Page 26 of Romeo & Antoinette

“Yup.”

“That’s twelve.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes dollars.”

“Really?”

“Seven for the sandwich, three for the fries and two for the chili and cheese, that’s twelve.”

“I thought you were having big specials all night?”

“The drink was free.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” said Ant smiling. It wasn’t the guy’s fault. She’d been getting barraged with this same question all night. It wasn’t much of a special.

“Okay,” he said as he shrugged and handed her a twenty .

Ant took his money and quickly gave him his change. Then she peered past him and said, “Next.”

Cap came up behind her and dropped a finished order. Nikki grabbed the bag, read the receipt and called out the number. “Seventy-four.”

“That’s me,” said a teenage girl with a pierced lip and purple hair.

“This is crazy,” Nikki said as she handed the girl the bag.

“Can I have some ketchup?” asked a blonde soccer mom carrying a toddler, cutting to the front of the line.

“Around the side,” said Nikki, pointing to a table stocked with all the forks, knives, spoons, ketchup and condiments anyone could possibly want.

Another finished tray came up. On it was a chicken cheesesteak, onion rings and a paper boat full of mozzarella sticks. Nikki called out the number. “Seventy-five, chicken cheesesteak, seventy-five.”

A random guy in cutoffs and a flannel came and picked up his food. The bottom of the tray must have been wet because it left a thick streak of water on the counter. Ant grabbed a rag and wiped it down. Then, ignoring the impatient line in front of her she turned to take in the bustling scene in the back.

Gary Green Shirt, whose shirt tonight was actually a bright, fire engine red, was manning the grill. Ant watched him peel off another heap of meat, discard the square of wax paper beneath it that separated one serving from the next, and slap it down on the hot flattop. Immediately it began to sizzle and sputter.

Steam rose up from the searing steak and mixed with the scent of slow cooked onions and bubbling fryer oil that permeated the kitchen. It was one hell of a greasy, gastronomic, steak sandwich scented sauna back there and Ant absolutely loved being in the middle of it.

The controlled chaos, the energy, the camaraderie, the food… She loved it all. This was her passion. This is what she wa nted to do with her life. If only she could tell her dad. She’d been trying all week, but things seemed to keep getting in her way. Now time was running out. He was just a day or two away from sending in a non-refundable deposit for her upcoming semester. She was gonna have to do it, and do it soon.

Gary Green Shirt flipped the meat and proceeded to chop it into a billion little pieces. Quickly, all those tiny edges got charred and crunchy. You couldn’t really say the meat ended up tender, but the contrast in textures between crispy bits and chewy bites was pretty awesome in its own right.

Next, he scooped it into a long roll, tucking the edges in tight. Then he spread a dollop of fried onions over the length of the steaming steak. To finish up, he turned to his right and pulled a fat ladle of molten Cheez Whiz out of the gallon can warming on the side of the griddle.

With a flick of his wrist it flowed from the spoon to the meat in a thick, cascading ribbon of golden gloop. Dripping in and around every meaty nook and cranny within the soft, supple roll. Then he folded the sandwich up in plain white deli paper and pushed it onto a sorting shelf stationed between him and the packer.

The packer, or expeditor, checked the tickets and made sure that the right food was packed or plated the right way and quickly got to the right place. Tonight it was all hands on deck and that position was being manned by Cap.

In the back was the prep area. A guy and a girl both named Stevie were back there chopping onions, replenishing meat and restocking anything anyone needed. Behind them was the dish station. Carlos was there washing whatever tray, pot, pan, knife, and cutting board came his way. Like he did everyday. Seven days a week. Since the day they opened. The guy was a machine.

Finally there was the fryer, which along with the grill, did most of the heavy lifting in the joint. As per usual, it was manned on this night by Tyler, who, despite being kind of an ass most of the time, was pretty decent at working it.

Not that making french fries required a huge skill set. It was, after all, considered the pre-eminent entry level position for any pimply teenager looking for their first paying, after school gig. But, all in all, Tyler was good at making fries and onion rings and mozzarella sticks and anything else he decided to drop into that bubbling cauldron of canola oil. Like bacon and hot dogs and Oreos and Twinkies and once, in what was an absolute, unmitigated disaster, the contents of an entire jar of Nutella. Cap put him on garbage and grease trap duty for a month after that one.

Ant got back to work ringing orders, taking money and occasionally checking the big clock on the wall. While she loved the exhilaration and action of the kitchen, she was beat. In retrospect, that hour plus of hot yoga she did before going in might have been a mistake.

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