By Navin Ahire
Steel clangs, fires roar, meat sizzles, sauces bubble, steam billows.
Sweat crawls down my neck.
Near me, the sous chef starts arguing with the dishie about whether he was late.
I don’t look. With my spoon, I pat a thin filet of chicken breast in my pan and gently dress her with brown gravy and mushrooms.
The argument escalates to screaming. Out of the corner of my eye, an apron is thrown to the ground.
My gravy thickens. I reach for a serving plate.
It’s snatched and flung and it shatters against a wall.
I find another. The marsala will live.
Great last line! I enjoyed it.