Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Another Sunday in the books. Generally at this time (it's 11:00 pm) on a Sunday I'm asking myself 'why the hell am I still cooking?'. It takes two jobs to pay my student loans, house bills, and save a little for an eventual trip abroad. Hey, no big deal right? Plenty of cash coming in to cover what I want to do. Damn though if it don't add up. Up at 6:00 am, cook breakfast until 2:00 for the chronologically challenged. Off to the pm place for a little dinner service, home by 10:00, or so. It's a numbing day filled with caffeine highs and lows, lulls and rushes, and an unavoidable afternoon crash. Breakfast really is a brutal shift. Not only does the shift start too early for one to be thinking clearly, but despite it's seemingly straightforward appearance (Eggs, potatoes, toast, right?) it can be one of the most mentally taxing. No one likes to wait for breakfast and the general simplicity of the food makes for quick preperation. Also, EVERYONE has their own breakfast quirk, which shows up as modifications to orders. (A brief aside. A modification is any alteration to an order that is not on the menu. Say, the standard breakfast comes with, 2 eggs, potatoes, toast, and meat of your choice. Easy enough. Now Customer A has that standard breakfast, but wants toast dark. Easy enough, I can forget about toast. That's generally how it get's dark. Customer B would like the standard breakfast without potatoes. No problem, one less thing to worry about. Customer C would like the standard breakfast with no potatoes, no toast, and fruit on the side. OK, now I'm getting pissed. I have to stop my flow and grab fruit for the plate. Customer D would like the standard Breakfast with eggs basted, one piece wheat toast, one piece sourdough, bacon crispy, potatoes fried instead of hashbrowned. Fine dammit, toast no problem, I'll ruin the bacon, drop potatoes in the deep fryer, and throw some eggs in a pan on the back burner with a lid. Anyway you get the picture.) Instead of falling back on instinct and muscle memory at 8:00 on a Sunday morning, I HAVE TO THINK. And there's nothing, as a cook, that I hate more than having to think about an order. Oh yeah, and the shift is six hours long. No breaks. Needless to say by hour four I'm starting to fade. Hour five hits, and everyone is my enemy. The customers are like wolves tracking the smell of blood; waiting for the first sign of visible weakness to pounce. Hour six and I am a crushed broken man. Uncurling myself from my fetal postion on the floor I collect my knives, bid everyone adieu and propel myself home. Shell shocked, I head to the pm joint, swearing that I will not work breakfast past memorial day. Of course I've told myself the same lie over and over. 'I won't work another Easter'. 'This is my last Mothers day'. 'I'm no breakfast cook'. Of course, like Sysiphus, I keep coming back. But really I'm no breakfast cook, I can quit at anytime. Just doing this to make a little extra cash. I can quit anytime.