6-15-04

Today I am in a school cooking for 600 children and 150 teachers. The chef is well qualified and mature enough to not take any crap from his employees. This looks promising. I have to hand it to this guy; I couldn’t wring another meal from this kitchen if my life depended on it. He is a hard working tough SOB who has seen and done it all. One of his staff, Dave, has me cornered in a repetitive monotonous job that means we stand around a table and I listen to his problems and lies about old kitchens and war stories that he has survived and triumphed in. He has very long hair tied in a ponytail and lots of tattoos. He tells me he is diabetic, has two replacement knees and when, at his command, I tap them, they sure are false—solid and unyielding as bricks. He has a rare disorder of his bowels a bad back, his immune system has given up the ghost, acute asthma and has had three heart attacks—I diagnosed alcoholism and a 60 a day habit without his help. After lunch service I was to find him slumped in a corner holding his chest and gasping for breath. He wanted his inhaler that apparently was for his heart rather than for the asthma. The chef passed by tossed it to him and muttered under his breath that the sorry looking bastard had better not be late for work tomorrow, all without breaking step on the way to have his lunch. It’s a tough life in the kitchen.