In 1979 I worked as a short order cook in a restaurant in the town where I lived. I worked with a crew of maniacle misfits, in the kitchen, while the restaurant gave the appearance of operating with the chicness of Camelot. I enjoyed learning to cook all of the various menu items and working with the different people in the kitchen but my favorite co-worker was a man we will call...Charlie. Now Charlie had been a cook throughout the city spanning a number of decades. For whatever reason, he just couldn't seem to hold onto a job for any length of time. Maybe it was the fact that he had one eye that looked straight at you and another eye that seemed to be searching for the sprinkler system in the ceiling, I'm not sure. He was rough, hairy, and had a propensitiy for being late. But he was a character and I like characters.
There was a waitress that didn't really care for Charlie. I'm not sure why, perhaps she thought he was gross or maybe it was because she thought she was prettier and better than everyone else. Well one day, she happened to be standing in the kitchen when Charlie came in late for his shift. With her usual grace and charm, she made it known to the manager that Charlie had arrived late. Now there was no harm in Charlie being late. We had taken care of everything in anticipation of the effects of the Mad Dog 20/20 taking a little time to wear off from his Friday night frenzy. Nonetheless, Charlie received what was to be his final warning from the manager.
The remainder of the morning was uneventful but then something happened that forever changed the way I thought about restaurants. If your stomach is squeemish, I suggest you stop reading at this point....
Our favorite waitress came into the kitchen and asked for a turkey sandwich, on whole wheat bread, light on the mayo with a little lettuce. Then she made a fatal mistake...she said that this was for her lunch. Now, normally this would have been something I would have taken care of but Charile told me to take a break...he would get her sandwich and then he winked at me, at least I think he did.
As I stood back, I noticed that Charlie was sweating worse than usual. The aroma of Mad Dog 20/20 had begun to saturate his apron. He took the first slice of wheat bread and, with the grace of Gene Kelly, dipped it under his left armpit. Then, reaching for the second slice of bread, he dropped it on the floor, picked it up and wiped any remaining perspiration from his right armpit. Both slices now on the sandwich board, he took the turkey slices and licked them with his long cotton mouth tongue before placing the slices on the bread. At this point, I left the kitchen to go throw up in my mouth. When I returned, the sandwich had been delivered to our favorite waitress.
Several minutes later, our saucy siren returned proclaiming that she had just eaten the best tasting sandwich of her life and she wanted to thank whoever made it. Not to be outdone, Charlie stepped forward taking credit for the saliva sandwich and telling the waitress that there was no hard feelings for her reporting his lateness to the boss. He then turned and winked at me again...at least I think he winked, I'm not sure.
Henry Miller once wrote, "We create our fate everyday we live." Obviously, our favorite waitress didn't realize that much of our fate is in our own hands. For those of you who have always wondered what goes on in a restuarant kitchen...well, now you know. I'd think twice before sending that undercooked steak back for a refire.
Be Well.
Bill
