peecassoh on the grill

At the restaurant where I work we’ve got three cooks on a shift, each one working a different station, and there’s one cook, Frank, who’s very tall, only speaks Spanish, and he seems like a fairly low-profile dude even though he walks around with this quieting air of authority.

            It’s an interesting vibe.

            People seem to get shaken up and shy just at being in the room with him.

            He fixes you with this look anytime you ask him for something. If he complies, he does it wordlessly. If he refuses, he just shakes his head.

            But he’s friendly.

            What I find most interesting about Frank is the fact that he works the grill pretty much exclusively, it isn’t glamorous and he doesn’t flash an ounce of pretension, but he shows great pride in his work.

            Last night, with a bottle of cranberry glaze, he made this elaborate and gorgeously symmetrical Rorschach-type design on a square-shaped plate before towering lamb chops on it.

            Iggy, working the sautee station, saw the design and cackled: “Oye! Peecassoh!”

            Went on with it all night, flicking Frank good-naturedly with the tongs.

            “Mo’er-folking Peecassoh, me oires?”

            Frank, towering intimidating Frank—he blushed every time.

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