Smoke Break

3 pm. Post lunch rush, pre dinner rush. The chaos that ensued just a couple hours before has died down. The bandaid covering the gash on my finger is losing its stickiness (I sliced myself cutting carrots), and I have to replace it with a fresh one but of course we’re out of fucking bandaids because everyone in this damn kitchen has at least one on each hand. I forgo the search for a new box of bandaids because I have about a million things to prep before dinner. Don’t worry, I wear gloves so the food won’t be exposed to my mutilated finger. I’m just about to begin my prep when Romi asks if I want to switch with him (he was assigned to potato peeling, arguably the worst job in the kitchen). “Yeah you wish,” I say and begin chopping an absurd amount of onion. 

Romi and I are what you call prep cooks, which means we’re near the bottom of the pyramid alongside dishwashers and servers. What that means, essentially, is that we live by the 5 Don’t’s; Don’t touch the seasoning. Don’t plate the food. Don’t talk back to Chef. Don’t flirt with the servers. And most importantly, don’t ever, ever, under any circumstances call Chef his legal name (it’s David). Follow those rules and you’ll get by just fine at: The Bistro, a Hilton Hotel fine dining experience (eye roll).  

4 pm. One hour til the dinner rush begins. Everything was going just swimmingly until we got word that one of most renowned food critiques was coming in this evening. Unexpectedly. We had no warning whatsoever. Well fuck. So now everyone is running around like chickens with their hands cut off or whatever that saying is. Chef and the sous chef are arguing about which bisque to serve, the lobster or the tomato (my vote is for lobster but what do I know). The line cooks are frantically setting up their stations. The dishwashers are getting in fights with the servers over where the dirty dishes go. And Romi and I are just standing in the middle of it waiting for our next direction. Romi turns to me and signals with his hands: “smoke break?” I nod and follow him out the back door to the loading deck. He slips a pack of Marlboros and a lighter out of his pocket. He tilts the box to me and I take one (no judgement, OK? It’s been a stressful week). The first inhale I take of the cigarette I almost hack up a lung. We don’t speak for a while. Just smoke our cigarettes and think about what we’re doing with our lives. Well at least that’s what I think about. Maybe Romi thinks about different things. Then, out of nowhere Romi says: “I’m quitting.” I turn to him, “really?” “Yeah,” he says, “I’m putting in my two weeks tonight after shift.” We kinda just sit there. I wouldn’t consider Romi a friend but we’ve been working together for two months now so I guess I’ve gotten used to him being around. “Oh,” was the only thing that came out of my mouth. “Anyways,” he said, flicking his cigarette to the ground and squashing it with the toe of his boot, “we should get back.” I doubt anyone had noticed we were missing.

4:55 pm. This is it. Dinner rush. Also, it’s definitely chickens with their heads cut off, not hands. About 5 minutes before any rush, Chef will use his deepest voice to bark, “circle up!” And so all of us, the under-appreciated workers who make this restaurant run like a well-oiled machine, gather around to listen to Chef’s banal pep talk. “OK, team, listen up. Out there, Dorothy Archibald, one of the greatest food critiques in the world, is waiting to taste our food. This is a big night for us, maybe the biggest. Let’s strive to be the best we can be tonight. Ramos and Steve, let’s get those dishes washed. Servers, let’s look sharp. Lionel, Bella, and Jesus, you guys are my backbone, my trusted line cooks. Robbie, my sous chef, partner in crime. And, last but certainly not least, Romi and uh...” He forgot my fucking name. “Callie” I said, through gritted teeth. “Yes, Callie, of course. The prep cooks. Keep up the good work. Alright everyone let’s kick some metaphorical ass tonight!” (Major eye roll).

5 pm. At 5 on the dot, the doors to the restaurant are opened and the masses flood in. Families on vacation, politicians, retired men coming from playing 9 holes (they’ll say their handicap is 4 but it’s really fourteen). Those are our most popular customers. But tonight none of them matter. The only person in the whole establishment who matters tonight is Dorothy Archibald. As the servers file in and out of the kitchen, Lionel stands in the doorway keeping an eye out for Ms. Archibald.

5:37 pm. After what feels like hours of anxiously checking the door for her arrival, Ms. Archibald finally arrives. I get the smallest glimpse of her through the window in the kitchen door and she’s a lot younger than I expected. And hotter. I guess I expected someone with a name like Dorothy Archibald to look like an old hag. The moment of truth has come to see which server gets Ms. Archibald. But before she was even seated an error was already made. Janet, the host, led her to a table in section 5 when she was supposed to be seated in section 2 on the balcony. This caused issues because Ron who’s the section 5 server was already triple sat so he couldn’t attend to her right away so once she was already sitting Janet had to ask her to move tables which I guess is pretty unprofessional and not the best way to start a culinary experience. 

6 pm. Time for Ms. Archibald’s first course. Chef has just put his finishing touches on the appetizer he crafted specifically for her: a Spicy Crab Salad on a bed of lettuce. After Jesse (section 2 server) takes the plate out of the kitchen, Chef anxiously wrings a towels and continuously wipes his brow sweat. But he doesn’t have long to pace and pray that Ms. Archibald likes his appetizer because the restaurant’s bustling and there’s plenty more people to serve. 

6:30 pm. Ms. Archibald’s first entree is served: Honey Mint Lamb Skewers served with a yogurt sauce. Chef was in good spirits because Jesse had come back with a raving review from Ms. Archibald for the crab salad. Jesse walked by me with the lamb and I caught a whiff and my mouth started watering. You might be wondering what I do when we’re actually in service. It’s nothing exciting. I basically make sure the line cooks are fully stocked with what they need to make what’s on the menu for the night. Basically, if more vegetables need to be chopped, I chop them. If we’re out of flour, I run down to storage to get more, etc. 

6:45 pm. Ms. Archibald’s second entree, the star of the show, Lobster Bisque served with sour dough. I’m hoping there will be leftover bisque so I can take some home. I’m actually pretty impressed with how smoothly the night’s gone, aside from the whole seating debacle. 

7 pm. Dessert. The home stretch. Wine Poached Pears with a cinnamon cream. We send the pears on their way and hold our breath for the final test.

7:03 pm. Jesse comes running back into the kitchen frantically shouting, “the pears... they’re... she’s” 

“What? What is it?” Chef shouts back. 

“She’s allergic. To the pears,” 

“Jesus fuck,” Chef exclaims. He rubs his eyes and I can see him smush his literal eyeballs into his skull. The next half hour is a bit of a blur. Everyone is yelling at each other trying to figure out if we were told Ms. Archibald had a pear allergy and Chef is too embarrassed to leave the kitchen and show his face. Paramedics wheel her out on a stretcher and after some time the noise dies down and people go back to their meals.

8 pm. Chef left early. We close in an hour. Romi nudges me. “Bet the headlines on the news tomorrow are gonna say: Famous Food Critique Poisoned at Hilton Restaurant.” I let out a chuckle. He’s probably right. Maybe I should consider getting a new job.

9 pm. Closing time. The restaurant’s closed but we’ll probably be here for another hour or so cleaning up. Romi and I split our closing duties and finish in less than an hour. 

10 pm. After clocking out, Romi and I walk back to our cars and when we get to my car, instead of continuing to his car he just kind of stops. “What’s up?” I say and awkwardly reach for my car door. “Cigarette?” I’m contemplating saying no, getting in my car, driving home and pounding a tub of ice cream. But something tells me he needs the company. This time, I don’t choke on the first inhale.