Nothing truly prepares you for the sheer chaos that is the back of house in any restaurant, let alone one in a rather hefty tourist destination. The constant metallic clatter of pans, pots and various other kitchen utensils against each other, the droning sound of knives going through various foodstuff, the screaming of dozens of timers all set for different intervals so there was this so pleasant scream of the timers that was the kitchen’s form of white noise, voices shouting over each other before you get elbow-checked for missing someone shout “Corner” or “Hot behind”, being in a kitchen is a very interesting thing, you almost have to learn another language due to how people talk, “Corner” meaning someone is on the other side of any corner going around, “hot behind” or “sharp behind” is said when someone is carrying something that is hot/sharp or various other terms behind you and is a vocal warning of “don’t move”. Luckily speaking French like I do, at least, Cajun French, does help with all of the culinary terms, but…the way people talk in kitchens would make even the most sour, salt-caked sailor blush.

            I breathed deeply as I used my few seconds in the walk-in to get a few things to just catch my breath before I closed my eyes tightly, this heavy pulse going across the back of my head through my eyes like a depth charge as I felt the familiar points of my teeth sharpening behind my lips. I closed my hand around the metal rack nearly crushing it under my fist as I picked myself up, flicking the bottom of my chef’s coat to get some colder air in it before gathering what I needed and dipping back in.

            “Walk-in!” I called out as I started opening the door to ensure the door wouldn’t swing out into anyone.

            “3 top: 2 escarole, 1 prawn, 2 filet and 1 salmon!” the expeditor called out from the window just on the other side.

            “Heard!” a few of us called out as we worked on the next ticket.

            “Service!” I called out as I put a few plates on the window to send out.

            You see weird things working in a professional kitchen, people using every possible type of container for drinks because the only rule we have to follow is that it has to be closed, but apparently a metal quart sized cold bar tub with a layer of cling wrap overtop with a straw punched through it counts as a “closed” container. Plus people will used fully opaque things to bring everything and anything in to drink; I’ve smuggled an entire bottle of vodka cut with club soda in one of those red plastic sports bottles…someone I worked with once just had a bendy straw in a bottle of whiskey that was set inside a Big Gulp. You see weird things.

            “5 top! 1 etouffee, 1 bass, 1 crab, 2 tasso!” the expeditor called out

            “Heard!” went the chorus again.

            “Eh, where’s that gator for 103!?” one of the waitresses called out from the window.

            “Right here!” one of the other chef’s called out putting a plate on the window as the waitress softly nodded and slid it onto the tray, but there was this…weird pang that went through my spine; not a shiver, not a chill…but no less concerning. I mean, I know I’m not a gator, but…I’m also not not-a-gator. There was this strange feeling of…that could be me, on that plate; slathered in cornmeal and fried till golden brown and delicious under at least a pound of hot peppers. I shook my head to clear that feeling away as I went back to what I needed to do.

            It was…late when the kitchen was done obviously, all of us moving about the monolith room of white, stainless steel and terracotta tiles, people passing around shots as we were getting the last things cleaned up. As the others just devolved into drinking and talking, I dipped through the hall as I undid my chef’s coat and flicked it a little before folding it over my arm as I went down the hall before knocking on the door of the current head-chef.

            “Enter” they called out

            “Hey, chef…I was just dropping by to make sure that you remembered that I need to have the next four days off for a medical issue. When the schedule was being made I asked for those, but I want to make sure.” I said

            “Bellamy…” my head-chef said, a laugh as they used my last name, “How long have you been here?”

            “Three months.”

            “And how many days off have you taken?”

            “Like five” I said

            “And that’s all you have for the rest of the year. You’re working lunch shift tomorrow.” They said

            “I can’t…I’m not going to be able to come in at all.” I said, a touch of panic starting to make my stomach turn.

            “Whatever your issue is, if it’s keeping you from work, than why are you even working?” they asked, “Lawrence is dealing with the flu right now…you’re not going to get anywhere if you’re having to take four fucking days off.” they added, “Change whatever appointment you’ve got or anything in the next few days…if it’s bad enough that you can’t, quit.” They added

            This kind of acting was not weird or out of the ordinary for my head-chef, but it was still surprising and shocking, especially hearing that one of my co-workers currently has the flu. It did also remind me of what I was questioning the other day…about how a magical restaurant would probably give me far better benefits and I could also properly explain why I need those days off…and if I get the right place, I could get a better pay. So, I steeled myself as I breathed deeply as I met my head-chef’s eyes.

            “Fine…I quit then” I shrugged off