Walk With Me

The infrared glow of your standard college alarm clock is something I never got used to. Though it has no incandescence to speak of, the red glow seems blinding in this windowless room.

9:45. I have some time before work. I've learned that a short commute is essential to my happiness, so I can fart around before driving in. Maybe a cup of bad instant coffee, maybe a steamed bun, there's always a lot of food offered by the Grandma. The battle against the burgeoning waistline begins early in the morning.

Drive, drive, drive. Long Island is a strange place to drive through. Though the hills and lack of strip malls make it seem nice, the bitterly stubborn "Historical Society" that preserves much of the colonial architecture, make it seem internally confused rather than cutely quaint. And traffic lights. Jesus, when are they going to figure out how to make those work properly on this damned island.

Park against the side of the building, it's getting close to 11:00 AM. The employee van lumbers up. It's our big passenger van, and it serves as a bus driving most of the employees to the restaurant from Flushing every morning. But thanks to the beauty of American car manufacturing (Shut it, Jiwon, I don't wanna hear it), it clunks and wheezes and limps through the parking lot. I try to get here after them, but sometimes I don't time it well. I don't like for them to see me in my car, and for it to suggest that I'm some spoiled brat. One, the car doesn't actually cost all that much, two, as far as I'm concerned I don't own this place. I am an employee, a grunt, another cog in the machine just like them.

Doors open. Well, technically, we're open. We don't really start doing business until noon. But we get the same two regulars at 11:30, every morning. One woman, sadly stricken with some kind of mental illness, sits at D1 and orders roast pork lo mein and diet coke. The other, an out-of-work hairdresser who has taken up temporary residence at the hotel next door, sits at the bar and likes to watch HGTV. The word "temporary" is beginning to lose its meaning. An egg roll, wonton soup with tea, $6.29, every weekday. These creatures of habit, they really are fascinating. They don't mind as the waiters and bus boys roll through with the vacuum cleaner, brooms and Windex.

Prop open the kitchen double doors, turn on the fans. The kitchen slowly dumps its exhaust heat throughout the night, and even during the winter it remains frightfully steamy. There are some dirty dishes, and the soup bain-maries are left out at night. Chinese soups are made fresh daily, so we wash and refresh in the morning. The cooks change in to their whites, not having the luxury of going home like I do, and they slowly set up their stations. I make sure to attack the floor with a broom.

I sweep and sweep. Partly because I want to show the employees that I am willing to do the dirtiest and most thankless jobs. And secondly, I in fact love sweeping. Ever since I became a cook, wiping down tabletops, cutting boards, sweeping floors gets me off. Okay, maybe that's a bit hyperbolic and disturbingly sexual, but my obsessive-compulsive tendencies have fully bloomed as I've continued to work in restaurants.

Floor seems clean, put on the whites. Trusty Yankees hat, dishwasher's snap-on, and a full-body apron. My favorite culinary uniform. Chef's jackets were always too thick for me, and waist-high aprons didn't offer enough coverage for my clumsy ass. Time to work.

I follow around Luo Shi-fu, the dim sum chef, like a rather annoyingly obedient dog. We have so many cooks that he is literally the only chef who has space for me. The prep table, the line, and the dishwasher seem to be constantly abuzz and occupied. But having worked as a solo specialist for years, Luo Shi-fu has just enough room for me to park alongside him and learn.

What kind of dim sum do we make today? Well, first we figure out the filling and then the dough to wrap it in. Sometimes we make wheat starch dough, sometimes we make flour dough, sometimes we make leavened bao zi dough. The wheat starch dough is the trickiest. You've probably had wheat starch dim sum before. When they're well-made, they're pellucid and gossamer little bundles, just barely hinting at their contents, and giving in to your mouth with ease and smoothness. Yes, that kinky. It's just wheat starch, refined corn starch, a little salt, and boiling hot water. You mix it all together, pour on the water, and knead immediately. The dough has to remain hot, and then warm for however long you are making dumplings. Once it gets cold, it is dead and useless. Luo Shi-fu can resuscitate a cold dough, but the results are less than optimal. So the key is to work fast. Only thing is, kneading boiling hot water in to dough is rather painful. My bitch hands never fail me. A lubrication of pork fat should serve as a protective condom against the heat, but it does little to stave off the burn. Luo Shi-fu's leathery craftsman hands are often required to finish the job in time.

