In A Kitchen On A Saturday In July

The day begins with an assault on the senses; the sun pokes you in the eye with its pointy fingers, while the compost bins gang up on your nostrils. You’re in the alley. The rest of your body is sore from the previous nights’ service, 150ish hungry people pillaged your village, leaving you with almost no prep to start today. You hit the buzzer. Nobody comes. Twice. Nothing. Three times and you’ve summoned the janitor, who pretends he doesn’t recognize you and requires a mild amount of convincing before you’re allowed through the door. Down the stairs and around the corner, you’re changed in a matter of seconds and back up the stairs in a few more.

Rags in hand, you settle into your station and acquaint yourself with your list. Apparently its name is “Full” and your name is officially “Fucked”. It’s a good day to be a customer, because everything will be as fresh as can be. Before long, the entire staff has trickled in, and the sound of reggae mingles with urgent chatter. You’re making the bread today, so you kiss goodbye to the first hour of your available time. Everyone is in the kitchen now, new guy included, and he’s moving around like he’s getting things done, but there’s no evidence that he’s accomplished anything at all. The agreed upon pace in the kitchen is approximately that of a dad walking in a mall; faster than what is comfortable, and completely unyielding.

The clock is giving you the finger, it’s 4:30 and you’ve still got plenty of shit to do. Servers have entered the building and are now breathing in the precious air while occupying the doubly precious space. It is, essentially, a sexless orgy featuring fire, food, and knives. Needless to say we’re sweaty like Michael Jordan’s forehead, or, if you prefer, Ron Jeremy’s balls. Taking a moment to have a pull from your bottle of water, you survey the situation: somebody is beating the shit out of an octopus, another person is feverishly putting all of their prep away, the owner is trying to shoehorn in yet another party of six at 7:30, the chef is trying to figure out if there’s enough food to feed everyone, and the dishwasher, upon seeing the disaster in the dish area, is trying to decide whether or not he wants to walk out.

Barely hydrated and completely famished, you tear off a hunk of the bread you made and use your hand to apply a heap of butter.  The other hand helps out with some salt, and before you know it you’re eating something. The lights dim, and the reggae mercifully stops. The silence, while welcome, is deafening. It abruptly comes to an end when the printer starts chirping. The thing about the printer on a Saturday night in July is that it basically never stops. Consequently, neither does the person who is calling the bills, who sounds like an auctioneer with Tourette’s and a strange obsession for haute cuisine.

Now it’s 7:00 and the initial push has ceased. You’ve been here before and know that before long you’ll be back to where you were a few minutes ago, which is neck deep in shit. The lull, although necessary, only adds fear to the equation. It’s like being punched in the face for a few hours, only to have the person stop and take a break for a few minutes. Not only do you know that they’re coming back, you’re almost certain that they’ll bring some weapons with them. And man, did they bring weapons. Weapons like serious allergies, bizarre substitutions, and non-sensical pickiness; kryptonite for a busy kitchen. They call this the “slam”, and holy shit is it terrible. Your conscious is completely overwhelmed, so it takes a nap. The subconscious, on the other hand, has been waiting for this all night. You and everyone else in the kitchen is working on instinct now, with your reflexes now being supported by a hefty dose of caffeine. Trying to think like a normal human being at this point is futile, because the situation is beyond comprehension and not dissimilar to the later levels of Tetris. Orders are piling up, and you’re convinced of a conspiracy against you. 30 people ordering soup when it’s been hot out is normal, I suppose, but 60 suggests that something greater is at work.

Meanwhile, the new guy collapses and since there isn’t enough time to revive him, he gets pushed under the grill where he won’t get in the way. There is a mild amount of speculation that it was because of a combination of fear/severe dehydration, and then wagers are placed on whether he’s dead or not. Eventually the orders stop coming and the light gets brighter at the end of the tunnel.  The entire team looks exactly like a woman who has just given birth to the biggest fucking baby in the history of babies: sore, tired, and slightly impressed with ourselves. The boss tells us that we did a good job by not telling us that we were awful. He then sources us some beer and then cranks the reggae. We look at the enormous mess and thank god that the cleaners are coming, but then remember that we’re the cleaners and immediately feel very sorry for ourselves. The new guy wakes up and quits. Apparently he has a better job lined up where he gets paid more to do less. He was last seen artfully constructing a submarine sandwich.

Despite wanting nothing more than to be home in bed with your a) significant other, b) stack of porn, or c) cardboard cut-out of Princess Leia, you clean your station like you never want to leave it. An hour or so goes by and everything is spotless, except your hand, which apparently has a case of the hot fat measles (see: red, spotted, and shiny). Down the stairs and around the corner, you’re changed in a flash and home before you know it, surrounded by your Star Wars memorabilia, screaming for food runners in your sleep.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Line Cook,

Jacob Galbraith