It's been a busy night. Saturdays usually are. Somehow I've been lucky the past two nights, and the morning cook has actually done the prep lists I've left him. I struggle to seem busy while my fellow line cooks actually prepare their stations.
About 7pm, we actually start cooking. We have a crapload of reservations, but they're behaving and flowing in steadily.
8:30pm rolls around. One of the owners brings a round of whiskey shots, the first time I've seen this happen here. A food runner gives me an espresso shot immediately after. I feel good. Really good.
12:30am hits. We're just finishing cleaning, and slamming beers in the walk-in. We need the medication after 240 covers that night.
1am. I've been sitting at the bar with my coworkers, coming down off the adrenaline high with more beer and a cigarette. I'm proud. We kicked ass tonight.
Tonight is cooking in a nutshell. Adrenaline, caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol all feed into each other; occasionally balancing out, and ultimately fueling the fire. I can feel myself passing out. I've earned my days off.
No comments:
Post a Comment