Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Technically Correct

It was the fifth time he’d said it; “two eggs over easy and I want them NOW!”

“This ‘aint a magic act” I replied, “you’ll get ‘em when I’m ready!”

I was new to the breakfast grill. It was already incredibly nerve wracking for me, remembering the recipes and styles, keeping up with the incredible speed at which everything takes place when eggs and cakes meet 500 degree steel.

I suppose he was in the right; room service was to get cook’s priority. Still, there were two obstructions. One, he was snotty, and I have an aversion to contempt. The second, sad but true, he was male, the house servers were female, and I was incredibly sexist, or chivalrous as I liked to call it.

My patience though finally gave out on his sixth shout. I set a plate on the aluminum shelf between us, and another on the shallow table in front of me. Into the lower I cracked two farm fresh eggs, and then asked the gentleman if he’d said “over easy?” He gave me a sneer before mouthing “about fucking time”.

It was then I raised the lower plate over my head, inverting it at the zenith before slamming it down on the shelved plate that he’d already been reaching for.

As pieces of yolky commercial china flew, at least one shard to each of the 360 degrees that make up the “circle of life”, I said “Over easy it is sir. Have a lovely day.”

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