It’s a busy Friday night in the Brewer's Art kitchen, where five cooks, three food runners, and Head Chef Andrew Weinzirl all move together in a chaotic waltz while I’m tucked away in a corner trying not to fuck up. There’s a way of doing things here, and everyone seems to know it but me.
“Fire! Table 18! Two chicken, one scallop, side of fries—and how long on that squash?”
Food tickets buzz out of the kitchen printer. The space is crammed. The grill cook has seven orders all about to get plated and now he needs extra Brussels sprouts chopped, stat.
With newly-blistered fingers and sore feet, I chop a pile of them and then I feel a sudden whoosh behind...