Cayenne Pepper.
Thinking about heading back into the kitchen has me thinking about being in kitchens and the stories one collects there. Everyone who has spent time cooking has a book of stories that grow like fish in booze, and I am no different. The one thing about this story that I like is that it has never grown, despite the company and despite the proximity to last call.
I’ve started this entry pretty much the same way the last three times I’ve written and accidentally deleted it, inserting here that friends should stop reading now since they’ve already heard it in my voice. So, fuck that. I’m not changing facts but I’m changing how I tell it. This is a story about a time in my life where I smelled like raw food exposed to the heat of a kitchen rather than my most recent incarnation as a person who smells like cooked food exposed to moisture.
Serrated knives scare me, and the ones that arrive fresh from the Restaurant Supply Store do so even more. Sharp knives cut you. Sharp serrated knives rip and cut you with a ferocity few can understand. I’m working the line on the cusp of what looks to be a slammed Friday night and new serrated knife takes off most of my fingernail and the tip of my finger. I am spouting blood and head to the sink to minimize the impact on things other people might want to eat.
Water from the sprayer just makes the basin look like rosé as it tickles my ring finger bone. I am working with Co-Co the soothsaying lesbian pan slinger extraordinare and Friend/Owner-husband, husband of Friend/Owner-wife. The latter two have a shared belief that Cayenne pepper not only clots cuts, but cauterizes in its wake.
“Put some Cayenne on it” says Friend/Owner-husband. I’ve done it before with minor cuts, and though it doesn’t feel pleasant, it has worked. I do it. I watch a steady stream of now orange blood flow into the sink. Tickets are flying out of the printer. Friend/Owner-husband comes over, looks at the wound and says “No, more, and press it in.” I am Jeff’s idiot: I do just that.
Seconds later I am staring at my toes, feeling fire in every vein, bursting out of my feet, passing out and saying to Co-Co: “There is bread in the oven and I am passing out now.”
True to form I do so in dramatic fashion. Face over ass into the sink, bouncing my head off the divider and landing in the trash can. I wake up to water being splashed on my face. With my Cayenned hands I wipe my brow, essentially maceing myself. “I need air” I fumble.
As I am being held from behind, escorted from the kitchen, drunk waiter thinks that I am choking. He punches me in the sternum. A full restaurant watches a semi-coherent, actively bleeding , dressed in kitchen whites 21 year old take a pop to the chest as his friends try to get him to air and rain.
The air feels good, I get escorted to the emergency room and squirted with super-glue. My only replacement was called in from a first date stinking of latex and resentment. I come back and tap him out, working the rest of my shift.
I am tired of this story. I was tough as nails. Once. It’s true.
I’ve started this entry pretty much the same way the last three times I’ve written and accidentally deleted it, inserting here that friends should stop reading now since they’ve already heard it in my voice. So, fuck that. I’m not changing facts but I’m changing how I tell it. This is a story about a time in my life where I smelled like raw food exposed to the heat of a kitchen rather than my most recent incarnation as a person who smells like cooked food exposed to moisture.
Serrated knives scare me, and the ones that arrive fresh from the Restaurant Supply Store do so even more. Sharp knives cut you. Sharp serrated knives rip and cut you with a ferocity few can understand. I’m working the line on the cusp of what looks to be a slammed Friday night and new serrated knife takes off most of my fingernail and the tip of my finger. I am spouting blood and head to the sink to minimize the impact on things other people might want to eat.
Water from the sprayer just makes the basin look like rosé as it tickles my ring finger bone. I am working with Co-Co the soothsaying lesbian pan slinger extraordinare and Friend/Owner-husband, husband of Friend/Owner-wife. The latter two have a shared belief that Cayenne pepper not only clots cuts, but cauterizes in its wake.
“Put some Cayenne on it” says Friend/Owner-husband. I’ve done it before with minor cuts, and though it doesn’t feel pleasant, it has worked. I do it. I watch a steady stream of now orange blood flow into the sink. Tickets are flying out of the printer. Friend/Owner-husband comes over, looks at the wound and says “No, more, and press it in.” I am Jeff’s idiot: I do just that.
Seconds later I am staring at my toes, feeling fire in every vein, bursting out of my feet, passing out and saying to Co-Co: “There is bread in the oven and I am passing out now.”
True to form I do so in dramatic fashion. Face over ass into the sink, bouncing my head off the divider and landing in the trash can. I wake up to water being splashed on my face. With my Cayenned hands I wipe my brow, essentially maceing myself. “I need air” I fumble.
As I am being held from behind, escorted from the kitchen, drunk waiter thinks that I am choking. He punches me in the sternum. A full restaurant watches a semi-coherent, actively bleeding , dressed in kitchen whites 21 year old take a pop to the chest as his friends try to get him to air and rain.
The air feels good, I get escorted to the emergency room and squirted with super-glue. My only replacement was called in from a first date stinking of latex and resentment. I come back and tap him out, working the rest of my shift.
I am tired of this story. I was tough as nails. Once. It’s true.
posted by Jassmond at 7:54 PM
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