The mad chef

January 7, 2011
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He growls at 5am—
too soon to splash cold water
onto his tired face,
too soon to dress in a white uniform,
too soon to chop the vegetables,
to season the beef,
to fry the shrimps.
“What’s the whole point of living without her…”
He lightly kissed the picture of his wife
And dragged his tired body to “Little Italy.”

After he grabbed a hot coffee in a busy street of N.Y.,
he walked into the restaurant,
and tried to smile,
despite the never ending-ending babble of his boss
despite the reeking b.o. of his co-worker
despite the thought of his wife.

Everything seemed manageable
until the busy hour during the lunch time.
Five orders grew to ten,
to thiry,
to fifty,
to ninety…
The shrill alarm forces him to jump like a maniac,
to growl
to jolt out of control.
The last thing he wanted
is to work,
for he is in despair
and needs his dear wife back.

He carelessly served the customer’s seasoned spinach soup
and left without a word.

Peter the cook never returned to “Little Italy…”
not because he left without a word,
nor because of his wife.
He was simply fired,
for the customer gagged after she saw a white Hanes floating in her soup.





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