Millie checked her watch. She wasn’t done kissing him yet even though he’d only agreed and she’d only asked for a kiss. That first kiss had led her to want more and more. He knew this because unabashedly she told him so. She was not shy about it, not even hesitant.
While they kissed, she used his fingers. He didn’t particularly want this, or want it to go this way, but he didn’t mind it, didn’t mind how she felt or how it made him feel. He was bursting, again, just plain bursting at the seams, and she knew this, she sensed it when she pressed against him, pinning his hand under her skirt.
Millie wasn’t wearing any panties. So when she’d taken his hand under her dress it went easily right to where she led it, where he knew she’d wanted it. He could hear her beginning to moan and felt her breathing starting to come in shorter more rapid breaths.
“I ain’t stopping till I’m done,” she said through the kissing.
“Goddamn you,” Bill said. “You feel so fucking good.”
“I am good.”
“If I lose my job, I’m gonna hate you forever.”
“You ain’t losing your job, baby.”
Her grip on his fingers was sure and tight. She moved his fingers to her desire, not his, how she wanted, not how he might have done it although he would probably have asked her how she liked it. This way, he didn’t have to ask.
Of his own volition, he put his free hand inside her dress on top. She had small breasts, kind of like Marie’s, he imagined, or Alfreda’s. He imagined them small and pointy cones topped with what he now knew were large, very large, he thought from what he felt, nipples. They were stiff and erect, and no sooner had he put his on her there than she moaned a little louder and told him to squeeze it.
He did.
“Harder,” she said.
He did.
“Harder,” she said again.
He did.
“Don’t stop,” she said. And then she let go a whole slew of expletives all of which excited Bill even more than he imagined he could have been given where they were and what they were doing.
Then she was done. She stopped kissing him and licked inside his ear. He took his hands back about himself and watched her get down on her knees.
“Don’t take too long,” she said.
“Don’t make me messy,” he said.
She didn’t. He didn’t. He couldn’t take long because she made sure she did what she needed to do to make it quick, quite wonderful and yet efficient.
“Mmm,” she said.
“Mmm is right,” he said.
“Goddamn,” she said.
“Some kiss,” he said.
“Great, wasn’t it?”
“You bet.”
“Still have five minutes,” she said.
Bill laughed. “Give me my uniforms.”
She did.
With his uniforms over his shoulder, one extra for good luck, he stepped out from the behind the rack of uniforms. She followed him. No one was at the counter, no one in sight.
“What time you in tomorrow?” she asked.
“Two as far as I know.”
“Well I’ll put a good uniform ready.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
All but, twice, he thought as he walked from the laundry to the locker room to stow his uniforms. Jimmy G was there, sleeping on a bench. After he’d put away the beautifully starched and ironed uniforms, Bill found an empty bench not far off from where Jimmy was. At first he just sat, but then he lay down.
Next thing he knew, it was time to start the rounds for setting up The Falstaff Room.
By Peter Weiss
I was a hippie in the 70s. I was young and naïve and I believed that our government was doing something wrong in Viet Nam. I believed in equality. I believed in the civil rights movement, in Martin Luther King Jr. And I believed in non-violence and Gandhi.
I wasn’t stupid or wrong. I was just naïve.
I still believe in those things. I believe we are all equal. But I know we are not all the same. I believe we should all have equal rights. But I don’t believe your equal rights should step on my equal rights.
I believe in free choice. But I don’t believe abortion should be allowed past the viability time, the time a fetus can survive outside the womb. So absent those usual horrible things, like rape, the danger to the life of the mother-to-be, etc., I don’t believe that an abortion should be allowed after viability. I believe there comes a time when the woman’s free choice is superseded by the viability of the unborn child who cannot exercise a choice.
I believe in a lot more too, things like being independent and paying my own way. I’ve worked since I was eight, paid taxes, worked sometimes three jobs to make ends meet. I’ve never asked for handouts, but I do believe that anyone and everyone who really needs help should be able to get the help they need. So I also believe that the freeloaders and those who don’t belong in this country should be taken off any kind of government services like housing, medical insurance, food stamps and social security. If they need medical care, it’s already established that they can be seen in an emergency room.
And there’s lots more.
So my father was Big Red One, go army! He spent three and a half years in a Nazi POW camp, Stalag 3B Furstenberg. The government, despite his illnesses when he came home, physical and emotional (PTSD before they knew about PTSD), saw fit to only give him an eight percent disability. This was not enough to be eligible for any benefits or services and he couldn’t even be buried in Arlington.
