Post by pizza on Aug 20, 2017 0:00:24 GMT -5
Midnight. Every surface was scrubbed and scrap-less, swept and swabbed. The chrome-coloured kitchen gleamed under the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The kitchen closers had their bags and aprons flung over their shoulders as they filed out into the long-closed dining hall, holding the kitchen doors open for one another, untilâChathra remained.
âChef, you coming?â One of the closers called into the kitchen from the doorframe. He was a refrigerator-sized man with a bandana around his balding head.
âNah,â Chathra said. She didnât look up from the prep counter where she was coring and slicing heads of cabbage from a hefty box beside her. âIâm gonna work on this.â
âWeâre going to Crystalâs,â added another closerâa plump pink-skinned woman who already had her lips coiled around an unlit cigarette.
The other workers piled their concern on top, voices layering into a chorus of âyeah, come on, you make us look badâs, and âcome on Chef, we canât leave you hereâs, but it was the refrigerator-sized man who made the chef look up.
âAy dios mio, we can make coleslaw tomorrow,â he said, throwing up the hand that wasnât holding the kitchen door open.
âColeslaw wonât move,â Chathra muttered back, pausing her slicing to rub her eyes with her forearm.
The kitchen closers collectively groaned. âYeah? And what, kids are gonna pick okonomiyaki over pizza?âââJust cut your losses, Chef!ââItâs Royâs fault for confusing it with lettuce anywayâŚâ
âHey!â the chef smacked the counter for their attention, âwe eat together, we shit together,â she continued, gesturing with her paring knife as she talked. âI made the bad call. Shouldnât have sent a dishwasher to pick up the shipment.â
Another collective groan. The closers shuffled away from the kitchen doors, heads shaking. âWhatever, goodnight, ChefâŚâââYeah but cook or not cook, who the fuck thinks cabbage and lettuce are the same thingâŚâ
The layers of voices faded as Chathraâs co-workers left the dining room.
âDonât stay up too late,â called the pink-skinned woman, gesturing for the refrigerator-sized man to move on, âok, Chef?â
Chathra waved and muttered a vague, âyeah, yeahâ. The kitchen doors swung closed.
The sliced cabbage rinsed under a tap as she slid open the door of a walk-in fridge. Lifting a lukewarm mug of coffee to her lips, she looked for inspiration in the shelves, prodding at the prepped ingredients with her free hand. Two hours to come up with a cabbage-based dish the students would eat. Two hours, she set for herself, because her next shift was in ten hours and at some point, the wordsââdonât stay up too late, ok Chefââwould hit her. At some point, she had to take her workaholic ass and go home, go shower, go sleep.
Chathra loaded a few things into a crateâthin-sliced chicken thighs, a bag of grated carrots, a pair of scallions and some fresh chillies she didnât remember orderingâand turned for the door handle.
She couldn't turn it.
She set down the crate and her coffee and pulled at the handle with both hands, grunting with effortânothing. She pushed it instead, pressing all her weight against itânothing. âHoly fuck,â she muttered after myriad more attempts, weary eyes waking and widening as she frisked her pockets for her phoneânothing, it was on the prep counter with the cabbage, charging. Gritting her teeth, she went for the last resortâpounding on the door. With luck, someoneâone of her co-workers fetching something forgotten or campus police patrollingâwould hear her.
âChef, you coming?â One of the closers called into the kitchen from the doorframe. He was a refrigerator-sized man with a bandana around his balding head.
âNah,â Chathra said. She didnât look up from the prep counter where she was coring and slicing heads of cabbage from a hefty box beside her. âIâm gonna work on this.â
âWeâre going to Crystalâs,â added another closerâa plump pink-skinned woman who already had her lips coiled around an unlit cigarette.
The other workers piled their concern on top, voices layering into a chorus of âyeah, come on, you make us look badâs, and âcome on Chef, we canât leave you hereâs, but it was the refrigerator-sized man who made the chef look up.
âAy dios mio, we can make coleslaw tomorrow,â he said, throwing up the hand that wasnât holding the kitchen door open.
âColeslaw wonât move,â Chathra muttered back, pausing her slicing to rub her eyes with her forearm.
The kitchen closers collectively groaned. âYeah? And what, kids are gonna pick okonomiyaki over pizza?âââJust cut your losses, Chef!ââItâs Royâs fault for confusing it with lettuce anywayâŚâ
âHey!â the chef smacked the counter for their attention, âwe eat together, we shit together,â she continued, gesturing with her paring knife as she talked. âI made the bad call. Shouldnât have sent a dishwasher to pick up the shipment.â
Another collective groan. The closers shuffled away from the kitchen doors, heads shaking. âWhatever, goodnight, ChefâŚâââYeah but cook or not cook, who the fuck thinks cabbage and lettuce are the same thingâŚâ
The layers of voices faded as Chathraâs co-workers left the dining room.
âDonât stay up too late,â called the pink-skinned woman, gesturing for the refrigerator-sized man to move on, âok, Chef?â
Chathra waved and muttered a vague, âyeah, yeahâ. The kitchen doors swung closed.
The sliced cabbage rinsed under a tap as she slid open the door of a walk-in fridge. Lifting a lukewarm mug of coffee to her lips, she looked for inspiration in the shelves, prodding at the prepped ingredients with her free hand. Two hours to come up with a cabbage-based dish the students would eat. Two hours, she set for herself, because her next shift was in ten hours and at some point, the wordsââdonât stay up too late, ok Chefââwould hit her. At some point, she had to take her workaholic ass and go home, go shower, go sleep.
Chathra loaded a few things into a crateâthin-sliced chicken thighs, a bag of grated carrots, a pair of scallions and some fresh chillies she didnât remember orderingâand turned for the door handle.
She couldn't turn it.
She set down the crate and her coffee and pulled at the handle with both hands, grunting with effortânothing. She pushed it instead, pressing all her weight against itânothing. âHoly fuck,â she muttered after myriad more attempts, weary eyes waking and widening as she frisked her pockets for her phoneânothing, it was on the prep counter with the cabbage, charging. Gritting her teeth, she went for the last resortâpounding on the door. With luck, someoneâone of her co-workers fetching something forgotten or campus police patrollingâwould hear her.