These are the numbers that reign over my mind: It’s six o’clock PM and
ninety-nine degrees, 4/05/2013.
Every time I turn my face away from the blazing grill to wipe the sweat
from my brow, the ardent blinking of the LED screen clock face reminds me of
the hours ahead and of the sweltering heat that besets me. I wonder if hell
looks like a restaurant kitchen line. Surely it sounds like one. “Closing time”
blares on the radio. The irony sinks in, but not one of us is amused. The song was never one I liked, but what
little charm it may have held has burnt away.
There are fifty-two tables a 20-seat bar in my version of Hell. Every seat is occupied. I'm told there are about more waiting in the entryway, watching the hostess like she's Saint Peter or Charon or something.
There are fifty-two tables a 20-seat bar in my version of Hell. Every seat is occupied. I'm told there are about more waiting in the entryway, watching the hostess like she's Saint Peter or Charon or something.
As I step over a fallen French dip sandwich, I scoop up some
parsley-infused butter from a waist high cooler with one hand while the other
reaches to the stainless-steel prep table to garnish a well-done hamburger,
which now more closely resembles a hockey puck on a Kaiser roll than the fat
and muscle from which the patty originated.
They call this the “Service Industry.” When I was nine, I earnestly told
my parents I wanted to help people someday. This is not what I meant. Besides, this isn't someday, it's every day.
I sure as hell never wanted to
be subservient. The owner pays up a modest wage, which keeps us fed, clothed,
and modestly sheltered for another two weeks at a time, to work for the benefit
of others—not necessarily those who need our services, merely those who want it. In this regard, people we've
never seen are our patrons; they patronize
us, albeit unknowingly. And worse, some of these people might be the same
people that gave us wedgies in 8th grade. Maybe it was that kid who
pantsed me in front of Trisha Swift when he found out I had a crush on her. One
of these people might be the very same guy with whom I collided in the regional
soccer finals in 11th grade. In fact, I generally assume the
clientele is composed entirely of people who tormented me or whom I confronted
at some point in my life. I’m not sure which is more detrimental to my
equanimity, which is tenuous at best.
“How’s long on that pork-chop, Jeff?” the manager pipes up as he
customizes a filet of tuna with a lemon slice and a flaccid sprig of parsley as
what passes for garnish here.
I respond with a, “ Three minutes, Bubsy,” and before I acknowledge his
quiet comeback, I’m again looking at the clock. It’s 6:04. In customary fashion, we briefly surface, and
submerge again.
Tonight, I’m cooking with Sean—the flustered manager—, profane Evan, and
quiet Johnny. We are called cooks, but what we really do is put out plates. Big
plates. I think Dante would have invented a new section of hell for the enablers of gluttony if he had seen the
mounds of food we put out. I wonder if the plates in Italy are like this.
We put out plates, and we talk to distract ourselves. Every night, we
talk about something banal—the Predator movies or Star Wars, or we repeat old
conversations about other movies, TV shows, or bands. We are loud and mouthy.
While we seem very opinionated, none of us is really much concerned with the
Predator movies. No one cares over much about Arnold Schwarzenegger.
We’re driven—in general—by a fear of poverty and in these moments of
debate and plating, unwavering spite.
In case I haven’t already made it clear enough, I've come to resent the
people I feed. I've never met most of them but I am fairly sure they must be
terrible. Why would twelve people reserve a table two days ahead and all order
Hamburgers? And why should they be so very disgruntled when said burgers don’t
instantaneously materialize on their tables? Grilling ninety-six ounces of
well-done hamburgers takes time. We’ll
put out your hockey pucks as quickly as we can.
“How much did they tip anyhow?”
“Five dollars on a hundred dollar check,” Shane the server grunts.
Not one of us is surprised. Apparently the group held hands and prayed
together at the table. People who pray at the table never tip well.
I bet Jesus would at least have
tithed. Ten percent was probably a great tip in those days.
Evan, who is about as white a paleface as you’ll find, manifests his
frustration by dismissively saying what has become cliché here, “I fucking hate white people.” We savor this sort of irony. But perhaps we are
speaking more literally than we realize. Most of us are white, sure, but very
few of us are particularly fond of ourselves. Most of us nurse what little
self-esteem we posses with cigarettes, beer, whiskey, or any combination of
those things. At least, I know I do.