I still paid my taxes and was a good citizen, despite what they did to him.
I paid off my student loans, worked extra to do so, three jobs and longer hours and taught summer school. I didn’t buy name brand sneakers, new cars or take vacations. I worked and supported myself and my wife.
Throughout my life I’ve assessed and re-assessed. I believe I’d rather live in the strongest and freest country there is, which is the United States. I believe that sometimes governments make mistakes, but that even if ours does, it is still the best place to be. If Viet Nam and some of the other wars lately, maybe even all of them, were/are mistakes. At least we, here, can correct those mistakes. And even if the wars are mistakes we should honor, support and take care of our Armed Forces and veterans. And I do.
But I’m beginning now to feel about our government like I did back then, hence cycles and circles.
I’m beginning to see, you’d have to be deaf and blind not to, that individual self-interest is running the Despicable Democrats. The Despicable Democrats, caught in lie after lie and exaggeration after exaggeration, do not care at all about our country or the American people.
I’m beginning to feel that we need to form a coalition (back then it was the anti-war people joined with the Civil Rights people joined with the women’s rights people) to protest and effect change.
A good start would be term limits for all Senators and Congressmen.
And just as an aside, Bloomberg and Steyer spending now over 200 million dollars in political advertising is obscene. Spending more than two billion dollars on an election is even more obscene.
By Peter Weiss
“I put this chair here for you,” Millie said. “I was hoping you’d get here on my lunch so we could at least sit and talk.”
“Sure it’s okay?’ Bill asked.
“Long as I’m on lunch. Be better if I closed this up and we went somewhere else. But this is okay too.”
Millie had her feet out of her slippers, sitting on top of them. She was barefoot today and Bill could see she still had the pink toenails. They were nicely done, pedicure for sure. He looked down at her bare feet, looked at them and looked at them such that Millie could see he was studying them. She moved her toes, rubbed the feet together, turned them and curled them so he could see the little wrinkles on her soles. Then she crossed her feet at the ankles and put the forward foot up sort of ballet style so the toes were bent and somewhat spread.
While she did this, she made sure Bill’s eyes met hers.
“Like feet?” she asked.
“You have pretty feet,” he said.
“I know. And I like you looking at them.”
Millie crossed her legs and took the foot not on the floor in her hands. She brought it up closer to Bill and rubbed it.
“Like feet?” she asked again.
“Pretty feet.”
“You can touch it if you want.”
“Another time,” Bill said.
With one hand, Millie opened the bottom buttons of her house dress so that it split some up her leg.
“You’re very skinny,” Bill said. “You have nice legs too.”
“And nice hands and fingers,” Millie said. She smiled at Bill, showed her dimples.
She left her foot alone, let it dangle, and put one hand in Bill’s lap so he could see her fingers. They were long, slim fingers with manicured nails painted pink.
“You like the pink?” she asked.
“I liked the purple too,” Bill said.
“Which one you like better?”
“Purple. And I wouldn’t mind seeing you in black and with black lips.”
“What I get for it?”
“What you want?”
Bill knew he shouldn’t have said it even before it was totally out of his mouth. But of course it was too late.
Millie had the answer all ready. A sly smile crossed her lips. “A nice kiss will do,” she said. She looked at her watch. “I still got twenty minutes. Come on with me.”
They got up from their chairs and she led him into a corner along the front wall and to the side of the counter. There was a row of uniforms there and she led him into the row behind the rack of clothes.
“I got your uniform here so when we go out, you carry it.”
“Okay,” Bill said.
“There’s a little room back there,” she said. She pointed way to the side along the side wall. “It’s my room. I do some ironing there sometimes, when it’s an urgency.”
“This an urgency?”
“No. We can kiss right here. No one can see us and I’m not due back yet.”
So there was the awkward moment. Bill had to kiss her because he was stupid in saying what he did, and she wanted to be kissed, but they faced each other hidden behind the row of uniforms on the rack not knowing quite how to go about it.
Finally, after they stood there a moment, maybe thirty seconds real time, Millie said, “You sure are one fine looking guy.” She leaned in and took Bill in her arms, reached up and kissed him, softly at first, gently, and then harder and deeper and longer, her tongue finding his so that it was much more than just a kiss.
While they kissed, she took his hand and led it between them up under her dress. There, she moved his fingers where she wanted them and how she wanted them.
“I got something to tell you,” she said. “Tomorrow when I see you. Something I want you to know.”
