The Unwanted Job by Chris Hill

An Immigrant’s Story of Sacrifice

He clocks in, throws an apron over his neck and then ties it around his waist, fastening it close to his body. He’ll be working harder than anyone else in this restaurant — most of which, going unnoticed. The dish area is piled high from an afternoon’s worth of prep done by the opening cooks who hustled trying to get the kitchen caught up for dinner service after a busy weekend. Busy, receiving orders all morning the opening cooks were behind within moments of arriving. That’s how it always is on Mondays. Dirtied cutting boards, sauce slopped Robot Coups and bacon greased baking sheets were piled high in front of Margaro’s station — the Dish Pit. This was all to be done before anyone actually sat down to eat in this restaurant. He clocked in at 4PM and knew what to expect — it was a Monday after a busy weekend — this was his work, and he did it with fortitude and grace, never undermining the importance of his job. While yes, the dishwasher’s job isn’t one requiring high skill, it does require patience and strength to press on when dirty dish after dirty dish comes rolling in from the kitchen, dining room and bar. He scrapes, sprays and runs a load through the machine, then again — ensuring it’s cleanliness, thoroughly wipes any lingering water from it, then stows it appropriately. Finally caught up from the earlier kitchen mess, Margaro sprays down the final sauce pot which was used to make the week’s supply of beef stock and rubs it feverishly with steel wool, placing it upside down in the machine, then presses the start button, walking away. He wipes his dirty hands on the bar towel that hangs from his waist, makes his way to the back of the building and pulls a cigarette from the half smoked pack in his back pocket. In the kitchen, Margaro is in his own world — communicating efficiently and infrequently, only when necessary and only when it involves work. On break though, he enjoys a single cigarette with the other kitchen guys before the chaos of dinner service has begun — it was a Monday though, and there were only 45 reservations in the books, meaning that he would most likely get the opportunity to sneak one more smoke in before the night was over. For Margaro the nicotine wasn’t an addiction, but rather a chance to step outside of the hot, steam packed kitchen whose temperature on a good night hovered around 85 degrees — any excuse was a good excuse.

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The night went smooth — plates from waiters were brought into the kitchen and scraped of any remaining food before being stacked appropriately near the dish area, where Margaro would seize them once a considerable pile had accumulated. The same was done with a steaming hot trough of silverware. Waiters tossed forks and knives, splashing the soap spiked water onto the already damp floor below. Cooks stepped around Margaro, tossing their final scorching hot sauté pans into the adjacent, half full sinks. By the time he would get around to cleaning them, the skillets would have lost all of their heat to the water in which they were bathing. “Caliente, Caliente guey,” echoes through the kitchen throughout the night indicating that yes, the pans are extremely hot. This is the last time Margaro would hear those words tonight. It was done. After 57 covers, and an early last call, the night was over.

Mexican mariachi music sways from the kitchen signifying the upbeat mood of the staff that is nearly finished closing up. Foods are wrapped, labeled and placed in the refrigerators, as certain sauces and side dishes are placed into smaller, more economical pans. The final dishes come over from the kitchen and are stuffed with dirty knives. The last stack of clean plates is placed above the expo window, denoting their readiness for use the following day.

After a couple more loads, Margaro cleans his machine, then mops the floor — attempting to free the kitchen tile of the grime that has accumulated since the restaurant opened years ago. That’s the life of a restaurant kitchen; clean from unclean, back to clean on any given day. Once he is confident no more dishes are lurking, the dishwasher is turned off, as is the music, which is then followed by the light, dimming the kitchen for the remainder of the night hours. Into the computer Margaro punches his four digit number for the second time today, indicating his work for the day was done. He tosses his filthy apron into the linen hamper outside the side door, collects his belongings