Funky Alvin worked the middle. He was his usual old self. He wore no apron. His belly hung way down over his pants. The kitchen shirt was so tight on him he couldn’t button every button. He wasn’t shaved, had a scraggly beard and it was clear he hadn’t combed his Afro.
He was funky, but he could do the job.
First thing he did was set all the spoons and everything he was going to use in the direction he wanted them. Next thing he did was trim the prime rib so that all he had to do was slice it. He was going to slice down because that was most propitious for the space they had. In other places, as Bill would discover through the course of his career, they always sliced across, setting the rib upright and carving across. In some places, however, Bill would discover that they took the bones off altogether and simply sliced down like Alvin was doing.
When the rib was set the way he wanted it, Alvin checked everything in front of him to see that nothing was missing. He fixed all the aluminum foil covers so they were on but the items inside were easily accessible. He stirred a few things, the sauces, au jus and vegetables. Satisfied, standing right there in the middle of the line, he lit himself a cigarette, took a long drag on it then tucked it down on the underneath shelf of the steam table. First waitress in, who happened to be Victoria, the one Alvin most particularly liked, he told to get him a beer.
At 11:30 sharp the doors opened and not even a few minutes later, the first orders started coming in. By this time Lillian was in although she had not started calling orders yet. She was sitting in the corner on Bea’s stool drinking a coffee. Alvin grabbed the orders from the spindle, called to Bill what he needed to put on the grill and slid the orders on the board. Jimmy stood next to Alvin. He would do the fryers and help Alvin put the sides on all the plates. He told Jimmy he had three sides of fries and nothing else.
Grandma was in now. She had lined up her frying pans, set her oil in a bain marie with a ladle inside it. Mary had cut and portioned all the orders of chicken. Grandma had her flour set up the way she wanted it and was all set.
Tommy made a last run through the restaurant. He checked out the dining rooms and came into the kitchen, just for a moment, only to ask if everything was in place and everyone were ready. Bea and Mary answered for the kitchen.
And so it started.
“Yeah, Bill,” Alvin said in his throaty, deep-raspy cigarette voice, “what it is.” He reached under the steam table and picked up his cigarette. He took another deep drag on it, flicked the ashes onto the floor and set it back in place. Then he sipped his beer, the beer Victoria had quickly delivered.
Brooklyn and Lily were working the side dining room. Today, because of the nature of the animal, it didn’t matter who worked where. All tips would be pooled. Busboys would get ten percent off the top and the waitresses would get even shares of the remainder. They all stood to make a fortune.
It was Lorraine who asked Bill if he wanted anything. Bill told her he wanted a pitcher of sodas for the dishwashers, a bottled soda for Jimmy and a coffee with cream for himself. What he didn’t tell her was that he really wanted to pop some black beauties, smoke a joint, drink some bourbon and get laid in the storeroom. That all might happen, but surely not today. If he did pop black beauties, drink bourbon and smoke weed, it would not be until they were near closing.
