Kitchen Games: Latin Versus Non-Latin Cash

One night we had a contest to see had the most cash. I lost. I had two dollars. Everyone else looked at me as if I was a naïve fool who would be caught cashless by the debt collectors and thrown in debtor's prison. The winner was a dishwasher named Juan, who had $327. Everyone roundly agreed that this was a wonderful thing. Everyone I work with is hispanic, except for the chef and chef de cuisine.

For the rest of the evening, several people advised me, in an older-brotherly manner, that I really should be carrying more cash.

I mean really, they said, what if you need a lot of cash for an emergency? I would just use an ATM, I countered. Blank stares, some raised eyebrows, as if I just said that I would make some money with crayons and construction paper, or rely on my magic wand to get the cash.

My money is in the bank, I would protest. No one can steal it from there. This would normally be met with raised eyebrows. 'It's federally insured!', I wailed. Hardened faces, as if I was repeatedly spitting on the proof of a loving God.

Two nights ago one of the line cooks, Raul, reached into my back pocket and fished out my wallet.

“You know, your should really start carrying more than $40 dollars...”

Jesus Wept.

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Kitchen Games: Or Harassment By Any Other Name

Chef likes to pick on people. Not really in a mean way, but also, not really in a nice way. My second day he told me he was going to make me cry. I told him I would stab him in the hand with a fork when I was half way there, just so he could gauge his own effectiveness at making me cry. He paused. And stared at me. And I prepared to be fired.

To date, I have not been fired nor have I been made to cry. So detante, perhaps?

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