Broken bones, melted flesh, and a mouth full of shortening...

I'm tired tonight. And a little beat up.

I was fully prepared to coast through a short shift this evening.. I was scheduled to come in at 5:30, cook through dinner rush, and close. I figured the rush would never come. I mean how many people go out to eat on Labor Day? Don't all the sheep fire up their grills, get loaded, and destroy perfectly good meat on this holiday? Of course they do. I just knew it was going to be smooth sailing.

So I was a little shocked when I walked in the door at 5:15 and saw about six tickets hanging. I helped out the mid-day cook though, and we cleared the rail by 5:30. The other dinner cook arrived, and I clocked in. Two people, covering the whole line, on a Monday. No problem.

I was relaxed and happy. Four tickets came in around 5:40, but that is nothing to get upset about. Ten minutes later, I saw the hostess scrambling a little. I saw people coming in quickly. I heard two servers complaining about being double-seated. Time to start moving a bit faster. I'd better check my mise-en-place over really well.

I had some wholes in my line. The mid-day cook had screwed us over a little. Fine. That's why he's a mid-day cook. Because he's shitty. I heard the printer start clicking, so I ran to the walk-in cooler and grabbed a double armload of needed items. I can stock and cook at the same time as long as we don't get crushed. And I knew there was a light hit coming, so I was hustling.

By six I knew we were in trouble. The floor was filling fast. I was ten tickets deep, and people were still filing in. We were lightly staffed, poorly stocked, and the shit was about to hit the fan.

I walked three tickets out. Six more came in. I walked out two appetizers, tried to convince myself I was OK, and the printer spit five fresh at me. I was twenty orders in the hole now. Full bore. Rock and roll. Me and a 4'9" Mexican woman against the world. My blood pressure shot up to where I could feel my heartbeat in my face. The sweat started pouring. For efficiency purposes, we ceased standard communications and switched to kitchen Spanish, screaming "Pescado!", "Huevo, rapidemente!", "Trabajan, nueve minuto!" and things of this nature.

We were faced with two dozen orders now. Total chaos. Food was being thrown out at such an incredible rate and random fashion that the guy expediting the food started to get confused. Servers were asking for lemon wedges and being told to "Go f-ing cut one yourself! But not here! Stay out of the f-ing way!". In a three minute time period, I managed to break by finger in a refrigerator drawer, touch the base of my palm to the flat-top, and splash fryer oil onto my bottom lip. God had totally forsaken both myself as well as my vertically challenged Amiga.

"Cliiiick, click click click, cliiick- click click cliiick" said the ticket printer. Constantly. For two of the worst hours I've ever spent in a kitchen. And then, as suddenly as it all began, it stopped. The line was destroyed. Totally annihilated. Thank God it only lasted for two hours. We wiped the sweat from our faces, tried to rehydrate, and shared a cigarette out back. We had survived, and performed admirably. Not a single item was sent back. We suffered only two mis-fires, which we managed to correct on the fly before we sent the food away. There was nothing left to do now but rebuild, slap a few late orders out, and shut it down. Another fine day for the proletariat.

So I got out late tonight. I'm sitting at home now, trying to unwind while the rest of the world sleeps. I'm drinking a few "Milwaukee's Best" and trying to type with a burnt hand and a mangled finger.

I feel that familiar sense of accomplishment though. That sense of odd pride that I have done something that many people can't; something that most people would never want to do. I survived and excelled in an environment in which most would fold. A hellish storm of knives, and fire, and stress. Only a professional cook can understand this pleasurable and satisfying feeling, even if it is a bit deranged.

Yet a certain question keeps popping up in my mind tonight... How much longer can I do this? Can I still hold-my-own on the hot line when I'm 40? 50? At a certain point, you get too old for this shit. At that point, your name tag has to say "manager" or "owner". And even if I pull the trigger and open up my own establishment, I'm still going to have to step in and hammer out food.

I'm becoming convinced that I must strike while the iron is hot so to speak. The clock is ticking. The busted fingers and this burnt flesh will only take longer to heal as this carbon-based life form continues to age. I need to get my shit together and go into business for myself, by any means necessary....