By Peter Weiss
Bill did not care that he had more free time. He was getting paid straight through, or at least that was the deal Jimmy Banquet Chef had made with him. After eight hours, the rest was overtime at time and a half. So the hardest part, from his point of view, was keeping track of his hours. If things kept up like this, he would have a good shot at making a good salary here.
“Don’t forget to see Millie,” Jimmy said. He laughed as he said it, and later when Bill was off probation and they were getting more and more friendly Jimmy would begin to tell Bill about his own kitchen exploits, not particularly here, but before he’d become a father and was working in other kitchens, first in Greece and then here in America.
Bill would learn that Victor knew about them, and he would learn that Victor had his own exploits. Kalista would talk about him. “Dog,” she would say, and she would laugh every time. Bill would come to think that Kalista, chubby, almost fat like Grandma was, had had her own exploits. He would come to think and to actually understand that when she was younger and thinner, Kalista was quite beautiful and desirable in her own right.
“Yeah,” Bill said. “Seeing Millie is my favorite part of the day.”
Jimmy caught the sarcasm and laughed. But then he said, “Why not take a piece? She’s cute. Bet she’d give you anything you want.”
“She would,” Bill said.
“Well, don’t worry about your probation. Unless I catch you stealing or doing something you shouldn’t be, you know, like doing drugs or assaulting someone like Caesar, who would deserve it by the way, you’re safe here. I been looking for someone like you for this kitchen for a long time. Was up to me, I’d teach you everything about banquets and make you assistant banquet chef.”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Bill said. “I’ll try not to let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Jimmy Banquet Chef said.
They’d prepared a hundred lobster tails. They were laid out on flat kitchen trays that would slide right into the rotary oven. Bill and Jimmy wrapped them with film, and like the steaks, they’d stored them in the walk-in box. No lobster tails would be served to the help. Any leftovers would be sold in The Falstaff Room.
Done, the banquet chef said he would go through the banquet list for the next few weeks and let Bill know what his hours would be. Bill confirmed that he would take all the hours he could get. Bill calculated his need based upon the fact that his wife’s salary was a mere pittance, maybe enough for her to live on if she were single and shared an apartment with a roommate, or better, two roommates. With two roommates she might have enough for food, clothing and maybe transportation.
So Bill made his way to the locker room. He had one dirty jacket in his locker and he changed his pants before he went over to see Millie.
Millie was reading her book. It was not quite one in the afternoon yet and she was still on her lunch break. Because she was still on her break she invited Bill into the room in which she worked, told him to open the counter and just step in. Bill did not want to do this, but he did it nevertheless, more not to not burn bridges than to socialize with Millie. On his way over to her, he threw his dirty uniform into the dirty laundry cart.
“I have freshly starched uniforms for you,” she said. “I’m still on lunch so I can walk you over to the locker room if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Bill said. He sat down in the empty chair next to her. “I’ll walk it over myself. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
“Understood,” Millie said.
By Peter Weiss
We had a crazy December here in the Northeast. Lots of snow came early and it was unusually cold early too and then through most of the month.
Global warming? I don’t think so.
Climate change? Probably not.
Probably just the weather.
January, thus far, has been relatively warm and until last Saturday absent any real snow. Thursday and Friday last week were brutally cold more because of wind than actual temperature.
Global warming? I don’t think so.
Climate change? Probably not.
Probably just the weather.
And so it goes.
Now in case you hadn’t noticed, and you might not have if you follow news from the mainstream media, Pravda USA, the lapdogs of the Despicable Democrats, their favorite type of argument is the all or nothing argument. You know, either it’s black or it’s white, there is nothing in between. So they would take what’s written above about the weather and say I’m a non-believer in climate change, and worse, that it’s people like me, the non-believers, who will cause the destruction of everything and within twelve years too if the people like me get their way and we do nothing about climate change.
Of course their timing is preposterous and they’ve been saying the same cataclysmic things for more than thirty years now.
Preposterous is the key word.
A couple of more preposterous things, things that put us, the regular people, in our place.
First, Brexit. Now the Brits voted it in more than three years ago and they still haven’t done it. They haven’t done it because Parliament and the other leaders don’t want it. Or, what they’re saying is that the people be damned, your vote doesn’t count.
Wait a minute! Sound familiar?
Let’s look at that “your vote doesn’t count” type thing. Think that impeachment thing that the Democrats have been planning since before the inauguration is shades of that?
I do! Especially with less than eleven months to an election, the Despicable Dems as a professional ruling class, one part of the American Politburo, are thumbing their noses at us and telling us we don’t know what we’re doing as an electorate and our vote does not count.
