Post One - Random Thoughts

The Barru Blitz

It may have something to do with the scotch glass that is glued to my hand; but cooking in a high paced environment makes me feel like a million dollars. The dirty floor, littered with frozen French fries, bread crumbs, herb stems, and mushrooms. The feeling of the mats under my DC shoes (fuck clogs). The sound of the hoods as they suck up the sweet and savory smell of hamburgers on a grill and port wine reducing in a pan that once held an 8oz filet mignon. There’s a party of eight at the small tables near the stage, and a couple more people scattered about the bar. All of them want food, all at the same time, all ordering with special instructions, blue cheese on this, hold the shallots on that, medium rare, medium, spilt my hamburger onto two plates; it’s annoying, yet gratifying.

Why?

I don’t know, but I fuckin live for this. Turn the Pennywise up on the radio. Shit we need a louder radio. My filet sandwich is dying in the window; where the fuck is this waiter? Shit, I forgot to make fries for the order on 201; better drop some for that filet that’s in the oven.

You smell that? The sewer trap must be broken again, got to call the plumber soon.

It’s a one man kitchen. Prep, cook, and clean up. Washing dishes isn’t as bad as it seems. Somewhat relaxing after hauling ass for two hours. Damn, I need a cigarette so bad I can feel the sweet nicotine sliding down my chest. Is it true every cigarette takes 7 minutes off of my life? Is it? I don’t care; I love this line of work. Maybe one day, when my knees ache (they are starting to now, and I’m only 21) I’ll stop smoking.

But that day ain’t today. Fuck it. Pennywise cd already over? Time for some Angel City Outcast.

Wash the dishes. Time to pull up mats. What is it about sticking your fingers in these little, dirty, bacteria infested loops that make me want to change professions? Fuck it man, it’s a minute and a half of work, suck it up.

Here comes the boss with his buddy. Shake hands, smile, be professional. He’s eyeing the frozen hamburgers defrosting on the prep table; put those fuckers in the fridge. He wants to throw a party. Fifty people? Shit I can feed fifty people hung over and with one hand. Can I do it you say? I’ll feed those fifty people and still have time for a drink and two cigarettes after.

Finishing up; bartender wants you to come out and have a drink. Should I feel guilty that I’ve been drinking 6 days in a row? Probably not, and even if I do, some of the J & B rare will wash away my sorrows. The girl at the end of the bar is eyeing you. Fuck it man, you have better things waiting for you. Don’t go crazy.

Another scotch. Boss walks over. Good job tonight, you did half the total sales in food. Really? Felt like much less. Weekend specials? Way ahead of you. You read this article in the food section? Skirt steak. I told you that shit was taking off! If we do it now we are just jumping on the band wagon. Fuck it man I’ll find something different.

I’m vulgar? Fuck you man, I’m real. Don’t cuss in front of the clients. Fuck them too! No I’m just kidding. Keep your hat on man. Leave the chef coat in the kitchen. Throw on the Dickies shirt, the chucks, spray some Axe so you don’t smell like a walk in refrigerator.

Edit the menu. Don’t you ever stop working? No. Never. Ever. Not for the next 30 years. And even then I’ll be sitting in a bar, eyeing the menu, talking to the cute 20 something bartender. Asking about the dinner crowd. What kind of scotch do you have?

I can see it now. A full beard, like Jim Morrison, or Jesus. You’re going to have to drag me off this line. I’ll cook in a wheel chair. That’s how gangster I am. Don’t fucken tell me I can’t brunoise shallot motherfucker! I’ve been doing this since you were shitting in your diapers.

Okay, I’ll go in the office.
Bang Bus!

Shit, I’m getting old. But it’s okay. I’ve had my run. Look at the new guy, sweating like a hoe in church. He’s going to be good. A little green, but he’ll catch on. That’s your replacement. Go play golf old man. Enjoy your time off. You’ve put in good work. You’ve changed your style. Straight out of high school into culinary school. A master at what you do. A gentleman and a scholar. $30,000 for school…… ha….. I make that 3 months.

Rip the tongs and chef knife out of my hand.
I’m done.

Good night sweet prince.