Heat of the Kitchen, Soul of a Server

I have to prove myself

I know these things:

I have a college degree

I am a writer

I am living on my own

Serving is a fucking difficult job. I don't care what anyone says.

"Why would you move here?" People give me the face of something moldy and stagnant, or give me that "oh you poor lost girl" look.

But

I

love

it

Last night I had 2 tables. Two.

How the hell can the rest of the staff do 15 tops and 8 tops at the same time? 3 and 4 for me and I lost my wine key, lost both of my pens, ordered the wrong beer (IPA instead of Dogfish Head) and stuttered like some shy 3 year old would when asked her age or favorite color.

College degree? That doesn't mean shit here.

But I leave at 11:30 smelling of roasted suckling pig and fried capers. My skin is sheen from evaporated olive oil over burners. I feel like a little boy with my new cropped, chestnut haircut, white oxford, orange tie, black chucks and knee length apron.

But its the bitten lips from nervousness, the heavy scent of toasted marshmallow and cayenne pepper, pan grease and rosemary fries that leaves me "hot and bothered."

Ive found I have to take the kitchen in doses for fear of becoming too sexually charged, afraid it will show in my cheeks and mannerisms, crossed legs, licking butter off the corners of my mouth, eyeing the chefs from the peripheries of my eyes.

Sweat drips down the crevices of my body but the heat of the kitchen drives me forward in more ways than you could imagine.

My nails are still marrow red.