I am now officially the lowest member on the totem pole of restaurant work: prep chef and dishwasher.
My head still clouded with the combined physical and mental exhaustion of my first night at work, I have only five minutes until I leave again for an evening of chopping, peeling, cleaning, and washing.
Tiny brown mushrooms were so minusculely delicate I wondered, like a mother examining her newborn baby's miniature toenails, how they were possible. Luscious green peas popped out of their crunchy shells. Slimy, foreign duck tongue confit was a gooey black mess to peel off the inner cartiladge.
And running back and forth from sink to kitchen, carrying dishes stained with the remains of a multitude of feasts, I truly felt part of the dance of restaurant service. I also, not surprisingly, felt more than willing to leave the kitchen filled with dirty pots and pans when 1am rolled around - but in the exhausted end, I felt good with what I did, what will come, and mostly importantly, my bed has never been so comfortable.