The Dishwasher

by Stéphane Larue

  Carl was sweeping the floors without an ounce of conviction. He checked his flip phone almost once a minute. And ignored me. I hurried off to get dressed so I could tackle the dirty dishes as quickly as possible.

  Upstairs the first order of business was to change the garbages. There were the clean ones, out front, and the greasy, oozing ones, back in the kitchen. And of course there was the dishpit garbage, overflowing with scraps from the lunch rush. Bonnie was showing the new guy how to organize the order tickets on the rack. She gave me a little nod to say hi, between two sentences in her halting French. I went back to the dishpit, galvanized by even this tenuous acknowledgement of my existence.

  I cleaned the dishwasher filter and checked my soaps the way Bébert had showed me on my first shift. I sorted the buspans of dirty dishes so I could alternate floor dishes, pans, and prep room utensils. I rinsed off baking sheets slathered with chicken fat and roasting pans smeared in gravy and scorched with rosemary. I ran everything through the machine and scrubbed out the pans, eight or ten at a time. I did my best to keep my machine running the way Bébert had taught me.

  Nick came over to chat. I was almost happy to see him. He looked exhausted. He sat down on an overturned bucket next to the slightly open door at the back of the pit. He stretched, then let his arms fall with a sigh. He scrubbed his face with two hands. His eyes were puffy.

  “Big Friday night?” I asked him as I put dishes away.

  “Hell of a night, yeah. I just got up two hours ago.”

  He took the smoke from behind his ear and dug through his pockets for a light. His immaculate clothing stood in stark contrast with the filthy surroundings. I asked him if the manager was working tonight.

  “Manager? What manager?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Uh, Greg?”

  Greg’s unpredictable, explosive mood made me nervous. I felt better knowing whether he’d be there or not ahead of time.

  “Greg’s not the manager, dude. He’s the other busboy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” he said, before lighting his smoke. “There’s no manager here.”

  I felt stupid. Obviously I had no idea how to tell one floor job from another. They all looked the same to me. Plus Greg looked too old to have the same job as Nick.

  “And good fucking thing, too. Greg, manager? Ha.”

  We kept talking while he smoked, and then I heard a clear voice addressing me.

  “You like coffee?”

  With an open smile that exposed all her teeth, Jade set a little cup down on one of the shelves of clean dishes. Her dark hair was up in a chignon, so you could see her entire face. Little dimples appeared when she smiled. I thanked her, a little shyly.

  “Drink this. It’ll put some colour in your cheeks. You look bummed.”

  She set off nimbly back to the bar. I dried my hands on my apron, and picked up the tiny cup of coffee topped with coppery foam. I sipped with the tips of my lips. It was at once bitter and creamy, nothing like the Nescafé Rémi heated up in the microwave or the drip coffee my parents drank. Jade turned around when she reached the order computer at the end of the passage, and smiled at me again. Nick laughed. I didn’t respond. He might have been testing me. He stubbed out his butt in the ashtray, washed his hands in one of my sinks, and jogged back to the dining room.

  That night started off slower than my previous shifts. By now I knew not to expect much from Carl, and since I was second dishwasher and didn’t have to prep for the first seating, I’d managed to get a touch ahead. I’d ripped through the remaining lunch dishes and made sure no new ones piled up. Over time I was learning how to manoeuvre through the kitchen in the middle of a rush without getting in the cooks’ way, and developing an intuitive sense of when to go pick up dirty pans.

  Every time I crossed the threshold I caught little glimpses of how it all worked—the electric intensity, the constant razzing, Bébert’s junkyard soliloquies, Bonnie shoving against Steven as he put out the first appies, Bébert mocking Nick for his cold sore, or taking exception to Renaud’s handiwork.

  “Man, you’re gonna be chef and you can’t reduce a sauce?”

  He pushed aside a heap of pasta with his tongs to show Renaud the pool of runny sauce at the bottom.