Second, racism. Martin Luther King Jr. Day just past. He must be rolling over and over in his grave. Those Despicable Democrats throw around that racism/racist accusation such that it means nothing anymore. Yet they are the most racist. The mere fact that they continually state their debate stage is now filled with a bunch of old white people is a highly racist statement.
Why division? It’s the only way for them to keep power.
And on and on.
So let’s get down to it. Our leaders on the left are literally out of their minds. In every sense of the word, they are winging it. They have no idea of what they’re doing. The only thing they know is that they don’t want to lose power. They’d rather destroy the country than lose their power.
And we the people? We need to figure out how to live with the dysfunctional government we’ve allowed to establish itself as a political class.
By Peter Weiss
They talked a long time. Beverly revealed that she’d recently discovered her husband was not just cheating but actually having an affair with one of his co-workers. They’d only been married a year and a half and he’d been with the other one at least six months.
“Well, what’s that make me?” Bill asked. “I’ve only been married a few months.”
“You haven’t cheated yet.”
“No? What was this?”
“Fun.”
“Really?”
“Really. You love me?”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Exactly. Does this mean anything to you?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything?”
“Not really.”
“See?”
“See what?”
“See what I’m saying?”
“I see what you’re saying. And I feel you. But it’s still cheating.”
“Not exactly.” Beverly kissed Bill. “When we go bareback, that will be cheating.”
“Oh? Have you got it planned?”
“I’m seriously thinking about it. I think it would be great fun with you.”
“Maybe,” Bill said.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Honestly? Sure I am.”
“So, there we are.”
“I’m getting excited just thinking about it.”
“I can fix that,” Beverly said.
And she did.
“You done for the day?” Bill asked.
“I believe I am,” Beverly said. “When will I see you again?”
“I don’t have the banquet schedule. But I’m always in The Falstaff Room.“
“Well, whenever it is, I’ll see you then. Maybe we’ll both know what we want by then.”
“I know what I want,” Bill said. “It’s what I should and shouldn’t do that’s the issue.”
“True,” Beverly said. “But I’m just about a hundred percent sure what I’m going to do.”
“Aye,” Bill said. And then he thought that in the long run, so long as it didn’t mean anything to him, so long as he kept it compartmentalized and only here at work, well, maybe it was — no, it wasn’t okay, but actually it didn’t mean shit to a train. Or did it?
Jimmy banquet chef was waiting for him. It was a small party just ninety-five people for dinner. Surf and turf, baked potato, fresh green beans with almonds au buerre. They had to cut the tenderloins into steaks and set up the lobster tails for broiling.
Jimmy asked about the banquet waitress.
Bill pretended nothing had happened, and Jimmy didn’t know anything had happened so he got away with just telling him that she was twenty-six and had gone to Ohio State. They had that in common even though she had only gone for a year. She’d nearly flunked out her first trimester and was on probation the rest of her first year. That was the way it went, Bill explained. Anyone who was a state resident and had graduated high school could go to the state university. Seventy-five percent of those state residents who went flunked out their first year in just the pattern Beverly had fallen into.
He also told Jimmy Banquet Chef that Beverly was married and she and her husband lived somewhere here in Cleveland.
“Looks like you’re gonna be a popular guy,” the banquet chef said.
“Look around,” Bill said. “I’m the only young cook around here. I’m the only American. I’m educated and in shape. I’m in a position they perceive as a powerful one.” He laughed. “Every bachelor’s dream. But I’m not a bachelor.”
They cut the steaks quickly and they cut the leftover pieces of meat from the tenderloins into cubes. Jimmy would braise these for a meal for the employees. Although Bill would never have to utilize it, the hotel did have a cafeteria for the help. Kitchen staff generally ate for free. The other staff paid a minimal price for eating well right there on the job. They got convenience and good food for just about nothing.
When the steaks were wrapped and put away, they went to work on the lobster tails. This was more tedious work. The tail had to be split, carefully, and the meat had to be taken out without being completely separated from the tail and laid out on top of it. It had to be brushed with butter, seasoned and sprinkled with paprika just for prettiness.
Then they were done and Bill had some more free time.
By Peter Weiss
Been really sick for the last two weeks. Not a hundred percent yet, but was able to get to my desk today and actually concentrate. Thank God for that.
I really do hate being sick and hope I’ll be getting back now.
They were done with everything before eleven. Jimmy Banquet Chef gave Bill back the tools he had taken from him the night before. They were in a nice, neat package and all the knives were freshly sharpened.
