Bringin' the demon

Do you remember the potatoes? The 140 degree nights? The carrot incident? Because I do. There are things that seem burned into my mind. But I can't remember at what point I realized that it was no longer mirepoix that I was cutting, that the tip of my finger had been put on the menu. I got the job because of a letter that I wrote. I started with a letter and it seems that I will end it with one as well. Saturday night we watched traffic crawl down one way roads and mothers with strollers weaved in and out of stopped cars on their way to the Christmas Festival. Down town had become a winter wonderland complete with lights, caroling children, and santa hats with red and green blinking lights. We watched it all walk by. It was Saturday and the restaurant was empty for the first time in forever. They shut down the street that ran by the front of the building and our measly ten car parking lot seemed to fill up with phantom customers- families on their way to the parade who slipped by the valet and took advantage of the squares of unoccupied concrete. We caught a carload of sword fighting kids and bundled up parents trying to sneak in and out.

Valet: Hey, you can't park here unless you are eating at the restaurant.
Big Man: You got a license that says yous a valet?
Valet: You got a license that says you're an ass hole?
Big Man to his brood: Kids, get back in the car. Daddy's gotta take care of something.

My boss (for some unknown reason) stopped the title fight that evening between the 250+ pound black man and the skinny hungover frat boy who parks cars for a living. He said something about how he didn't want to do it, but there were three line cooks, a couple of dishwashers, and Kate in the kitchen just waiting for something to do. When I heard this I immediatly put up those fists of fury. I'll remember nights like that. Nights where we sat at the bar until too late drinking red wine and asking the most common questions:
1. What would you want your last meal on earth to be?
2. Which food network chef do you want to bone?
I'll remember the white pepper and how it made the space between my nose and lips burn. I'll remember how carrot ginger vinegarette tastes and that I can order vennison ossso bucco without fear or trepidation, that I like my steaks mid rare, that beef carpaccio isn't something to frown upon, that my head chef can make anything out of creole mustard and some flour tortillas, and that if one drinks copious amounts of booz the night before- nothing quenches the next morning thirst like arctic ice gatorade. I'll choose to remember those and I'll do my best to forget what happened that night- the night I should have walked out. But for the next couple of weeks and until they no longer need me, you can find me with a gatorade thinking about fireworks in parking lots on fourth of july and a tuna tar tar in a tiny little potato cake basket.