You didnt see it coming. A late night rush that would have thrown most guys off. But you’re in the zone, thoughtless and flowing.
5 tickets. Two 4 tops, a duce and two solos then a few stragglers at the end. No big deal.
Everything is clean, pristine and stocked.
One slip, a half inch in the wrong direction. One split second of inattention.
You see it before you feel it a grab for a clean towl to keep the bleeding to a minimum.
The customers are clueless.
Calmly you ask the server to pass you some tape doing your very best to smile through the waves of pain that are ripping through you. A bit too calmly, she hands you scotch tape.
And you still have two tickets to finish. “Fuck this, Imma just gonna sear this motherfucker shut on the flat top!!” You take a deep breath to brace yourself but better judgment stops you at the same time the waitress comes back and figures out whats happening.
Thank God for badass servers, she scans the Kitchen and figures out the rest of the order. You go off in search of a non existent first aid kit. But you’ve found the fucking duct tape!!!
Its bad but doesnt need stiches this time. You wrap it up and go smoke, grateful that there are no new tables.
The cigarette hits heavy. Your heart is still racing but the pain has dulled. Its stopped bleeding and you start laughing.
This is just another Tuesday night in the Kitchen.
You look at all the othe scars. Cuts and burns that show experience far better than any resume or degree could.
The thing is, you never get used to it. Getting cut is always gonna fucking hurt. You just learn how to keep your shit together and deal with it.
We call him St. Murphy. He is the patron saint of all restaurant workers. “If it can go wrong, it will”. Rarely do things ever go off without a hitch in the business. But we push though the blood sweat and grease every night no matter how bad it gets.
You look at your hand, make sure the tape is secure and go finnish the shift.