“I have some work to do for a small party tomorrow. I’m starting in about an hour. Go down and take a snooze and meet me back here. The party is only a hundred. Won’t take us long.”
Bill said okay. He was on his way down to the locker room when he ran into Beverly. She was still in her uniform but the jacket was open and the tie was untied. She’d opened the shirt collar too.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
They faced each other in one of the many corridors which lead to and from the main kitchen.
“What you up to?” she asked.
“I have an hour break. Then I’m working with the banquet chef on prep for tomorrow.”
“They’re giving you a lot of work, huh?”
“I guess so,” Bill said.
“You married?” she asked.
“Yes. You?”
“Yup.”
“You mess around?” Bill asked. He could not, for the life of him, figure out why he asked it, but the words were there, out in space for her to hear before he could stop himself.
“He’s messing around. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Not what I asked,” Bill said.
“I’m looking to,” Beverly said. “What about you?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“How hard you trying?”
“Very.”
“Want me to leave you alone?”
“Haven’t decided yet if you want me to be honest.”
“I do,” Beverly said. “I want you to be totally honest.” She reached a hand out and beckoned him with her finger. “Come on with me,” she said.
Beverly led him through a labyrinth of corridors away from the kitchen but all in the back of the house where only hotel employees traveled. Many twists and turns later they ended in a stairwell somewhere where Bill had no idea where he was.
“Lost, right?” Beverly asked.
“Totally.”
“My sister’s a maid upstairs. She showed me this place. We come here to get high sometimes. You get high?”
“Yeah. But I’m on probation for the next eighty-seven days.”
“Poor boy,” she said. “What else can’t you do?”
“I can’t do anything I shouldn’t.”
“Too bad.” She sat down on one of the stairs. “No one ever comes here. It’s as safe as anyplace can be.”
Bill sat down next to her. “I’m still playing it safe.”
“Well,” Beverly said, “then I won’t get high with you here. How about a little kiss?”
“Why?”
“Why’d you come here with me?”
“Good question,” Bill said.
Bill leaned over and kissed her. The kiss was soft at first but then it got deeper and harder, and a moment after they’d started kissing they were full out petting, her hands exploring him, his hands exploring her. She undid her tuxedo pants for him and the pants down at her ankles, he found his hands finding their way inside her underwear.
“Just play,” she said while they kissed. “Nothing more, not yet.”
They played. It was like being on lovers lane with his high school girlfriend, that place they’d gone most Friday nights where all the high school kids who had cars went. He didn’t have a car, but his girlfriend did.
They did the same things, mostly, and surely better than he had done as a high school kid. At one point she straddled him and undies to undies she gave him a lap dance that ended when it was over for both of them.
“God that felt good,” Beverly said. She gave him a big, friendly kiss to end it, a happy kiss just before she stood and hoisted up her trousers.
Bill didn’t say anything. He tucked himself in and pulled up his zipper.
“You still have lots of time,” she said. “We could just sit awhile.”
“Sure,” Bill said.
“I don’t want to be awkward strangers after this.”
“No problem,” Bill said.
By Peter Weiss
Dish-up was the same as the night before, just the food was different. Eggs went in the middle, sausages on one side, potatoes on the other. It was also done less in advance from three stations and the stations were set up in the kitchen area adjacent to banquet room. This way the eggs did not have to sit on the plates except for the time from when they were dished up until they were put on the table. And that was quick, not much longer than the delivery in a restaurant.
Jimmy, Bill and Victor dished up the eggs. Jimmy G and two kitchen stewards dished up the potatoes and a pantry girl wearing plastic gloves put the sausages on the plates by hand, one girl on each station.
This kind of food from three stations, they could do twenty a minute all together and so the wait staff picked up a tray, went out and served it and then came in for the next tray. Start to finish, with a five minute head start, they dished up and served on time. The wait staff had set the biscuits and butter and jelly on the tables ahead of time.
Like the night before, there was that hectic but steady dish-up time, and then it was all over. Because they were in the space adjacent to the room, they could look out and see the people eating. While the cooks looked on, Jimmy Banquet Chef donned his big chef’s hat and a clean, starched kitchen jacket and went out to see how the plates looked and were received. He came back into the kitchen with a smile on his face.
“Everything looks good,” he said. “The man in charge of the banquet was pleased.”
“Eggs are a pain in the ass., Victor said. “Fried eggs are even worse.”
Bill was glad Jimmy Banquet Chef had come by when he did to shut off the steam. If anything, just about all the way through, the eggs were a little soft, but when they were given those final stirrings and served up, they were just right. Lesson learned.
