Andrew

Andrew would work in a furnace if he could, but he had settled for a kitchen. The blazing heat of iron and steaming pots, the spitting salamander and sudden columns of dragon fire were a crucible that purged the impurity of people from his night. His mise en place made him singular and centered. With everything left where he had laid it, and not a thing above his command, the kitchen was Andrew’s sanctuary.

The trouble had started a few nights before when his current girlfriend, the hostess, accused him of snatching tickets. Andrew denied this and told her she was turning into a distraction. Secretly he knew she was right, he had chosen a kitchen with an open window rather than double doors for service, disliking intrusion, and he defended the pass like a goalkeeper. He tried to stop the servers from breaking the plane of the window with their hands, and if he was late too reach out anyone could mistake what he did for snatching. Since then she had been cool in all interactions, but when she dropped off tickets she thrust her arm through the pass to the arm pit, like she was delivering a calf, waving the transgression in Andrew’s ever reddening face. “She may have figured me out,” he thought.

The awareness of tension spread like a cold. Soon all the servers had the faintest implication in their eyes, dropping off tickets with suicidal directness, as if their hands were playing chicken with the invisible boundary of Andrew’s kitchen , veering off into self preservation at the last second. His girlfriend came to the pass, “Your ex is here, table five.” She would have requested table five, what everyone called the mirror table. It was situated in such a way that the diner could see into the kitchen via an ornate mirror that hung on the opposite wall, and vice versa. Andrew had all of his VIPs sit there so he could steal glances of them eating and gauge their reaction. His ex would know this, she was the previous hostess who chose to end her employment and their relationship in tandem.

His girlfriend hung around the table in such a way that would be called treason in times of war. The servers all made little visits, giggling and making brazen collusive eyes at the mirror and Andrew’s imprisoned image. The clatter around him softened, and the heat of the kitchen became oppressive. The server was taking her order now and there they all stood chatting, looking up at his depthless reflection painted in a window in a frame. Andrew closed his eyes and took a deep breath, undid the top button of his chef’s coat, and when he looked up the most Cheshire of all servers was grinning at him, holding out the ticket. He snatched it from her hand even though she did not try to penetrate his world and read “Bronzino. No Salt.” and “Burn it!” underlined twice. Andrew looked up with outrage and found two sets of eyes staring holes through him, more furiously terrible than any heat he could make in his kitchen