One dream in Paris

4. The kitchen porter (Madara)

One of my least favourite things about working in the kitchen scene was the rapid turnover of staff.

Somebody got promoted so their place needed to be filled. Somebody got a better offer and quit and their place need to be filled. Somebody sucked and got sacked and so their place needed to be filled. It was all part of it. But it didn't make me hate it any less.

"Kitchen!" Tobirama called us and walked in, his white robe straining pleasantly over his chest, his chef's hat the only one higher than the one I had that I refused to wear anyway. I hated when he called us kitchen, as if we were a collective, as if I was only a part of it and not special to him. Well, I probably wasn't special to him. But why did he have to shove it down my throat like that? I hated it when Tobirama shoved things down my throat. Or wait, scratch that; I would love if Tobirama shoved something down my throat. "New kitchen porter starts. Be kind."

At this, he looked at me. Or, I hadn't looked up so I didn't see him looking at me, but I knew he did. I could feel it.

On Saturdays, we began even earlier than usual as we did lunches then. They were not as popular as the dinners, but since they only occurred once a week they still had to be booked months in advance just like the dinners. The worst part was, Tobirama had put me in charge of the lunches as head chef. He had had to beg me for months before I had accepted only last year. It wasn't that he couldn't or didn't want to do it himself; he just thought it was a waste of my talent. "I know you don't want to be head chef. But please. Just the lunches. Please."

I had accepted to shut him up. Or to make him happy, although I would never admit that. But now, he called for my attention.

"Madara." I looked up. "I'm in charge of lunch today. The kitchen porter arrives at seven. You'll show him around."

I put my knife, that I had been sharpening on wet stone, down with a clang.

"I will do no such thing", I said, playing with my fingers on the steel board of my working desk which I knew made my underarm muscles play intimidatingly, even if I knew Tobirama would not be intimidated. But I could hope.

"You will. I'm in charge."

"What are you going to do, force me?" I asked darkly.

Our bantering always caused the rest of the kitchen to fall in an incredible tension, even if it had been a few years since I started, but we were both fine, really.

"Yes", he said simply, to which I laughed humourlessly, but Tobirama just turned around and started giving orders.

I went back to sharpening my knife.

It slipped, giving me another cut that would, in time, calcify into a scar. 

The kitchen porter was the lowest rank in the kitchen. They usually lacked formal training, and their job was to do simple tasks like peeling potatoes and some cleaning duties. If you were partaking in, or had already had formal training, you would begin as a junior chef and climb your way up. I never gave the junior chefs any attention other than to ask for things. Much less the kitchen porters.

I could hear Tobirama's voice as he showed the new kitchen porter in from the hallway to the kitchen from the back door. I looked up from the sashimi I was slicing into such thin slices you would probably not see them if you looked at them from the side, not able to help my curiosity. When he stepped in, I was taken aback. The figure who came in was... Surprising, to say the least.