When you listen to Papa you don't fall down the stairs backwards

Fall is here without the tweeds or cardigans or hounds tooth jackets with blue linings. If you’re lucky, there’s a cool breeze around 8 in morning but it retreats into the shade in the afternoon. This is October and the beginning of my favorite month of the year, I’ll be 22 at its end. Another year has passed and 365 days will be available for a retrospective montage that would include the trip to Europe, southern roads, and the journey from Tallahassee to Texas. Women pass by the coffee shop tripping over their high heels and cheap pedicures. Sip is the best place for people watching, just count how many men still have their tags on their hats- maybe it’s the new thing these days. Texas is full of characters from the lady that preaches across from the sandbar with a radio around her neck and a long thin stick in her hand to the men who open up shop at the corner or Hackberry and MLK. After braving a left at an intersection that did not permit left turns, our caravan survived the commute from the restaurant to the argyle in one piece. It really was a beautiful building with green shutters and tea lights that hang from ancient shade trees. We were there to cook for an event alongside the hierarchy of San Antonio fine dining and guests in a foreign and gigantic kitchen. As soon as the door opened the sounds of the typical line spilled out. Steel pots clanged against burners and pots fell to the floor at the hands of hurried porters. One voice could be heard above all others, “Working hard, chef” we all looked at the red face man who was screaming his responses rather than calling them out. Erratic and sweating, he looked like a snot nosed kid with the sky caving in on him. We filed in and found a prep area to set up shop in. I felt like I had a bulls eye on my chest, who was this girl with the jcrew headband and pink lips just sauntering in to our boys club? Or perhaps it was reflection off of Chef’s James Beard nominated glow- I haven’t been apprised of San Antonio cooking politics. Men in crisp white jackets embroidered with logos stood around talking shop and checking in on everybody’s dishes. Looking around you’d think that my boys were Olympic athletes in contrast to the thick necks and round midsections sported by most other cooks. “Move it move it hot behind” the red faced man waddled past us with a hotel pan and an inappropriately raised voice. I missed the radio incident when I went back to get the cheese but apparently there was some scuffle between Chef and this guy that resulted in a high schoolesque stare down. And here he was again slamming his hand down over and over again on the paper towel machine like it just said something bad about his mama. Jeeze bro, take it down a notch. It’s just cooking. Relax and take it one at a time. His voice continued to be heard above all others through out the night and it was usually followed by snickering or rolling of eyes by everyone else. An hour or two later we were next in line for plating our dish, the china was placed out in long rows four deep and clean around the edges. Race start lines have a similar feeling, everyone standing around and stretching out their arms, thinking about the next three point one miles and the free t-shirt at the end. And before we knew it, it was over and we were left standing in a small circle drinking shiners and watching the dessert go out. Monday was over and a new week was about to begin. We all went home and fell asleep in our beds ready for five days of cooking without red faces or screaming just good food and hard work.