  “Sauce gotta to stick the noodles, dude. Pasta 101.”

  Renaud ignored him as usual, with an enigmatic, almost satisfied smile.

  Every second time I brought them a fresh stack of pizza or salad dishes Bonnie thanked me. And with each of these “thanks,” uttered without looking up, my mood improved a little. Bonnie wielded her tongs like an extension of her hand. In a series of movements that had become automatic she’d dip them in the garde-manger inserts and pull out little slices of zucchini or eggplant and a couple chunks of peeled tomatoes, then toss it all in the stainless-steel mixing bowl held in her other hand. She hummed quietly while she worked, to herself and for herself alone.

  Back in the pit I was getting faster. Carl emerged from the basement looking like there was nothing on this terrestrial plane that could faze him, and didn’t even bother making excuses when he went back out to make yet another call. His disappearing act was starting to seriously grate on me, but I didn’t do anything. It was easier to work around his unrelenting slackery than to confront him.

  From the moment I’d first set foot in the dishpit, I’d never once felt in control—until now. This night was rolling smoothly and rapidly down its track. The cooks were asking me to go downstairs to grab backups from the cooler more often than they yelled at me to pick up dirty pans. I’d started bringing them clean pans as they came out of the machine, instead of waiting for them to pile up.

  As the indistinct mass of work resolved into an organized system in my head, my worries left me for a while. The restaurant was becoming a sanctuary of sorts, a place where everything—my money problems, my debts, my gambling—could be forgotten.

  Carl took off halfway through the shift again, rightfully so this time as the first dishwasher in. Jonathan and Renaud had knocked off early too, leaving Bonnie and Bébert to finish the night with Steven, who was facing a relentless barrage of mockery, digs, and random shit talk. I felt fortunate that I hadn’t been subjected to the same treatment when I started.

  Carl had of course managed to leave plenty of his work for me, but against all odds the prep kitchen had been cleaned.

  The stereo was back in the dishpit and I’d put on a mixtape that hadn’t been selected by chance. When she came to the pit to bring me a focaccia for dinner, Bonnie picked up on it right away.

  “You like Maiden?”

  She looked kind of amused. For the first time, I felt she was taking an interest in me.

  I said I did. Seventh Son of a Seventh Son was playing. I told her it was my favourite album.

  “I don’t really like Seventh Son. The sound is kind of cheesy. I like the first albums better.”

  Before I could get another word in she set off for the kitchen, in her baggy whites. I shrugged my shoulders and started eating my focaccia. The doorbell rang. I stopped eating to answer it. I opened the door. A skinny guy, a little taller than me, stood in the orangey light of the alley. He was shivering in his Avirex bomber jacket, hands in the pockets of his phat pants. He lifted his chin out of his neck warmer.

  “Carl here?”

  I was about to say no when Bébert popped up behind me out of nowhere.

  “And what the fuck do you want with Carl?”

  I let Bébert walk by. The guy backed up, hands still in his pockets.

  “Uh. He has my keys.”

  “Yeah, I bet. How about you get the fuck out of here, and tell your buddy Carl not to shit where he eats.”

  Bébert slammed the door.

  “I’m getting sick of this shit. That’s the fourth time this week.”

  Then he turned
to me and smiled again.

  “How’s the focaccia?”

  He checked out my plate, which was already more than half eaten.

  “Enjoy it, buddy,” he said, and went back to work.

  What was left of the shift slipped by without a hitch, until 11:30. As we were lining everything up for the close a group of twenty people showed up out of nowhere to join the last tables still being served. I caught wind of it through Bébert’s hail of curses when he came back to the dishpit in search of pans.

  “Twenty fucking goofs walk right in like it’s five in the afternoon,” he said, as he stacked clean pans, “and I’m alone with a new guy who doesn’t know the menu.”

  I was pretty far ahead with the dishes. I asked if I could help with something.

