February 4, 2012

I see Kevin pull another order of the ticket spindle and hand it on the rail below the three-feet-long Tallared melt. He pulls my ticket off the rail and tosses it right on top of the Marsala plate I made. I watch Kevin assemble another plate. He grabs one of the dingy gray, oval porcelain plates, scraptes off the dried melted cheese that some

dishwasher missed, and places three pieces of mannicotti lengthwise upon it. Over these he empties a threee-ounce-ladle full of freshly made marinara sauce, then tops them with a combination of mozzarella, Parmesan, and freshly grated Romano cheses and places them in the Tallard melt.

To the left of my pasta cooker is a fyer of the same size with bits and pieces of burnt French fries, bread crumbs, and battered scallions floating three-day-old-grease. Hanging on the built-in ledge of the fryer are two blue-handled wire-mesed baskets in worse condition that the pasta baskets. Next to the fryer is an open-pit grill. Pat, a short, fat man, is stationed here. The grill is littered with food: marinated Caesar and Venetian chicken breasts, skewers of tiger shrimp with the tails still on, and stakes from the bloody-raw to the well-done-hocky-pucks stage. Thr front of the grill holds the broil-man's tools, grimy steel tongs and a wooden-handled-steel-spatula. To the left of the grill is another fryer in poor condition.

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Setting up a commercial kitchen: Pages Taking Position Behind the Burners Checking Drawers Stock The Assember's Station Sells a Ticket Appetizers End of the Line