Twelve o' clock, noon. Brunch time. It's always the same. Noodle soup, mian tiao. A mixture of leftover noodles from the night before with any vegetables or meat nearing their time thrown in. The various cooks take turns making it, and I've learned to identify their personal styles. I like Pei Shi-fu's mian tiao the best. It is often made with tomato, water spinach, garlic, pork, cabbage, and onion, with dashi and miso stock as the base. He adds just the lightest touch of cornstarch to give the broth some thickness. We line up, fill our bowls, and me and the Mexican guys immediately dump in heaping tablespoons of chili paste. The Chinese dudes think we're crazy. The broth turns violently red. I love it. You sip the broth near the end, it burns. It makes you sweat, it makes your nose run, but it lights your body on fire for a brisk autumn day. Makes you feel alive and most certainly awake. I try to hide it from my mom though, because she thinks a cankerous ulcer is in store for me. I add the crunchy, fried chow mein noodles at the end like croutons. I draw looks from the cooks that say, "::sigh:: ... American."

The morning drones on. Making dumplings, sweeping the floor, wiping the table. Luo Shi-fu's work space consists of your standard 3x6 steel table topped with a 4-inch thick slab of wood. The hardwood top has seen a lot of abuse and work, but the near-constant use of pork fat has left it smooth. Behind us is another steel prep table that is often shared by as many as five cooks at once. Sometimes one manning the meat slicer, while the other four julienne a mountainous pile of carrots with chipped cleavers. I should have been grateful for all the space I was afforded at Va P. When the chickens come in, they all team up on the effort to run through the cases upon cases of poultry we get. But that's not today, today is Rib Day.

"Dia de Costillas!" Miguel exclaims. The ribs come down the back stair case on a dangerously stacked dolly. The grill chef is a bad ass. His heart is failing him, he takes dozens of pills every morning. But he is ice cold on the line. He makes sure one of our top selling items is always at its best; our spare ribs. We sell close to a thousand pounds a week. They are marinated in a concoction of ketchup, garlic, powdered onion, soy bean paste, soy sauce, hoisin sauce, palm sugar, tomato paste, the list goes on and on. But first they are trimmed to size. The riblets are cut off, the bottom chain is cut off, and then you have one perfect rectangle of ribs. Going through a thousand pounds of that, you can imagine how much trim we have. We eat a lot of pork riblets through employee meals. I couldn't be happier.

His morning will consist of prepping the ribs. All the other cooks go through their motions as well. Due to sheer volume, there isn't much time to waste. We don't have to hurry, there is a lot of time in a twelve hour day. But we certainly can't stop and lounge around. I like the pace. It is more relaxed than Va P, despite ending up being more work.

Damn, 3 PM already? Time to go. Oh, Jenny the bag packing girl has an extra doughnut from the Chinese bakery. Won't I please have one? Oh, Luo Shi-fu figured he'd steam a few less-than-beautiful dumplings (i.e. mine), won't I please have some? Oh, employee lunch is up, you sure you're not hungry? Damn, the path to fat-assery is a slippery one. If I'm not careful, the day my heart clogs up with LDLs, I will have died to the sound of a burst artery, and the sugary rush of a Chinese raisin bread.

Back home, a little time to decompress, shower, change, suit up. Sometimes I play cello, oftentimes I waste time on the internet, occasionally I go running. Very occasionally.

What will it be today? Oh, the black Joseph A. Bank button-down and the Boss suit pants? You mean what I've been wearing as uniform for over a year? These poor guys have seen a lot of action from Blu, to Futami to Pearl. The pants ripped completely as I bent to take out some soy sauce one day. Some poor customer nearly caught the eclipse of my sack. A double wrap of black aprons saved her from further exposure to my goodies. I've bolstered the ranks of all-black uniforms since I've been home, but these go-to's will always have a soft spot in my heart. Green tie today. Damn, I make this look good. Single, divorced, or widowed Jewish women of Long Island; prepare thyself.

One more commute through Long Island. Goddamn it, the sun beams right in my eyes from the west at 5:00 PM. I would wear sunglasses, but if I get pulled over I don't want to be racially-profiled as "wannabe Asian mafia." My boy Greg, the valet sees me pull in and drags away the cone from the spot he saves me. I tell him it's not necessary, but he does it anyway. What a nice guy.