  “Don’t worry, man, you’re gonna be in the juice too.”

  Over the groaning of my exhaust fan I could hear the printer grinding away, spitting out order tickets. I sent a rack through the machine and decided to go see how things were shaping up in the kitchen.

  The group ordered haphazardly, a couple dishes at a time, nearly all graced with complex substitutions. Bonnie was on the pass, and doing here best to prep pans for Bébert to throw on the stove. But she didn’t really know the hotside menu, and had to search around to assemble the ingredients. She was checking an old menu stained with sauce and oil for guidance. But things were going sideways: she’d forget the broccoli in one dish, put green onions instead of garlic in another. Every couple of minutes she let out an impatient sigh. Bébert was putting out the final tables before starting on the new the steam table where his sauces lay warming. He was setting up and plating his own food, leaving Bonnie free to prep the pans for the group and keep an eye on Steven, who was sweating like a pig as he wrestled with salads and appetizers. He kept wiping his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping into the food. The restaurant had gotten loud again. It wasn’t the steady thrum of a full room, but another kind of racket, a cacophony of shouty voices clamouring to be heard over boozy laughter, a sound I was only just beginning to recognize as the swan song of end-of-the-night groups. House music was pumping from the speakers, and Séverine had turned it up. Practically empty twenty minutes ago, the room had turned into a party. Customers who’d eaten earlier were joining the group. Behind Bébert, who was thundering full steam ahead, I could see the dining room through the dessert shelves. A group was gathering at the end of the bar. Everyone was glamorously dressed, and they all flashed the gleaming smiles of wealthy forty-somethings. They were deep in flirtatious conversation with Jade and Sarah, who seemed to have no problem holding their attention while keeping the drinks flowing. I looked away. It felt like I was in an aquarium, watching the rest of the world living through a glass wall without end.

  “Nick, tell your servers to pick up their fucking food. I don’t have all night!”

  A guy with a fulsome tan and Tintin hair came up and leaned over the dessert pass-through. His muscles were straining to pop out of a clingy turquoise V-neck, and his eyebrows were concealed behind chunky statement glasses. The smug smile stamped on his tic-ridden face made it apparent he had no idea what he was getting into. He leaned almost his entire body into the kitchen, between two pass-through shelves. Watching him reminded me of the idiots who venture into tigers’ cages to prove their fearlessness. Typical pal of Séverine’s, coked to the gills.

  “Hey, Ti-Bert! Got time to cook me up something? If I order here you could do it quicker, right? Your waiters aren’t exactly breaking records tonight.”

  Bébert didn’t answer. He deglazed a pot with white wine. A two-foot flame rose up out of the elements. Then he shoved the pan up in his new friend’s face. The cretin jumped back and knocked his head on a shelf. He let out a whimper, and caught the glasses that had been knocked off his face just in time.

  “Sorry, man, I’m busy!” Bébert yelled without looking at him. “Go tell Séverine your sob story. Shit, you should be able to see how busy I am with those two-thousand-dollar glasses.”

  He lifted his head without looking at the guy’s beet-red face. His gaze was directed behind him, in the dining room. He was looking for someone.

  “Where the hell are you, Nick? Ring the fucking bell, Bonnie!”

  His voice rang out like cannon fire. The dampened purring of the hood vents and clanging of pans all augmented the pressure Bébert brought to bear on the world. Then Nick popped up like a jack-in-the-box and yelled at me over the cacophony to get a mop. There was something in his tone I didn’t like, and he could tell.

  “We’ve got a situation in the washroom, man. It’d be awesome if you could take care of it.”

