A Splash of Humor and a Dash of Asshole

The Afterlife

It’s no secret that cooks spend their nights secluded from most, in sauna like heat and at a stress level that most couldn’t imagine. Let me explain. It’s Saturday night at 8:00. You have twenty pieces of fish you need to cook and only four burners, the guy next to you just spilled oil in your beautifully reduced sauce. You have to get another one reducing before you even have time to think how bummed you are. Your fellow soldiers are just as buried as you are, and your fearless general is barking at you telling you how you need to move faster and do a better job. In the back of your mind you know all 20 of those people who are waiting on you to fill their bellies will accept nothing short of perfection. All this happening for 3 straight hours in a kitchen that can’t be cooler than 120 degrees.

After it’s all over what do you do? How do you blow off some steam? How do you bring yourself down enough to hopefully get some sleep? How do you cool your body temeperature down as fast as possible? It’s every cook’s favorite 3 letter word. BAR. We don’t end up at the bars tourists read about in their travel guides, you know the ones with drinks named after exotic places. No, we end up at the bars with the cheapest drinks, the most generous pours and the shadiest clientele. We sit with the people we just went into battle with and talk to others who fight the same battles we just did, just on a different battlefield. We tell each other about how weeded we were or how many covers we did. We talk mad shit about the new extern that took 45 minutes to dice 10 onions, even though we know we all were just as bad on our first day. We talk about that 3 top of Milf’s that sat at the counter, and then we talk about them even more and then maybe some more after that. It usually starts out with ” hey, let’s grab a beer.” Then that turns into ordering a cocktail, which is immediately turned into someone thinking a group of shots is well deserved. And then of course a server shows up who is expected to buy a round, because we all saw how busy it was and they must have a shitload of cash burning a hole in their pocket. Next thing you know you wake up hoping you didn’t say anything too stupid that will warrant getting ribbed all night at work. It takes a special kind of person to not only do this day in and day out, but also one who enjoys every minute of it. Or maybe it takes a really crazy kind of person. Either way, this job doesn’t suck.

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