It needs a little salt.

I need a break. The board is clear for the first time all night and the heat from the grill is taking it's toll on my mental facilities. Not ten minutes ago I asked where the ticket for table 10 was, a tender mid to mid well/lamb rare straight in, only to be told that it was right there in front of my face. God, it's hot back here. I can't drink water as fast as I can sweat it out, my shirt is soaked and my sleaves are coated it pepper. The space between my nose and lips burn. This mark on my arm doesn't look so good. It reminds me of the scars of my parents where they had their polio shots. A two inch by three inch rectangle of heat radiating from my skin. The bicep seems to hold onto these things, maybe opposed to the palm of the hand or the top of the forearm. They heal nicely, this- this burn is going to be with me for a while and I am starting to hate it already. No more tickets, it's time to see the outdoors again. Inevitabley Ryan will join me, give me a high five and tell me that I handled myself. I will add that I handled it like a lady and maybe put my hand on my hip to emphasize it with a little more sass than a kitchen filled with men would usually have. But for now, it's quiet and I sit on an empty keg in the cage to give my feet a rest. It's nights like this that I remember Le Reve and the constant desire for Andrew's praise. Up and down the stairs, across the wine room into the sand bar, maybe you'd get a "Very Nice" but it was rare. All praise going to the man with the spoon in his hand and the plates at his feet. Tonight the food was good because I tasted it. I judged the salt content, I trusted my meat temps. And it wasn't a disaster. It tasted good because it came from these hands. I am a cook agin and tonight I made people happy.