Stream of Conscious in the Kitchen

The pace of the kitchen is serene and steady, as much as a kitchen like this one can be. Behind the expo. station I have planted myself next to a stack of plates and over the metal island the tops of the chefs heads make a bobbing kind of horizon line as they prepare themselves for what will turn out to be an unusually hectic night. Now it’s calm before the storm, but a storm that this city needs to saturate its struggling economy.

Now there is time for jokes, cracking and spattering from their mouths like grease heating up on a tepid Caphlon pan. In the 5 minutes I’ve been observing it is obvious we are all our own animals here and they are cheetahs, graceful and stealth before sprinting into a beautiful flurry. I am a prairie dog, curious and peeking out over a vast land of wonders.

There is music, bebop rhythm of silver wear being polished, burners, fired, ovens whispering with open flame and the sweet hint of laughter and random conversation.

A film of oil and sweat highlights my cheekbones and neck, and I know I’ve absorbed this indefinitely, I secrete the kitchen. So this is the “soul of a chef”, I ponder, silent.