Another ticket comes in. Sean barks a combination of entrees and
appetizers that we’ve heard only a thousand times before, his impatience
weighing on his tone:
“Burger, tuna,
burger with blue cheese, salmon, she has a gluten allergy so no marinade, strip
steak, pork chop, fries on the side, oops, mashers
on the side on a couple of those, and a side salad. And a four top with a full salad
with chicken, and three French dip sandwi—ah
hell, just read your tickets.”
I scramble to comply as sweat stings my eyes, cursing the “point of
service” ordering system as more tickets roll in. They keep rolling in. I often hear the drone of that printer in my
nightmares.
At 6:30, Shane requests a cup of soup for his table of four. I stride
over to the soup-well and fill one small, off-white porcelain bowl with a light
yellow-orange substance and put it in the small window that separates us. He
thanks me cordially but I know he isn't overly grateful. It isn't his soup, after all. In fact, judging by
the intensity of his gaze upon the rubbery glop, it’s likely that he hasn't
eaten all day.
I shrug. I say, “No problem.”
My oldest ticket is pushing twenty minutes and the new server asks me to
grill a steak between medium-rare and
rare. With nine pieces of meat on the grill and five in the convection oven, guessing
at which temperature a stranger prefers his or her meat doesn't rank very high
on my scale of priorities. I decide the schmuck must mean rare. He’ll most
likely send it back to “get rid of some of the red.” I’m guessing he would have
sent it back either way.
Our most beardy prep cook, James, walks into the kitchen. Somehow it’s
only 7:00.
Sean’s voice penetrates the haze, “James, hop on the line. Jeff, go grab
a smoke.”
I smile, I whip off my apron, and I tell Sean I love him. He chuckles
more loudly than I've heard all night. While he’s probably just excited that
his own break is approaching, his over-enthusiasm distresses me, though I’m not
sure why.
We aren't supposed to walk through the dining room on our breaks. We’re
supposed to go out through the back and smoke by the garbage. Usually, I abide.
However, tonight the NCAA “Sweet 16” becomes the “Elite 8.” Last I heard, the
game was tied forty-to-forty and winning the pool we started with the servers
could afford me groceries for a month.
So I walk through the dining room where flat screen TVs line the walls
only to find that the score is now sixty-four to forty-two with four minutes
left in the game. My brackets are busted. I turn away from the screen and
glance around the dining room.
Generally, I
predicted the assortment of customers pretty accurately. Most notably, the guy
who pulled my pants down in front of Trisha Swift in elementary school is actually sitting at table 12 with his
arm around, of course, Trisha Swift. Their eyes almost meet mine, but to avoid
an awkward wave, I turn to glance at table 10 where a group of Frat boys and
Sorority girls speak too loudly about having the “worst day ever.” Apparently
their Political Sciences test was “rigged” and “brutal.”
I almost make it out the door when a man in a three-piece pinstripe suit
and carrying a black leather briefcase, surrounded by other men in suits, nods
lifts his brow to catch my eye, taps the shoulder of my chef coat, and says,
“be a dear and grab me a water, will you?” The suits around him muffle their
laughter. I pretend I didn’t hear him and continue walking outside.
I fire up my cigarette curbside. The red glow is a welcome sight. I’d
explain in greater depth why I enjoy these breaks so much but I’m not looking
to sell anyone on these things. It’s a dirty habit. I look at my watch and take
a drag every twenty-five seconds. I figure I can get the most out of my break
this way. It takes me about ten drags to finish a cigarette. If I puff every
twenty-five seconds, I’m guaranteed at least four minutes of unadulterated
break. Plus, the break feels longer when I watch the second hand.
No matter how closely I concentrate on the time, my break eventually
draws to a close. I swallow the bitterness, flick my depleted cigarette, and
drag my feet inside and through the dining room yet again. It is 7:06.
As I pass the suit-clad asshole I’d met before, I swear to overcook the
steak I hear him ordering. As I look towards the TV to see who won the game, I
hear a slight whimper behind me.
