Exhausted, sore, my head aching with a hundred different worries and gripes, I finally have the place to myself after ten hours of listening to a mixed bag of 80s pop up front, rap in the dish room, and the ever-changing sounds (sometimes literal) that accompany Frank anytime he’s in the prep kitchen. One song had the catchy title of “Fist Fuck”, I actually recognized it from an Al Pacino movie called Cruising that I saw more than twenty years ago…it’s that kind of song.
I pick up my favorite broom and carry it toward the pizza bench, pausing at the XM radio to change the channel. The only thing that sounds good right now is classical, and as I start sweeping my way back toward the dish room the Mozart that had been playing ends and is replaced by a pleasant little dance number which sounds familiar but not. I stop again at the XM and look at the screen, “Tchaikovsky – Polonaise” it glows. A polonaise is a dance, but the word brought to mind an emulsion of egg and oil with pineapple; it would be the base sauce for numerous Jell-O concoctions containing cottage cheese that are seen only at funeral pot lucks in the South. Polonaise would be distantly related to vaginaise, a mix of Dijon mustard and mayo that I was introduced to during my short tour of duty at Le Bistro.
This is what happens to your brain when you stand next to a blistering hot oven all day, every day. Stay in school.
Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen
1 hour ago