  Nick grabbed a pile of steaming hot dishes and set off into the dining room, weaving between customers. I went to get a mop, rolling the bucket to the dining room and then finding a path through the customers and their cloud of expensive perfume. No one deigned to get out of my way. I had to keep saying “excuse me” and try to carve a path around them, interrupting their discussions, sometimes clearing a bit of a path with the mop bucket. Séverine had witnessed my entrance and was watching me like a hawk. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me and made it to the bathrooms without spilling too much mop water. I heard voices coming from inside but pushed on the lacquered door of the first washroom anyway. I walked in on two guys with movie-star haircuts in t-shirts and suit jackets, doing keys of coke. When they saw me they froze with dazed looks on their faces, then got right back to their conversation, giving me a look of disdain that made me want to leap up and throttle them. Evidently the “situation” wasn’t in this washroom. I went into the other one. One of the toilets was overflowing. I hadn’t brought a plunger. I crossed the dining room again in my filthy uniform soaked in dirty dishwasher, and did my best to steer through the crowd of people happily chatting and drinking cocktails. I looked like a homeless man crashing the Oscars.

  When she saw me walk by with the plunger Bonnie yelled at me to grab a buspan each of spinach and leaf. I registered the info and ventured back into the melee of customers, concealing the plunger against my leg. I was trying to ignore the feeling of humiliation mixed in with contained anger, but it was bubbling over despite my best intentions. I felt as if everyone was staring at me, though no one noticed me at all.

  A young woman walked in to do her makeup while I was unclogging and cleaning the toilet. Another came in and, when she saw me, sighed in exasperation. “Take your time, why don’t you? Are you almost done yet?” I quickly gathered the wads of soaked toilet paper, sponged up the water as best I could, and glided back with my mop bucket like a gondolier of grime.

  I beat a furtive retreat to my home base, trying to clear my head and dispel the shame taking over my headspace. I parked the bucket and mop in the dishpit and ran to the basement to grab the spinach in the cooler.

  That was when I cracked. I started yelling, calling Carl every name in the book, trembling with rage as I fantasized about breaking that ass-picking dogfucking midget’s snotty little face in half.

  Carl hadn’t prepped a single buspan of lettuce. All I had left was one romaine and one leaf. No spinach, no arugula. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It meant I couldn’t bring up a buspan now, as Bonnie had asked me to; it meant she’d fall behind on the appetizers; it meant everything would fall behind. I felt like punching the wall. There were tears in my eyes. I grabbed the buspan of lettuce and two bags of spinach and ran upstairs. I had no choice but to quickly destem and wash them right in the kitchen.

  “Bonnie, I . . .”

  “What?” she snapped.

  She looked at me and scrunched up her face when she saw the unwashed spinach.

  “It’s Carl. He didn’t . . .”

  “What the fuck is this?” she asked as she yanked the bags from my hand and held them up under my nose.

  “Carl he . . . didn’t finish the prep . . .”

  “
Not my problem,” she spat. “I asked you. You fucked up.”

  “I’m gonna wash them quick right here.”

  “Don’t get in my way,” she said, as she gave me a withering look. “And hurry the fuck up.”

  She was throwing utensils and swearing bilingually. I rolled up into a little ball and found a spot by Steven to sort spinach. He had seven spinach salads along with fifteen other appetizers, all going out at once. I started tearing the dark green leaves and felt the sweat running in channels down my sides. My hands were trembling, but I was going as fast as I could, with my jaw clenched until my teeth were ready to break. Bébert had been watching what happened and said to me:

  “Just rip through that spinach. Don’t worry about that little shit, I’ll handle him.”

  For good measure he cursed out Christian the drunk and Renaud the eunuch. I passed the spinach over to Steven the second it was ready, so he could finish off his plates. Séverine was standing by the till, casting interrogative glances in our direction. She settled up with one of the last couples that had come in before the group, then came over and stood in front of the pass-through. She had let her hair down, as at the end of the previous night, maybe because the people who had shown up out of nowhere were friends of hers. Her hair was straight, almost darker than Sarah’s, and longer too. It fell over her naked shoulders. Though she was trying to keep a lid on it, you could see that she was furious. The moment she opened her mouth, I could tell this was no time to talk about our problems.