A few weeks worth of dish pit shifts. Within ten minutes of my first day, I was covered in tartar sauce. Anywhere can be a starting place. There are lessons to be learned in the weeds. There’s a proper way to clean silverware.
“You know lobster used to be prison food?”
There are sated guests, missed sunsets, and sometimes shift beers.
Growth takes time, patience, and effort. At least that’s what my grandma says.
The dish pit is the lowest ranking in the kitchen brigade. It’s like the stokehold or fire room of a steam-powered ship. It can be dirty, it can be dangerous, but the ship can’t operate without coal, or in this case, clean dishes. It’s a reminder to give the same amount of respect to the custodian as the CEO.
Eventually, I made my way to the line. Got kicked off the fry station after a few misfires.
“If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.”
Before an evening shift, I registered my car—opting for the “Lobster Specialty Plate.” Proceeds of which go towards the State of Maine Department of Marine Resources: Lobster Research, Education and Development Board. The raised ending sequence on the thin ornamental sheet metal reads “BLD.” I looked at my hands. You earned it, bud.
On a rare day off, I crack a Queer Brewing Wit to enjoy in the backyard—a beer made to honor one of Portland’s flagships. The oven burns and micro cuts have blistered and cautiously healed. Partially crusted like dried mayo on black denim in golden hour. A painter’s palette left to dry.
Words + Photo by Samer Khudairi