Work hard, Party harder

The sun is coming up and my alarms start making there ever annoying tones. I have 6 of them set for every 15mins. I snooze all of them except for the last, that is the one i must get up from.

I awake exhausted and think of how i can’t wait to go back to bed. Today will be a long shift and i prepare myself for 12hrs but i know it will be longer.

I wrote my prep list last night and start thinking of how many thing i can do at once. I only have a few hours before service and the list is so big.
I drag myself to the bathroom for a shower. It wont help wake me, if anything the warm water lulls me back to sleep and i stand there contemplating my life choices. why am i awake?, was last night worth this pain in my head?, my body is sore, did i say anything stupid?, why did i suggest the next bar?, should have called an Uber 3hrs earlier, did i really need to shout that last round?. Oh how we danced. Im so fucking hungover.

I make it into work 5mins late but everyone was there last night so no one even notices. My sunnies shield the sun that make me feel more pain. I didn’t even put makeup on or fix my hair the way i like it. who cares today. Just gotta get through this.

Coffee apparently fixes everything. Its in my hand before i even ask for it. Barely touches the sides before I’m asking for another.

I’m getting hot flushes, i stand in the Coolroom for a bit and re organise the shelves. I should be prepping but i just need a minute. I’ve done half my list by the time service starts and delegate staff to continue the jobs that need doing.

Dockets start to roll in every minute now, we all take our places ready for the craziness.

The A team is on today and we dance with such perfection. We clear the rail many times over. Food is quickly taken from the pass out to its owners. My staff know what music keeps me happy and we continue to dance and sing. I’m still dying inside but i can’t show them weakness. I cant stop calling the dockets or demanding the next table be ready in 3mins or we will go down. Wait time gets to 30mins and i start separating the rail, we push out 4 tables at once. Im calling more food runners with a stern voice now. HURRY THE FUCK UP i think but do not say out loud.

We finely clear the last of the rail. Even the stack of dockets under the bell have been done. But its not over yet. All the prep i did this morning is gone, i must start all over again.

Chopping boards line our benches and we prep like our lives depend on it. The kitchen hand is frustrating me as i swear he’s been washing the same pot for far to long. I yell “ step it up a gear” the look of shear terror on his face as he starts moving at a faster pass.

2hours to go till this is over. Just 2 more hours i think to myself. I push the team. I push myself to be faster.

1hr to go. We need to clean this place down. We do it as we have done it very single day. Everyone knows there job.

Its finely over the day is done. Together we get changed, while debriefing about our hard day we tell each other we deserve a drink. We agree just one as we all still feel like shit from the night before.

There are 10 of us all slowly drinking our favourite bevys, the floor staff are also starting to finish and join us. We start talking about how fun last night was and the things that happened. A few suggest we move to another bar, its our second home and we know all the bar tenders. Might as-well have another drink the first one went down to quickly.

The sun is coming up and my alarms start making there ever annoying tones.

Fuck.

I did it again.

Oh my little cooper pot

How beautiful you are. I dream of you often, the sounds you make hitting the stove, the way you glisten hanging from the range hood. You sparkle with tradition and radiate class. I know when im with you my ingredients would be fresh, crisp, expensive and of the highest quality.

I will have worked hard to be with you. To stand next to you, many hours would be spent getting to that moment. Washing many uglier pots, suffering cuts from a knife i couldn’t quite master sharpening yet, burns from oil that shouted there own escape from unloved cook wear.

But how i dream of you my little cooper pot.

I am closer to seeing you. My scars are healed from those earlier days, only i can really notice them. Many hours of practice and repetition means my knife is always sharp. My fingers are always pulled back. The blade only comes close on my last day when the hours of work take there toll on my mind wondering off to think of you. The oil and me are friends, I now know how it sings. It still escapes from time to time, My skin is not afraid though. It keeps me on my toes and reminds me to be careful. I work with better pots newer pots but they are still not like you. They are shinny and taken care of, they sometimes even hum many a note on a busy day. They don’t sing like you though.

I walk past a store and see you. You beckon me to come say hi. Of course i run to your side, i pick you up with such joy. My heart is a flutter and my smile is the biggest it has been in some time. I take in ever edge, the feel, the weight. Your handle is perfect. You are perfect. oh my little cooper pot. I can not have you yet though. i place you back on the shelf.

We aren’t ready to be together. I still have much to learn. I can wait for our moment.

So until then my little cooper pot i will dream of you ever night.

Many years have passed and i have almost forgotten you. It isn’t your fault though. Id forgotten our love, our bond, our dream. I went down the wrong path and followed plastic, education and tittles. You didn’t give up on me. You came to me in my dreams. You reminded me of our plans, our future and what we both could be together.

So here you are sitting on my kitchen bench, still perfectly wrapped up. I take my time with you. To marvel at your beauty. Theres no need to rush, we have time, as you are all mine.

Not just an egg

The cracking of an egg. A pot of perfectly simmering water, just the exact amount of vinegar to create a tear drop timed exactly. 2mins 22seconds. The beep of the timer, its a fun game to scoop them out, how quickly can one get them before they go over that precise temperature .

Cut the tail with the spoon and lay each one just so, on a cloth over a rack on a tray. Leave it for a few seconds. No-one wants that excess water touching there toast. Theres always that one terrible egg. It didn’t want to play but theres no time for imperfection. Discard the bad egg. Clean that water. Quickly and ever so gently stir the pot and again the cracking of an egg. Oh how easy it is to break and what a joy it is when doing so with only one hand. How many scramble batches did it take to crack an egg in each hand at the same time. How many yolks broken when frying an egg to know just the right amount of force needed to break the shell. there is something so pleasurable so fulfilling in the perfect egg. even more so watching someone admire it, taste it, moved by the skill of what is simply cooking an egg.