Graciliano

Every morning, after emerging from the breathy, sleepy-eyed bus, Peter slides the carved wooden bench forward on Graciliano’s front deck so we can enter our day. The enormous black and white clock on the front wall dings 8:27. “Bom dia,” we say, nodding to all of the blackly dressed waiters and waitresses taking the chairs down. “Bom dia,” we say, smiling at the cleaners, splashing the marble floors soaked in soapy water. Our shoes wet, we carefully stomp up the silver-painted metal stairs – past the Mens and past the Ladies, into our kitchen. Our home away from home away from home. The glaring, fluorescent lights overhead shine along down the white tiled walls and the less-white tiles of the floor. My locker, third from the bottom and on the far right, opens with a small square key for which there is no need – it only holds my stinky white shirt and carrot-orange, strawberry-red, zucchini-green splotched apron. Cloth shower cap enclosing my pony-tail and Pumas enclosing my soon-to-be aching feet, I take a deep breath and dive in. The tower of ovens warms the entire upstairs, beginning our day with fresh bread aromas and fresh salmon jolts. Boiled sweet coffee, served with a ladle, is passed from hand to hand. I grill. I chop. I boil. I orchestrate my work onto giant white serving dishes. I garnish. The whole while, Portuguese is being yelled, laughed, and gritted through gossipy teeth. A society all its own, here in this kitchen – and to be a part of it, I have to listen carefully, learn quickly, and smile.