My Horse Wants You. That’s what the uneven orange magnets read on the convection oven, which hugs the wall separating the front and back kitchens. The stainless steel screams I-N-D-U-S-T-R-Y, not exactly mama’s kitchen. It’s gray, everything’s sharp, and it reflects every bit of heat and light. The only flowers in the room are ending-up as edible garnish in the salads and that damn oven is always hot. When the timer goes off, the buzzer drills like nails down a chalkboard or how gunpowder would taste after simmering for days… but damn-it, I love it.
I met Mahalo tonight, a slender young man whose eyes were as dark and brown as his long hair, which was neatly tucked under his billed cap. He introduces himself as an asshole and it turns out, he’s an honest man. He’s sarcastic, serious and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. I don’t know whether I am supposed to laugh and say good one or smile, nod and fulfill his request. He’s a talented cook, works well, but has nervous hands. I mean they really shake like a loose leaf on a blustery day, jittery but somehow they are precise with a blade making clean cuts. When things settle down, Mahalo extends his introduction proclaiming that he has minimal tolerance when it comes to “fuck offs who don’t know dick about shit,” or for those who get in his way during a rush. He moves well in the kitchen and usually opens his mouth only to warn others of his movements imbued with the slang that goes with the job: “crossin’ and swingin’ hard!” meaning, he’s walking through the kitchen, often behind others, with hot pans, sharp knives and will be opening the oven door quickly. He sometimes seems like a hard-ass, swearing like a pirate, making sure I understand his concern for others is minimal and yet, he has a beautiful bilingual girlfriend who wears blue without a bra. Now, a man like that might be hard in public, but may be soft sunny-side up at home, mal schauen.
Tonight was my second stage. The clean-shaven Mahalo was the sun and I his shadow. I followed him around from grill, to pantry, to pizza for the Sous let two members of the back kitchen leave early in order to maintain hours. Truth is, it’s not so much about letting those skip out early all the time or being a nice guy, it’s more to cut labor costs, maintaining earnings and dividends. Being suddenly shorthanded, things got crazy, and I was left alone at pantry to make salads, appetizers and plate desserts whose names, in Italian, meant nothing to me save tiramisu…god, I love that stuff: lady fingers, booze, cream, chocolate and cinnamon, ugh! Thank you sir, may I have another? Tickets were spittin’ and so was the grill; I was being baptized. I held my end up well and kept my cool ending the night by sweeping the walk-in and flipping out my station.
When service ends, I hear kudos coming from around the kitchen “you did great tonight, way to hold it down vato,” and the sous chef cheers, “fuck ya, pinche madre.” Why, thank you! Working for these guys for free at this time in my life is fine and to be honest, I truly have nothing better to do, but I would like to eventually get paid in denominations larger than some spaghetti and meatballs. For now, two beers, some pasta, bowl of salad, slice of herbed bread, 5 croissants and a to-go container full of Polenta…not bad, made out pretty well.
Tomorrow is Monday and I was instructed to come back and speak to Chef to see what’s up (I really want to work here). Hopefully, what’s up is my income. The work is good and thus far, I’ve enjoyed the new scene but I will surely be searching for a career-move, offering earnings that make me blush with excitement knowing that I’m being overpaid to work a lucid dream. It’ll come, but for now even the asshole is pushin’ for me to stay, which is a good thing. Order up! I need this job.
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