On the left, a rosy-cheeked cook, frightened, panting, biting his lips, looking humble as he can be. On the right, his boss, the balding codger who never thinks they work fast enough around here. Around them, a ring of wide-eyed employees acting like there’s no one to serve, like kids, like school is out already. And on the counter, an affront to any cook who styles himself an artist: Boss Rones has slapped the ladle straight out of Cook’s hand, and the proof is all along the marble in driblets of red-orange. Some days it seems like nobody can cook right by the tyrant.
“You…” Cook’s voice trembles. “You can’t rush art.”