Chapter 20

The impulse came to Matthew on a Wednesday afternoon as he was finalizing plans for the third Sunday supper at Hearth. While the series had launched successfully and continued to evolve in promising directions, he felt something was still missing.

As he reviewed his notes, a memory surfaced: his time of St. Vincent’s in Chicago. That kitchen had taught him to cook for large groups with limited resources. At St Vincent’s, for those without kin, meals fostered a community, embodying care, and offering the warmth of a temporary family. Though his culinary journey had taken him through a formal education and professional kitchens, that place continued to influence his thinking about the act of cooking a meal for someone.

He reached for his phone and searched for community kitchens and homeless shelters in Queens. The Jamaica Family Center appeared near the top of the results — a multi-service facility that provided meals, temporary housing, and support services for families experiencing homelessness. Their website mentioned a constant need for volunteer cooks.

Without overthinking it, Matthew called the number listed. A harried-sounding woman named Gloria answered, her voice carrying the weary efficiency of someone managing a perpetual crisis with limited resources.

“Jamaica Family Center, how can I direct your call?”

“I’m a professional chef,” Matthew said, getting straight to the point. “I’d like to volunteer to cook for your residents on my day off next week.”

The momentary silence suggested this wasn’t a typical call. “You want to ... just come in and cook? For how many people are we talking?”

“Whatever your normal dinner service numbers are,” Matthew replied. “I’ve cooked for large groups before. I worked at a shelter kitchen in Chicago for a couple of years.”

This practical experience seemed to reassure Gloria. “Well, that’s ... that would be wonderful, actually. One of our regular cooks just had knee surgery, and we’ve been piecing together coverage. We serve about 120 people for dinner, 5:30 to 7:00. Simple food, nothing fancy, but nutritious.”

“I can work with that,” Matthew assured her. “What’s your budget per meal?”

The figure Gloria quoted was even more limited than he’d anticipated: less than two dollars per person. It would require some planning and creativity, but that felt familiar, almost comforting in its challenge.

They worked out the logistics. Matthew would arrive at 10 AM to assess the kitchen, equipment, and available ingredients. He would handle the shopping with the center’s budget card, preparation, cooking, and service, while the center’s regular kitchen staff would assist as needed.

As he ended the call, Matthew decided the decision felt right. While his work at Hearth fulfilled him professionally and creatively, this return to community service cooking felt like reconnecting with an essential part of himself.

The Jamaica Family Center occupied a former school in a densely populated neighborhood of Queens. Its institutional exterior gave little indication of the vital services provided within: shelter, meals, counseling, job assistance, and childcare for families navigating the crisis of homelessness.

Matthew arrived shortly before 10 AM the following Thursday, wearing plain whites and carrying his personal knife roll.

Gloria met him at the staff entrance, her disheveled appearance and rapid speech patterns suggestive of someone perpetually moving from one urgent task to another. Despite this, her handshake was firm, her gaze direct and assessing.

“You actually showed up,” she said, sounding mildly surprised. “We get a lot of good intentions that don’t materialize.”

“I said I would,” Matthew replied.

She nodded, apparently satisfied with this response. “Kitchen’s this way. It’s ... well, you’ll see.”

The facility’s kitchen was exactly what Matthew had expected: institutional in design, equipped with commercial-grade but aging appliances, scrupulously clean but showing the wear of decades of heavy use. Two staff members were already present. Miguel was a compact man in his sixties who served as kitchen manager, and Diane — a younger woman — handled food service and inventory.

“So, you’re the fancy chef?” Miguel asked, his tone somewhere between skeptical and hopeful.

“Just a chef who wants to help,” Matthew corrected gently. “I worked in a shelter kitchen before culinary school. I know how things are.”

This response seemed to ease Miguel’s wariness. He gave Matthew a quick tour of the kitchen, pointing out quirks of the equipment: the oven that ran hot on the left side, the temperamental pilot light on the six-burner range, the walk-in cooler that needed a firm shoulder to close properly.

“What were you thinking of making?” Diane asked as the tour concluded. She gestured to a whiteboard listing available inventory: canned goods, dry staples, frozen vegetables, and a few fresh items donated by a local grocery store.

Matthew studied the list, mentally adjusting his planned menu based on what was already on hand. “A hearty vegetable soup to start,” he said. “Then a main course of braised chicken thighs with white beans and whatever fresh vegetables we can get. Simple but filling, with enough complex flavor to make it special.”

“Sounds ambitious for this kitchen,” Miguel commented, though without dismissiveness.

“It’s all about preparation and timing,” Matthew replied. “With your help, we can make it work.”

The next hour was spent taking precise inventory of available ingredients, making a detailed shopping list for supplemental items, and developing a production schedule that would maximize the kitchen’s limited equipment. Matthew’s experience at St. Vincent’s proved invaluable. He understood instinctively how to plan for large-scale cooking with minimal resources.

Gloria returned with the center’s credit card for the shopping expedition. “The budget is tight,” she reminded him. “One eighty-five per person, and that’s for the entire meal.”

Matthew nodded. “I’ll make it work. Is there a particular market you usually use?”

“Super Halal on Hillside Avenue gives us a discount,” she replied. “And they have good produce for the price.”

The shopping trip was a study in careful economy. Matthew and a fascinated Diane watched him select ingredients with the precision of someone accustomed to making every dollar count: chicken thighs instead of breasts for better flavor and lower cost, seasonal vegetables at their best price, herbs that would provide maximum impact for minimum expense. He even negotiated with the market manager for additional discount on bulk items, explaining their purpose and slyly leveraging in a bit of guilt.

When he and Diane returned to the center, the facility’s van loaded with bags, Miguel looked impressed by the volume and quality he’d managed to acquire within budget.

“You’ve done this before,” he observed.

“He was amazing,” Diane gushed. “I learned a lot just watching him.”

“I’ve done it a few times, that’s for sure.” Matthew confirmed, beginning to unpack and organize the ingredients for efficient preparation.

As noon approached, the kitchen work began in earnest. Matthew established a workflow that utilized the skills of both Miguel and Diane while allowing him to handle the more complex aspects of preparation. For someone accustomed to the precision of Hearth’s kitchen, this return to pragmatic, resource-constrained cooking felt like rediscovering a native language: familiar in its patterns and rhythms, challenging in different but equally meaningful ways.

The vegetable soup took shape first. The rich stock was built from kitchen scraps and enhanced with aromatics. This was filled with carefully diced vegetables in varied textures, seasoned with herb stems that would be removed before service but would infuse their flavor throughout. Nothing wasted, everything contributing to the whole.

As the soup simmered, attention turned to the main course. Chicken thighs were seasoned and seared in batches, developing the deep color and flavor that would form the foundation of the dish. Onions, carrots, and celery were sweated in the rendered fat, building layers of taste that would make the simple ingredients transcend their humble origins. White beans, presoaked that morning, were added along with carefully measured liquid, herbs, and the seared chicken for the long, slow braise that would transform separate elements into a cohesive whole.