It was busy.

Well, it’s always busy.

Constant shouting from all stations announcing their every move, people always moving, the clanking of metal on metal, the dull chops of knives of cutting boards, the sound and flash of flames going up every so often.

You’d think no one would want to be in this kind of environment, ever, but I thrived on it. There is always a rush of blood through my veins when I hear the eventual sound of my chefs come through the door and they begin to prepare for the evening. And when service begins, you can forget about the outside world entirely. I witness a glorious ballet that I orchestrate from the front of the room, and it is only mine. As long as no one gets injured or someone screws up the taste or look of an ingredient, I float. Because this has always been my dream: in my early thirties, I had become executive chef of a fine dining restaurant and I loved every moment of it.

On this particular day though, I was interrupted. One of the waiters from the floor had come into the kitchen. I asked what he wanted, but he said nothing, as though he was waiting for me to look his way. I rolled my eyes towards my sous chef (who took the cue to take over), because he was taking up so much of my time, and humoured him by turning towards him and giving him one of my most scathing glares.

“What is it?” I punctuated every word.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he began hesitantly.

“Spit it out, I have work to do,” I said, unable to hide the exasperation in my voice.

“There’s a guest tonight, a woman,” the waiter started again.

“Is she beautiful? Do you want to her? Should I her for you?” I spewed, now really agitated.

“No, how could you say such things,” he gasped, blushing, “She is beautiful but that’s not what I meant to say: she is not eating the food as quickly as it is coming out!” he blurted before I could get a word in.

There was a beat in between his exclamation and my response.

“The food isn’t even coming out that fast,” I said slowly.

“It’s too fast for her,” the waiter stated, now dignified, “She sits with a gleam in her eye, savouring every little bite. She even dances in her seat slightly when she really likes whatever flavour pops up in . She has asked me to just line up the dishes that come out on the table since she is not done with the one she is eating. She is too lovely for her own good, so I complied. But now there are at least five dishes on her table she hasn’t touched yet because she’s still working on whatever one she’s working on.”

“She’s savouring it?” I repeat his words after another pause.

“Yes” came his reply.

“Which course is she on?” I asked.

“I believe she’s still on the soup,” he answered.

“That was six courses ago,” I said in disbelief, not really looking at the waiter now, intrigued. Then my eyes turned back to him and I blinked a few times.

“Alright then,” I drawled, “Make her feel comfortable. Let me know when she has reached her last plate