I see what you're doing. And I thank you for it.

I have the world's best coworkers.

I write about work a lot. I realize this. Bear with me.

When you work as much as I do with the same small group of people in an environment as confined as ours, you become extremely sensitive to your coworkers' moods. We don't even need to say anything. Our cooking says it all. I can tell when Oskar is feeling discouraged just based on the way he dices shallots. I can tell when Derek is feeling content by the way he handles a saute pan. I know that Gato is in a good mood when he garnishes dishes with a generous hand. When Bobby has had a rough day, he goes through a stack of towels in less than an hour. When I am feeling happy, I find myself using my body more fluidly - my hips to shut drawers, my shoulder to push the grill back under the broiler, my foot to open/shut oven doors - the dance of the kitchen comes more naturally to me when I'm happy.

It's no secret that I've not been myself lately. We all have dark moments. My fellow cooks could tell, but they didn't require an explanation. Yesterday was a lesson in love, for sure:


As soon as I walk in the door, Chef offers me a mug of hot tea. Music is always blaring in the prep kitchen from somebody's ipod, and this day it's his. He turns it to a Jason Mraz song because he knows I love me some Jason.

"This is my song for you, Jenny!"

"Um, boss... this is a love song."

"YOU LIIIIIIKE IT!"

"Right."

I head to the coat closet to find a chef coat. Normally there are never small sizes and rarely mediums. People fight over the mediums. Medium chef coats are like gold in our kitchen. When I can't find a medium (which is 89% of the time), I just wear a large coat and roll the sleeves up about 6 or 7 times. On this day, however, there's a medium coat with a sticky note bearing my name on it. Actually, it says "IF YOU AREN'T JENNY, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT," followed by a couple of expletives. So sweet.

"Well," I think to myself, "They're being awfully nice to me. I wonder if I'm about to get fired."

I head up to my station to begin turning on my ovens, steamers, fryers, etc. Ash is already there, stocking up my mise for me. She works the grill. I am surprised and grateful.

"Thank you. You don't have to do that."

She shrugs and smiles. "I got you, girl."

Together, we have both our stations stocked and fired up well before service begins. I head back to the prep kitchen to find the recipe for Parmesan spaetzle and immediately run into Hungry.

Let me tell you about Hungry. He's one of the pantry guys (salads, cold appetizers, desserts). His real name is José. Everyone calls him Hungry (he even calls himself Hungry) because when he first immigrated from Mexico and applied for a job at our kitchen, all he could say in English was "I'm hungry." He is 56. He behaves like a 14 year-old who has not been taking his recommended dosage of Ritalin. When he is not working, he sells vitamins door-to-door. He doesn't speak much English but does possess a weird, eclectic collection of English catchphrases. He has nicknames for everyone. To Hungry, our sous chef is "Gordo." Our chef is "Chino." The portly Caucasian frontwaiter is "Winnie-the-Pooh." The tall, good-looking frat-boy bartender is "Baby Douche." Hungry never fails to make me laugh.

"Chula! ¿Cómo estás? I loving you forever!"

"Hey, Hungry... I'm ok. I love you too."

"¿Por qué estás triste, mi amor? I make it better. Hungry here. When Chino leaving, I giving you lava cake. Mucho lava por mi chulita."

(He thinks that lava cake is the solution to all problems. He could be right.)

"Aw, thanks Hungry. You're the best."

We eat family meal (pasta with a delicious tomato cream sauce, basil, capers, mushrooms and onions. Ash added extra jalapeños - my favorite), and service begins.

The chirp of my printer is steady without being overwhelming. I find myself focusing on my work and forgetting about everything else. My burners are behaving themselves, my ingredients seem especially fresh and beautiful, and everything I send out makes me proud. I can't help putting a little English on the plates as I send them spinning through the pass. I even catch myself humming at one point.

Pretty soon the second rush is over, and the night is winding down. Oskar insists on closing the station because he hasn't been getting enough hours. I glance up and see Ash and Chef whispering to each other and looking my way. What are they talking about? I try not to worry as I clean my knife and tidy up a bit. I am about to clock out when they stop me.

"How do you feel about dish?" Chef asks.

I know he is talking about the dishwashing station.

"Fine, I guess. I wouldn't know what to do, but I'll learn."

"Great. George will show you what to do."

Let me tell you about George. George is not much younger than Hungry. He is also from Mexico and speaks very little English. He has a curly mullet and is missing several teeth. His left pupil is more of a vertical line than a circle, giving it a snake-like appearance. He is always smiling and has a habit of hugging people close when he talks to them, forcing them to look into his crazy eye. I like him very much.

George seems surprised that I want to help him, but with the aid of gestures and broken English he is able to teach me what to do. Together, we plow through a huge pile of dishes. It is absolutely exhausting, and I am completely drenched with both hose-water and sweat by the time we finish. George has not broken a sweat. In fact, I'd guess he would have done it all in the same amount of time had I been helping or not.

Chef appears and surveys our work.

"Not bad. Now before you leave tonight, you're in charge of reorganizing both walk-ins and the dry storage. Label everything, toss everything that needs to be tossed. That kind of thing. I'm going home, but I'll see you tomorrow."

I gawk at him, too weary to respond. His tone is firm, but something in his expression is gentle and laughing. I sense a conspiracy.

Again, I do as I am told. Two hours later, the dining room manager is ready to lock up for the night, the dry storage and walk-ins looks immaculate, and I am ready to drop. As I drive myself home, I want to be angry. I really do. I'm a cook, dammit! What's with all the non-cooking busy work? Am I that bad in the kitchen? What's the deal?!

It's not until I am in bed and about to drift off to sleep that I realize the kindness of what just happened. My body is so drained that it's impossible to stay up all night worrying. There's no room for sadness. Sleep comes easily. Much-needed sleep.

Kindness comes in so many forms. I feel so fortunate.

I have the world's best coworkers.