t make a pizza like that,” Warren said. “The toppings should be all mixed up.”

“Why, in God’s name, would you want to do that?” Monk asked.

“So you get a little of everything in each bite.”

“You can’t do that,” Monk said.

“Why not?”

“It’s unnatural, unbalanced, unethical, unhealthy, uncomfortable, unsanitary, unearthly, unspeakable, unappealing, untouchable, unstable, unforgiveable, unpleasant, unpatriotic—it’s uneverything that humanity and a civilized society holds dear.”

“It’s just a pizza,” Warren said, looking a bit stunned by Monk’s passionate tirade.

“It’s a messy pizza,” Monk said.

“That’s how we like them.”

“I urge you to reconsider, Warren, in the strongest possible terms, or you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

I spoke up before Warren could say anything. “What Mr. Monk means is that perhaps his talents and sense of order are put to better use in ways other than pizza-making.”

“Definitely,” Warren said. “Change of plans, Adrian. You can seat the customers tonight and I’ll make the pizzas.”

“You’re the boss,” Monk said, then motioned to his tools. “Would you like to use my compass, T square, and tape measure?”

Warren stared at Monk in bewilderment. “What for?”

I spoke up again. “I think Warren prefers to use his own tools.”

“I understand completely,” Monk said, gathering up his things. “Let me just clean and disinfect these and then I’ll go out to the dining room.”

As soon as Monk walked away, Warren turned to me. “Tools? I’m making pizzas, not building shelves.”

“I know,” I said.

“What is his problem?”

“He likes things clean and orderly.”

“Even his pizzas?”

“Everything
. But I think you can agree that it’s an aspect of his personality that, if properly directed, can be very beneficial to a restaurant.”

“I can see that,” Warren said. “I can also see how it could drive a person insane.”

I went back to waiting tables with Erin while Warren and another cook worked in the kitchen and Monk acted as the new maître d’.

There was trouble from the start. A party of three, two men and a woman, came in and Monk told them they’d have to wait.

One of the men looked past Monk to the dining room. “But there are plenty of empty tables.”

“Let me know when the rest of your party arrives,” Monk said.

“We’re all here,” the woman said.

“You know what I mean,” Monk said.

“No, we don’t,” she said.

“Then you’ll have to wait until a woman comes in,” Monk said.

“Why?” the man said.

“Your party is odd and unbalanced,” Monk said. “You need to find one more woman.”

“We are not going to sit with some strange woman,” the man said.

“You should have thought of that before you came to dinner,” Monk said.

I rushed up, grabbed three menus, and gave them a smile. “This way, please.”

Monk grabbed me. “You can’t seat them. They are short one woman.”

“They have me,” I said and led them to a table, glancing at the kitchen as I went to see if Warren had overheard any of the argument. Thankfully, he seemed preoccupied with something else in the kitchen.

But while my back was turned, another customer came in, a man in an untucked shirt and jeans, a magazine under his arm.

“Table for one,” he said as he approached Monk.

“You’ll have to button your shirt,” Monk said.

“Why?”

“The top four buttons are undone, exposing your chest,” Monk said. “It’s unsanitary.”

“What’s unsanitary about it?”

“You can get chest hair in your food.”

“I’ll take that risk,” the man said.

“The rest of us won’t,” Monk said. “We can’t have your filthy chest hair flying all around the room.”

The man turned and walked out before I could get back to Monk.

“Mr. Monk, you can’t throw people out for having an open collar,” I said.

Monk pointed to a sign by the door that read
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service
.

“He was wearing a shirt,” I said.

“Barely,” Monk said.

I tried to keep my eye on Monk, and to mitigate problems before customers walked out, but things got so busy, I just wasn’t able to do my job and his at the same time.

Things were fine when he was dealing with parties in multiples of two, but he made odd-numbered groups wait until a single person came in who was willing to join them. Or he suggested that the odd- numbered parties call another friend or family member to come join them.