She was there, that waitress who’d taken a moment last night to address Bill as he sauced the meat on the plates on her tray. He did not see her this morning until he was peeking into the room and he did not get a chance to talk to her until she was back in the kitchen. He did notice that her tuxedo pants hugged her frame nicely.
The kitchen crew was cleaning up and gathering all the leftover food from the banquet room kitchen for transport back to the main kitchen. While they did this, those waiters and waitresses who could helped themselves to a meal and stood around eating.
“Hello there, love,” she said to Bill.
She carried her plate of food and walked over to where he was working. Bill saw her up close and personal for the first time. She was dark-haired with dark features and she wore her hair short, almost boy-like.
“Beverly,” she said. “My name’s Beverly. You’re Bill. They told me. You’re the new cook, and from what I’ve seen so far, you’re pretty good.”
Beverly leaned back against a counter and speared a sausage link with her fork then stuck the whole thing in her mouth. Bill noted that she had thick lips lightly painted red. He also noted that she was maybe five-four and trim. He knew she was strong because he’d seen her hoist those trays on her shoulder.
“I’m here all the time,” she said. She looked Bill in his eyes and then with no hesitation went about eating the eggs and potatoes on her plate.
“I’m here all the time too,” Bill said. “I do The Falstaff Room.”
“That all you do?” she asked.
“I do lots of things,” Bill said.
“I guess we’ll be doing some things together then,” Beverly said.
Bill decided she was more than cute. Bill decided she could go on the DD list, definitely doable.
By Peter Weiss
Scrambled eggs for four hundred. With sausages. And biscuits.
The meal was due to go off at nine. That’s about nine hundred eggs or 75 dozen. So when they were all in and getting started, first thing was pan up the sausages. The home fries had been cut and panned the night before, so were the onions and red and green peppers that they would be added to. The potatoes had to be sautéed and seasoned in the onions and peppers and finally baked and kept warm.
Bill was put to cracking the eggs. It was easy enough, two at a time, over and over again, case after case until he was done. He cracked them into a large bain marie, filled the bain marie then poured them into one of the big steam kettles. Eventually he would be the one to cook the eggs, a brand new experience for him, not that he’d never made scrambled eggs, just never for four hundred.
What Bill discovered from doing this banquet was that there was a common feel to cooking for so many people. A big part of it was organization, knowing what steps to take in what order. This he would learn and was already learning from Jimmy Banquet Chef. Jimmy had it all down.
The second big part was preparation. Having as much as could be done in advance was vital. So the sausages were defrosted and a steward would place them in pans. The potatoes and everything for them was cut and ready to sauté. The eggs could have been cracked ahead of time, and Jimmy Banquet Chef would have done that, but he wanted to see Bill do it. He was still testing Bill to see what he could do and what he needed to learn. They had a lot of cooks for this banquet and plenty of time.
The third big thing was leadership. Jimmy Banquet Chef acted like a traffic cop, directing everything step by step. He had it all laid out in his mind and knew exactly what he wanted done by whom in what order. No one went against him and everyone did exactly as told. The good thing with his crew, and he was breaking Bill in for this, was that they were experienced and pretty much knew what he wanted them to do before he told them to do it.
They fooled around some as they worked because they had time. But like the day before, as meal time and service time started getting closer, the pace picked up and seriousness took over. Jimmy Banquet Chef put Bill to cooking the eggs. He showed him how to work the steam kettle, a tilt kettle, and put him before it with a metal oar. Yes, that was the tool, a canoe paddle type thing made of stainless steel.
“Listen,” he said, “remember that you have to stop the heat a long time before the eggs are done, and you have to keep stirring, and you have to finish while the eggs are very soft. They’ll cook themselves that last bit of the way and you have to allow for that.”
Bill said, “Okay,” but he had no real idea of when to cut the heat. Not at all. He had a good idea of what Jimmy Banquet Chef was telling him, a good sense in his head of what he was supposed to do and how. But knowing in your head and knowing in actuality were two different things.”
“Don’t mess it up,” the banquet chef told him.
The kettle heated up and the eggs started cooking around the edges where they touched the metal kettle. Bill started stirring, paddling, but not really. Once he started, he never stopped, and he soon saw that the cooking took up a rhythm of its own.
Before he would have done it, Jimmy Banquet Chef came by and cut off the steam.
“Quick now, finish up a moment more and start pouring them out of there for dish-up. And don’t forget what I just taught you.”
