Soul kitchen
alan catlin
Greasy fat fried foods, hot yellow was bubble, long handled porpous pins, black edged flat skinned potatoes, how do you want them? cooked
The black matted floors, the melting rubber edges, the scum and the muck that sticks to the skimming feet as they walk behind the food lines listening for orders, timing the cooking meat, watching the convector ovens, the steaming racks of meat, the flat hot trays, the boiling soups, the radar rays
The waitress leaning over the line: why isnıt it ready why isnıt this right whose dinners are these
Theyıre yours theyıre awful, theyıre undercooked, look at all that blood
The broiler heat, the raising bubbled skin, the long red scars, printed t-shirts, tattoos: skin never grows here because Iım a cook I like dark meat best I like it Hot I want it Now! My name is Mad Dog, whatıs yours? Never marry a waitress if you need it fast weıre always out of it Iım a backdoor man
Outside she says let it bleed, I like it raw Inside she says I guess she wanted it dead, she wont eat it this way so kill it next time ok ok?
Deveining shrimp, boning the broiled fish, boiling lobsters live, the hot pots and pans, the spattered grills, the steam thick stove, three dozen welded cherrystone clams, left over butter burn it again, the waitresses wonıt care, what do they know?
Hey ass-hole, since when does medium rare sound like incinerate? This place isnıt a restaurant, itıs a crematorium
Slicing onion, garlic, ten tons of lettuce, chopping tomatoes, green peppers, cucumbers, radishes, anything that moves goes in the salad - if itıs dead it doesnıt belong here, weıre not in business to serve the dead
Pulling out oven trays, the black caked grills, the clinging flame, the filet flame, the juice that spatters and drips and falls inside the heat
Sweating, always sweating, beer pitchers turn warm at the mouth, the rims are always chipped, the food is always hot, cut lips turn red, black and blue, cooked on the outside, rare inside
She was going to throw up if she took another bite, whatıs wrong with you guys, donıt you care?
And it wasnıt even my order
Skillet grease, saute chef, ok cut em up, donıt waste nothing maximum efficiency rats, I know thereıs a recipe for dead rats
I think you killed her It might be hard to prove but itıs all your fault and Iıll swear to it in court I donıt know what could have made you do it
Percolating coffee, hot blue flames, tempered steel knives, the cross cutting scars on the cutting block top, the smell of the grease drain, the roar of the gas pilot jets
Man youıd better lay off that cooking sherry like I told you, you look just awful
Heat blistered skin, white headed open sores that never heal, deep purple fingernails, blood oozing from the seams, red shot eyes
Whatıs this?
Itıs a knife and I know how to use it
I know itıs a knife, I mean whatıs this on my plate?
Iım serious about the knife
Very funny
The swinging kitchen doors, high stacked oval trays, plastic covered plates, the tentative balanced load, food services with a smile by our highly trained staff of professionals direct from our spotlessly cleaned kitchen
The pale grey mop head, the grease thick floor, the after work mounds of blood covered white shirts and checkered pants
Hey Mad Dog do you know if the ovens are off?
Light a match See your face around town, you hear
Itıs always a
pleasure to serve you
