QUITTING TIME
Every man has his breaking point.
The hood fan flatlined the night prior. Two industrial fans set up knee-high to create a draft that never manifested were making death-knell gurgle sounds, often with sparks. The 1996 Olympics had brought every syrah-sipping, tip eschewing grad student to the table and the waitstaff was visibly pissed. (Grad students like to act "poor;" yet they've got enough money for top-shelf booze and $60 poststructuralist texts.) I was at the ass end of an eight day shift sprint. I had worked 84 hours in the past seven days. I was smoking a pack of unfiltered camels a day and drinking a six of Guinness a night along with half a bottle of Jameson while soaking my greasy bones in a blood warm bath at the witching hour. I was not to be fucked with. Even Glen kept his bullshit to a minimum, quickly picking up on my night of the long knives vibe. I would have gut that bastard and field-dressed him like a plump doe.
Koffi showed up late with a bag of 20 Krystal's, which meant I worked doubletime while he sat and tore through the burgers and talked much shit about Sam's country of origin. "Stew-What? You know Sam eats fried bread? How can one eat such thing? Sam, you eat fried bread?! Ha ha ha. Taste like baby shit. Ha ha ha." Sam shook his head and continued to prep veg. "Stew-What? You had Marmite? Taste like baby shit. Sam eat Marmite. Ha ha ha." As soon as Sam would ask Koffi to leave him alone Koffi would intensify his attack. That fucker could pick like Houdini.
Martin had cut the living shit out of himself prepping cornish hens that afternoon and was bound like a geisha. "Blitzkrieg Bop" played on the boom box. Maya dropped eight tickets at the window. "Order in." Koffi looked at me. "Stew-What? Have you seen the cans on Maya?! She got gret beeg titty. Ha ha ha." Four special; one skin extra crispy. Two trout. One blackened chick. One veal. I was up to my nips in salmon. Crisping salmon skin was some shit Gourmet Mag had preened on its cover last month; every "discernable palate" in the ATL was begging for it. Contrasting textures! Who woulda thought we'd come so far? Years later we'd be pimping foams and scents and swathes; frothing over Ferran Adria; cuddling up to Keller.
A good chef works through the "weeds" the way porn actors/actresses "act;" it's methodical, mechanical, passionless, efficient. The task is simply taken to hand and completed. You get a breather and then it's back to the grindstone. Koffi liked my pornstar actor analogy. "Stew-What, that good shit, man." He was my Black Frankenstein. I wanted to take him around after work. Cart him to redneck titty bars, watch him outdrink the regulars, maybe even buy him a lapdance. (We never coaxed him into hitting the Clermont, but we did witness him downing 12 24oz Mambas in 60 mins.)
Hours crept. Heat wrapped around us. It snarled and squeezed. I threw up in the shitter. Stole a dbl magarita from the bar. Snacked on wings Koffi had whipped up in seconds from the cornish hens. By quarter of one we'd all but closed the kitchen down. Martin's bandages were blushing. Sam was shaking. Koffi stayed at it. "Sam, Sam - does your girl friend suck your little weenie, Sam? Does she eat little weenie? Ha ha ha." Sam lunged at Koffi with a bread slicer. We were all screaming. Martin was in the middle and got cut again. Maya was at the window, her mouth wide. (She did have huge cans). Alice in Chains' "Would" played on the boom box. Andy, the owner, came running through the door and was completely unhinged. "Hey! Assholes! What the fucking fuck?! Assholes! The whole front of the house can hear you. What the fuck? Someone want to get fired tonight? It can happen. I can make it happen. Assholes. Martin, are you fucking bleeding on the floor? Clean that up." Andy was a short, North African guy. He wore linen suits and Gucci loafers. He looked like some middle-man for the Afrika Corps. He acted like one, too.
"Stew-What? Do you know Andy is midget? Ha ha ha."
Order in. Ten salmon - nine crisped; two ribeye, one medium, one well-done; three trout - two crisped; three brie plates - add grapes.
Martin looked like he was going to start bawling. I went to the walk-in, grabbed the fish, came back and threw them all under the salamander. The line was smoke-filled in minutes; it smelled like burnt tires. Martin took a brie wedge from the cooler, plated it with champagne grapes and put it in the microwave. He nuked it for three minutes. The grapes burst in 30 seconds. The brie went from firm to ass splatter "ripe." The grapes like swatted flies upon the plate. Martin lit a Marlboro while standing at the line, drew heavily on it, and then put it out in the center of one of the brie plates. I helped him put the plates in the window. We took our aprons off and headed to the Clermont.