Apron on, walk in, relative calm at 5:10 PM. The shit will hit the fan at 6:15. The old folks eat early, 6:00 PM is optimal feeding time. Check the reservations, maybe that half-Asian model girl will come back. I've deluded myself in to thinking she was eye-fucking me, and I hold a faint hope that her name pops up in the list. Hmmm, the Aquino's are coming, rolling deep with nine today. Love that family. Their grandma, fifty years ago, I'm in there without a doubt. Step in to the back, lint roll myself to satiate more OCD ticks, wipe down the glass desk to eradicate any smudges, more OCD ticks, patrol the dining room, keep an ear out for phone calls...

Working the phones requires mise en place of its own. Pads, reliable pens, stapler, well-organized desk with accessories fixed at right angles, and waiting take-out orders laid out sequentially. We have four active lines, and on a busy night (i.e. Monday night football ... or worse, rainy Monday night football) they will not stop for two hours. We only have one computer, so you either hand-write some of the orders or you learn to push customers along fast. Do me a favor; whenever you order take-out, have your order ready beforehand, have any pressing questions ready, speak clearly, i.e. NOT while you're driving with the window down, ask for a quick repeat of the order, and hang up. It'll make everybody's life easier, I promise.

Ah, this fucking guy wants the Ginger-Scallion Barbecued Jumbo Shrimp, but he wants the tails cut off. Why? Why, god, why are the tails such a big problem? There is no built-in modifier for "remove tails" in the software, so I have to tap out a note in English which the expediter can not read. What it really means is I have to leave my station to run to the kitchen and explain what they want in my broken Chinese. The din is deafening and I yell out "Ticket 43! Shrimp to chop tail away!" The expediter squints at me, looks back at the ticket, nods, and I pray for the best.

8:00 PM, the rush is over. On the weekends it will continue to rock, but on the weekdays the old folks are tucking in early. The Yankees are done with, my mother has no interest as to what's on the TV. I put on ESPN as I run through the tickets. Adjusting the tips in the computer, lining them up by invoice number, and keeping the cash drawer in check, making sure the numbers line up. Top Ten Highlights, as always, require my undivided attention. Even you, half-Asian model girl, do not hold precedence over Top Ten.

9:00 PM, the dining room is emptying out. Caught up on paperwork, patrol the dining room. We have a couple regulars who know better than to try and eat during the rush. They prefer the calm effort of a later dinner. Plus they get the pleasure of having more of my mom's attention, and to see the return of the prodigal son. Last time most of them saw me, I was plus 60 pounds and in full bloom of teenage awkwardness. They seem genuinely shocked to see me now.

"My, how handsome you are!"
"Aw shucks, stop it, you flatter me, Mrs. So-and-so..."

"You look like a movie star!"
"Well, I mean... I did take Basic Acting..."

"So tall! And no girlfriend? We should find you one! I know this nice girl..."
"Oh! (nervous laugh) Please, you're embarrassing me, that's very nice of you but you don't have to do that... I mean ... well, I guess, you know, maybe bring her by some time..."

I love these people so much. Get me through my exorbitantly expensive Northwestern education, and then constantly try to hook it up. The Jewish people, you are good to me.

Dining room is done. Waiters and cooks start to pack it in. Tonight, they pool tips, it's a team effort. We collect and divvy out, they all leave together after changing in to their streets. The cooks clean up, pack up the last meal, which is usually some random food my mom takes home, and they clean the floors. Buckets of neon green, soapy water sloughed through out, and mopped up by Cristobal, the five-foot tall Guatemalan kid.

Tonight I will stay and close with my mom. Check all the lights, and fridges, and close the credit card system. Print the final readout, make sure the totals add up right, a tedious task of reading micro-print and double checking numbers, and closing up shop. All employees leave through the front door, no matter who you are. I wipe the glass table and bar one more time because at this point, fingerprints and smudges make me physically ill. And then I check the kitchen to see if everything is closed and off; gas, low-boy doors, pilot lights on, exhaust fans and ceiling lights off, everything out is meant to be and lidded. No matter what my mom triple-checks everything right after me. One kitchen fire twenty years ago will scar you for life.

Turn off all the lights, hit the alarm system, finally time to go. Front door is locked, last two cars out of the lot are the Huang's; the surprisingly affordable Acura, and the giant Mercedes that runs technology more advanced than its Asian operator can manage (she just figured out how to change the time). I let her go first while I fumble around my car, "cleaning." She has accepted that I am a creature stricken with OCD nervosa. I wait three minutes, often spent wiping the cigarette ash out of the black interior. Enough time has passed, I'll hit the road and not catch up to her at this rate. Get on Northern Boulevard and sneak one last cigarette on the way home.

Such is the life.

EP6