Party of Sixteen

I turn from the grill to wipe my brow, being mindful that Lawrence is standing about five inches behind me. All I want is water and to be away from the heat of the grill. I am almost finished with my half of this party of sixteen; Lawrence is close behind. As I finish seasoning the bits of chicken about the grill, I hear a familiar clank, and know what happened without turning around.

Lawrence dropped his spatula. I have heard that noise constantly while practicing tricks at an empty grill. That disappointing metallic shatter caused by the slightest mistake. Not five seconds after the clash, Lawrence moved five inches closer and whispered “can I use your spatula?” I nodded, wiped my spatula off in between my folded damp towel, and handed it to him. I reached blindly to the right and retrieved my knife from my cart. I use the knife like I would my spatula, and finished cooking and serving the majority of the chicken. As I scoop the last portion of chicken between my blade and the tines of my fork, I notice the amount of grease underneath my feet. When I lean towards the last customer my left foot slides a bit, but compensate enough to regain my balance momentarily. I successfully land the chicken onto his plate, but as I lean up, both feet give out.

Before I can think, I find myself chest down on the grill, and my left palm is on fire. I shoot up and hear collection of gasps in unison, and look up to see sixteen wide eyes all staring at me. “Are you alright?” a woman on the end asks. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I turn back to my cart to see the last tray to cook, cabbage. I grab it and throw it on the grill. Tools in hand I pretend it doesn’t hurt. Cautiously mixing the cabbage about the grill, I am being mindful of the large, bright white spot on my left palm. I ignore the people telling me to go get ice and grab the bottle of sauce and squeeze the appropriate amount . Each person gets their share and I begin cleaning the grill. I ignore the pain of the steam as the grill fills with instantly boiling water, and squeeze the rest of my lemons into the pool. Grabbing my towels and grill screen, I begin to clean and the pain is almost deafening. I push as fast and as hard as I can to get that grill clean, and when I’m done the cloud of steam mercifully reveals a clean grill. I thank everyone at the table, and laugh at the jokes about my tip going up and push my cart to the back.

I slam the door behind me and race to the sink and put my hand under. The cool water takes the throbbing away, but pounds the tender flesh. Moon races from the front and tells me that “you made your hand angry when you burnt it, like dragon. You must calm him with ice.” I shake my head, grab a linen napkin, a scoop of ice, and go out back. Moon tells me to leave and I somehow drive myself home.

The next day I wake up to a call from Moon asking me to come in so he can check my hand. I arrive at the restaurant and open the rusty screen door. Moon motions for me to come to the front, and takes me to a grill and says, “If you put your foot here, in the little door below the grill, it will give you more balance.” He then demonstrates and leans over to show me how to use this newly found knowledge. “Also if you use fork for balance, it will help prevent you to fall.” Dumfounded, I watch as he shows me this little tid-bit that could have been extremely helpful about twelve hours ago. He asks me if I understand and I say yes and drive home. On the drive home I could not believe he didn’t think of teaching me this when I first started cooking. I then realized the importance of proper training, and that hind sight is most definitely twenty-twenty.