That was bad enough, but he also refused service to people with crooked teeth, messy hair, and piercings on the grounds that they were “health code violations.”

Luckily, all of that occurred without Warren noticing. But things got out of hand once people were seated and food began to be served.

Most of the customers ordered “messy” pizzas, and that was hard enough for him to ignore. But he simply couldn’t abide people sharing pizzas and eating them with their hands. He ran from table to table, trying to stop people from doing it, but they just wouldn’t listen.

“That’s how E. coli spreads,” Monk said to a family of four who were all sharing a pizza at their table. “And black death.”

“Rats caused black death,” the mother said.

“Rats who ate pizza that people touched with their dirt-and-slobber-soaked fingers,” Monk said.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman said.

“I know that you’re betraying your husband by having an extramarital sex affair.”

“What?” the man said, nearly choking on his mouthful of pizza.

The preteen daughter was wide-eyed. “Mom is sleeping around?”

“I am not. Don’t listen to this horrible man.” She covered her daughter’s ears with her hands and looked at her husband. “Fred, do something.”

“Your adultery is obvious,” Monk said. “Your husband is clean-shaven, but your lover, who trimmed his beard before your rendezvous, left tiny hairs on your neck and collar. And I saw you tear off the hotel valet ticket from your key ring and drop it in the trash as you came in.”

“You’re sleeping with
Tod
?” Fred stammered.

Her face turned bright red, which was as good as a confession.

“It’s bad enough you betrayed your family with your infidelity,” Monk said. “Now you’re endangering their health with your slovenly eating habits. Have you no shame?”

I grabbed Monk and led him away. “What are you doing?”

“Saving lives,” Monk said.

“People eat pizza with their hands. It’s the custom.”

“And look what it leads to,” Monk said, motioning to the family that he’d just spoken to. They were leaving the restaurant, all four of them in tears. “An entire family torn apart.”

“The way they eat their pizza has nothing to do with that,” I said. “It was you exposing her adultery.”

“She led an unhealthy lifestyle. It’s indicative of moral decay.”

“Everybody eats pizza with their hands. There’s no harm in it.”

“Think of all the things they’ve touched before grabbing a slice of pizza with their hands. They should wear gloves. Or use a knife and fork.”

“It’s their choice,” I said. “Not yours.”

“It’s disgusting,” Monk said. “It spreads disease, pestilence, and death.”

At least it wasn’t
wanton
pestilence. “I don’t see anybody dropping dead in here.”

“Not yet,” Monk said.

“Please, Mr. Monk, be reasonable about this.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” he said.

“I’m begging you, not just for myself, but on your behalf, too. We need these jobs.”

Monk nodded. “Okay, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning my back to him to continue waiting tables.

That was when Monk clapped his hands and raised his voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Could I have everyone’s attention, please? I have a very important announcement. You need to stop talking, put down your food, and listen to me if you want to live.”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. And that included Warren, whom I could see in the kitchen, staring at Monk in disbelief.

I rushed up to Monk. “You said you were going to be reasonable.”

“I am. It’s unreasonable to turn a blind eye to this just because it might be embarrassing for Warren. I told you it wouldn’t be easy.”

“This is exactly what I didn’t want you to do.”

“Then you should have told me to be unreasonable.”

“Do you want us to lose our jobs?”

“Of course not. That’s why I am stopping this before the health department shuts the place down.” Monk raised his voice again to address the diners. “You have to stop eating with your hands or you will all die.”

I knew it was all over then. I resigned myself to the inevitable. A rumble of distressed chatter spread through the dining room. Warren bolted out of the kitchen, waving his hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Ignore what this man is saying,” Warren said. “He’s just joking.”

“Food poisoning and bubonic plague are no joke,” Monk said.

“Food poisoning?” one of the customers said, spitting out his pizza. “What’s wrong with my food?”

“Nothing is wrong with it,” Warren said. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“It’s your hands that aren’t,” Monk said and gestured to another customer, a man. “Especially his. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand before reaching for his slice of pizza. That whole table should be quarantined.”