Cracking More Smiles Than Beers

It’s a metronome the way that spoon grabs a mouthful of bubbling butter, perfumed with rosemary and thyme, crashes with the pan, before it empties its contents onto a piece of unsuspecting protein. It’s rhythmatic, “I believe she’s playing 16’s over there!”


It gives a flow of cogency to what is left of a non-cogent world. The tapping, the melodious tapping; it is not annoying, rather it gives this chaos control in the same sense Los Angeles traffic signals conduct chaos like Mozart. She says nothing as she puts away her spoon into a water-filled quart container, grabs the handle of a tepid, coal pan and twists into a tornado until the small of her back explodes. Another spoon in hand, placing a cheek onto a pile of puree, arranging little polka dots of reminiscent sauces into Pollack-like arrangements on our newest plates – a sprinkle of braised pistachios to finish the dish. A quick nod from the chef to signify approval – the only wage we really require – before she begins the next dish.

Her hands they are road maps of hard work and pain: fingertips cracking under pressure, wrists bulging from carpel tunnel, veins like the Underground, skin caked over from splattered butter and blood, and, my dear, it is only seven o’clock – we are halfway done but we have barely begun.

With a yet-to-be-fading wherewithal she still places those fillets, those surgically manicured herbs, those perfected and refined sauces, those garnishes no one will notice until the real eater comes in and can appreciate the care and how much of herself she has put into every element. She smiles often, carries a pocketful of mistakes and miscues from past restaurants, and never forgets how to make a simile out of a parable.

In the corner I thinly spread a newly conceived sauce turning chocolate into a window pane, this day I did not make too many mistakes. My speed it is finally catching up to my brains and today it showed its resiliency even in the face of too many orders, I am careful to remember how my desserts looked like a schism and how, in fact, I needed to be more patient even if I can never see the goodly sensibilities of being slow – at times.

Cracked four dozen eggs tonight, their yolk and white caking under my fingernails and the bit that fell on the floor earlier slowly turning opaque in the relative heat of the kitchen. I did not have the thought pattern to wipe it up in time, just turned on the afterburners and finished the job that had to be done. In moments like this I wonder if my kin will ever take after me and I realize that I cannot fathom them being anything like me – why would they want to be?

I have too many scars to count and I haven’t seen the crack of 25 yet, too many cuts, too many late nights and early mornings, too many requites with a lobster and a rabbit; too many caffeine suppliers; too many unwise responses when docile would have sufficed; too many wrong decisions; too many head-banging, want-to-punch-puppies nights to cope with; too many times have I lost something precious, something held dear, something I would’ve fought for lost because I did not have the time to see the cracks growing; too many times I have woken up knowing I should never do this thing I’ve called life again, but I do anyways; too many times I have to remind myself what a cognizant relationship looks like, and fella, it does not look like that; too many times do I have to remind myself that…after two decades I have projected the rest of my life on a blackboard and can map out its route because, still, I can look in the mirror and honestly say that I love this.

In the same way I loved her, in the same way I miss them, in the same way I crack more smiles than beers just to keep a handle on life. In the same way that metronomic spoon keeps my chaotic livelihood manageable.