I look around, expecting a child, and see her—a red-haired girl, maybe 25
or 26 at the oldest, at table 30. I hadn’t seen her before. I don’t know how I
could have missed her. Maybe she arrived while I was smoking. Anyway, she’s crying, huddled in the corner. I mean, the food here is pretty bad, but I
don’t think it’s that bad. No, the table is bare aside from a glass of
water and two sets of silverware. She’s
with a man with a curly brown hair and a pink and teal striped collared shirt.
I can only see his back as he leans toward her. He’s failing at consoling her,
perhaps even increasing her grief. The girl’s gleaming face is lovely and
slender. She has the fullest lips, and the tears don’t diminish her beauty;
instead, they make her luminous.
I consider meandering over closer
to make out what the two are saying, but fall back when I realize how creepy
that would seem. Plus, Johnny, Sean, and Evan are all waiting to go on their
breaks.
I walk into the kitchen, wash my hands, put my apron back on, and return
to my grill. I try to return to the grind, to the endless, dim chore, but the
girl’s face won’t leave me, prevailing over the banter, the food, the job, and
even the time. Why is she crying? Did that guy break up with her? Did someone
die?
She’s just another customer, I
tell myself.
“I was worried you might never come back,” laughs Sean.
I’m sorry I did.
I laugh the most genuine laugh I've let loose in weeks. I wonder why I
don’t laugh more often. As I focus on the line, my new ticket comes in. It’s a
two top at table 30. The beautiful girl
and her collared associate. She wants a 12oz. chicken breast with truffle
oil potato wedges. He ordered corndog bites to go.
I grill her chicken as well as I would make it for my own mother. I sear
perfectly crosshatched char-marks into the meat. I pan-fry her potato wedges in
duck fat left over from the soup special the night before instead of using the
rancid soybean-shortening fryer. I ignore the restaurant’s “truffle and
mushroom flavored olive oil” and drizzle a generous portion of the truffle oil
my parents brought me from Italy and which I hid in the restaurant for—until
today—my own food exclusively. Upon finishing the chicken, I apply a generous
coat of tomato vinaigrette and plate the meal as carefully as I am able. I
shave some Parmesan on her wedges instead of sprinkling pre-grated nubs.
When I’m done, I fill up a glass of water and grab the girl’s plate. Sean
watches me, bewildered. I hear his,
“Where the hell are y…” as I pass the threshold between kitchen and dining
room, apron and all.
I walk the plate to table 30. I
tell the man his corndog bites might be delayed as they are hard to catch. The
girl giggles, tears nearly dried. She accepts the plate.
“Thuh-ank you.”
She says through a thick, but still delightful, Eastern-European accent.
I ask her for her name as brown-curly man scoffs.
She blushes and smiles, embarrassed. “I am soo-ry. I do not u-understand
Engleesh very… um... very much.”
I say, “It’s no problem at all. Enjoy your meal,”
“OH. Olga! My name eez Olga.”
“Nice to meet you Olga, I’m Jeff.”
I watch her trying to assemble and translate the words to the language
she thinks in.
“Goodbye.” Says the man, in his similarly thick, slightly deeper accent.
I wish them a good night and smile as I appreciate Olga’s beauty one last
time. The curly man is relieved to see
me off, and rightly so. I should find my own table.
Instead of returning to the kitchen, I turn again toward the front exit. I place the glass of water in front of the man in the pinstriped suit. His jaw drops a bit, evidently shocked, or maybe just drunk. Before he manages to formulate words, I’m striding out the door, striking my heel to pavement. The numbers fade from thought as I step over my still-glowing cigarette.
I don't know where to look yet, but I know what to listen for:
"Hey, pull up a chair."
Instead of returning to the kitchen, I turn again toward the front exit. I place the glass of water in front of the man in the pinstriped suit. His jaw drops a bit, evidently shocked, or maybe just drunk. Before he manages to formulate words, I’m striding out the door, striking my heel to pavement. The numbers fade from thought as I step over my still-glowing cigarette.
I don't know where to look yet, but I know what to listen for:
"Hey, pull up a chair."
