Restaurant
by Maxine Hong Kingston
for Lilah Kan
The main cook lies sick on the banquette, and his assistant
has cut his thumb. So the quiche cook takes
their place at the eight-burner range, and you and I
get to roll out twenty-three pounds of pie
dough and break a hundred eggs, four at a crack,
and sift out the shell with a China cap, pack
spinich in the steel sink, squish and squeeze
the water out, and grate a full moon of cheese.
Pam, the pastry chef, who is baking Choco-
late Globs (once called Mulattos) complains about the disco,
which Lewis, the salad man, turns up louder out of spite.
"Black so-called musician," "Broads. Whites."
The porters, who speak French, from the Ivory Coast,
sweep up droppings and wash the pans without soap.
We won't be out of here until three a.m. In this basement,
I lose my size. I am a bent-over
child, Gretel or Jill, and I can
lift a pot as big as a tub with both hands.
Using a pitchfork, you stoke the broccoli and bacon.
Then I find you in the freezer, taking
a nibble of a slab of chocolate as big as a table.
We put the quiches in the oven, then we are able
to stick our heads up out of the sidewalk into the night
and wonder at the clean diners behind glass and candlelight.
to return