About five years ago, facing a health issue and in need of medical insurance, I took a job as a cook in an upscale grocery store — upscale on the face of it, anyway. Kitchens will be kitchens, no matter how clearly you are instructed to smile and wash your hands.
I thought it would be the kind of gig where you can leave work at work and write your novels at night, but that was far from the case. For nine months I felt my body and mind tumble through its coarse machinery, and stood at my sweltering, deafening station as a ceaseless procession of the aproned indifferent washed out around me.
This is chapter one of those memoirs. The rest will follow as I edit them — I have quite a lengthy manuscript from that time. Toward the end it veers into The Jungle territory, which needs some finessing so as not to just shift gears into a boring, undisguised manifesto.
If you've never worked at a restaurant, this may be the piece that keeps you from dining out for a while, or at least helps you make far wiser decisions about stir-fries, burritos, and salad bars.
NATE WINSTON
2024-07-22 18:20:24 +0000 UTCJ Hardy Carroll
2024-07-21 15:34:12 +0000 UTCChris Onstad
2024-07-21 05:18:14 +0000 UTCChris Onstad
2024-07-21 05:17:09 +0000 UTCChris Onstad
2024-07-21 05:16:33 +0000 UTCChris Onstad
2024-07-20 23:54:01 +0000 UTCSpyguitar
2024-07-20 23:50:00 +0000 UTCAndrew Derho
2024-07-20 21:40:55 +0000 UTCJulie (HiDeeHoGal)
2024-07-20 21:39:24 +0000 UTC