The hood fan flatlined the night prior. Two industrial fans set up knee-high to create a draft that never manifested were making death-knell gurgle sounds, often with sparks. The 1996 Olympics had brought every syrah-sipping, tip eschewing grad student to the table and the waitstaff was visibly pissed. (Grad students like to act "poor;" yet they've got enough money for top-shelf booze and $60 poststructuralist texts.) I was at the ass end of an eight day shift sprint. I had worked 84 hours in the past seven days. I was smoking a pack of unfiltered camels a day and drinking a six of Guinness a night along with half a bottle of Jameson while soaking my greasy bones in a blood warm bath at the witching hour. I was not to be fucked with. Even Glen kept his bullshit to a minimum, quickly picking up on my night of the long knives vibe. I would have gut that bastard and field-dressed him like a plump doe.
Koffi showed up late with a bag of 20 Krystal's, which meant I worked doubletime while he sat and tore through the burgers and talked much shit about Sam's country of origin. "Stew-What? You know Sam eats fried bread? How can one eat such thing? Sam, you eat fried bread?! Ha ha ha. Taste like baby shit. Ha ha ha." Sam shook his head and continued to prep veg. "Stew-What? You had Marmite? Taste like baby shit. Sam eat Marmite. Ha ha ha." As soon as Sam would ask Koffi to leave him alone Koffi would intensify his attack. That fucker could pick like Houdini.
Martin had cut the living shit out of himself prepping cornish hens that afternoon and was bound like a geisha. "Blitzkrieg Bop" played on the boom box. Maya dropped eight tickets at the window. "Order in." Koffi looked at me. "Stew-What? Have you seen the cans on Maya?! She got gret beeg titty. Ha ha ha." Four special; one skin extra crispy. Two trout. One blackened chick. One veal. I was up to my nips in salmon. Crisping salmon skin was some shit Gourmet Mag had preened on its cover last month; every "discernable palate" in the ATL was begging for it. Contrasting textures! Who woulda thought we'd come so far? Years later we'd be pimping foams and scents and swathes; frothing over Ferran Adria; cuddling up to Keller.
A good chef works through the "weeds" the way porn actors/actresses "act;" it's methodical, mechanical, passionless, efficient. The task is simply taken to hand and completed. You get a breather and then it's back to the grindstone. Koffi liked my pornstar actor analogy. "Stew-What, that good shit, man." He was my Black Frankenstein. I wanted to take him around after work. Cart him to redneck titty bars, watch him outdrink the regulars, maybe even buy him a lapdance. (We never coaxed him into hitting the Clermont, but we did witness him downing 12 24oz Mambas in 60 mins.)
Hours crept. Heat wrapped around us. It snarled and squeezed. I threw up in the shitter. Stole a dbl magarita from the bar. Snacked on wings Koffi had whipped up in seconds from the cornish hens. By quarter of one we'd all but closed the kitchen down. Martin's bandages were blushing. Sam was shaking. Koffi stayed at it. "Sam, Sam - does your girl friend suck your little weenie, Sam? Does she eat little weenie? Ha ha ha." Sam lunged at Koffi with a bread slicer. We were all screaming. Martin was in the middle and got cut again. Maya was at the window, her mouth wide. (She did have huge cans). Alice in Chains' "Would" played on the boom box. Andy, the owner, came running through the door and was completely unhinged. "Hey! Assholes! What the fucking fuck?! Assholes! The whole front of the house can hear you. What the fuck? Someone want to get fired tonight? It can happen. I can make it happen. Assholes. Martin, are you fucking bleeding on the floor? Clean that up." Andy was a short, North African guy. He wore linen suits and Gucci loafers. He looked like some middle-man for the Afrika Corps. He acted like one, too.
"Stew-What? Do you know Andy is midget? Ha ha ha."
Order in. Ten salmon - nine crisped; two ribeye, one medium, one well-done; three trout - two crisped; three brie plates - add grapes.
Martin looked like he was going to start bawling. I went to the walk-in, grabbed the fish, came back and threw them all under the salamander. The line was smoke-filled in minutes; it smelled like burnt tires. Martin took a brie wedge from the cooler, plated it with champagne grapes and put it in the microwave. He nuked it for three minutes. The grapes burst in 30 seconds. The brie went from firm to ass splatter "ripe." The grapes like swatted flies upon the plate. Martin lit a Marlboro while standing at the line, drew heavily on it, and then put it out in the center of one of the brie plates. I helped him put the plates in the window. We took our aprons off and headed to the Clermont.
Labels: Black Frankenstein, Brie, Cafe Diem, Cans, Cigarettes, Crisped Skin, Flies, Fried Bread, Gourmet Magazine, Grad Students, Guinness, Knives, Krystal's, Margarita, Poststructuralism, Syrah, Wounds
posted by GSV JR at
7:04 AM
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