The Triangle

As the eager summer sun crept up on the horizon, I walked anxiously down the graffitied street. My nose caught a nauseating whiff of cheap grain alcohol as I passed the dumpster overflowing with glass bottles. I hesitated for a moment before stepping inside the building. The Triangle Lounge was a funky old place- passing as a restaurant by day and rowdy bar by night. Her backside was about as easy on the eyes as a friendly crack whore: tired, abused, and a little scary. As I slipped in through the back door, I could feel the beads of sweat forming above my lip. The kitchen was cramped with appliances, the low-boys humming softly. I flipped the switch on the industrial-sized fan, which buzzed furiously to keep the temperature down. Making the rounds to turn on the fryer, flat top, and five ovens, my cheeks started to flush from the overwhelming heat.

I cautiously walked out into the dining room. If I had told you we don’t get tornadoes in Seattle, only earthquakes, you probably wouldn’t have believed me. Spilled liquor and empty bottles covered the worn wooden bar as well as the floor. Tables and chairs were strewn about, and the smell was ripe, to say the least. As I turned the corner, I almost jumped when I saw JC, the bar manager, passed out on the floor. JC had been part of the 90's grunge scene, an era he clung to tightly. He was 32, scruffy looking, and always sweating from the copious amounts of drugs he relied on to keep going. He had a nasty habit of taking shots with regulars, getting so wasted he would sleep at the Triangle. I managed to convince Hugo, the jolly Mexican dishwasher who didn’t speak a word of English, to wake JC up and start mopping the floors. It was then that I asked myself, "What the hell am I doing here?".

With a year of culinary school under my belt, I thought I knew most everything about cooking. I idolized all the big shots: Thomas Keller, Ferran Adria, Anthony Bourdain. I had skills; I could concassé tomatoes, chiffonade basil, and squirt sauce decoratively on a plate. I thought being a chef was about searing expensive meats and reducing luxurious sauces. My imaginative dreams included traveling to Europe to study under culinary masters. The cherry on top of the sundae would be opening a restaurant of my own, which would lead to my inevitable fame.

But before I could get any further down the road to success, I knew I needed to earn some street cred. I wanted to feel legit, get a few scars on my hands and blisters on my feet. I was home for the summer and needed work as a cook before returning to my prestigious culinary school. Luckily, I beat out all the other competitors (ha) for a job at the Triangle Lounge, in Seattle’s Fremont district. My first couple days went smoothly, and although I thought I was above such menial work as frying chips and making tubs of pico de gallo, I felt kind of bad-ass working there. Everyone smoked, drank on the job, and told dirty jokes. I was also the new girl, so the attention wasn’t bad either.

This was my second Sunday at the Triangle, and today I was working brunch by myself. I thought I had managed to impress the chef throughout the week with my culinary lingo and clean chef whites. Sure enough, that Wednesday, the handwritten schedule was posted: BRUNCH/Emily. Maybe he wanted to test me, maybe he had just fired two cooks, maybe he was high. Who knows why, but I was assigned brunch that Sunday alone. By most standards, brunch at the Triangle was pretty typical: eggs Benedict, French toast, omelets, etc. I found the scribbled prep list from the previous nights' crew, and began to feel faint. Hollandaise, poached eggs, sliced fruit, French toast batter, pancake batter, clarify butter, biscuits, gravy, precook bacon, sausage, and chorizo. I had two hours to figure out, organize, and prepare for a brunch I had learned for the first time a week ago. Needless to say, the time disappeared like a line of coke in front of JC.

Proudly, I congratulated myself on making my nine o'clock deadline. I had managed to finish all the prep on the list and chug a few tall glasses of acrid coffee with a couple minutes to spare. For some reason, still unknown to me, adventuresome Seattle tourists were able to look past the distressed exterior of the Triangle Lounge, and invite themselves inside. The furious DEET-DA-DEET-DEET of the ticket printer started promptly at 9:15. Two top: one eggs Benny, one Italian scramble. Not bad, knocked 'em out quick. DEET-DA-DEET! Four top: one stuffed French toast, one corned beef hash, one biscuit and gravy, one eggs Benny. I was handling this pretty good. After a few well spaced tickets and relatively easy orders, I started to feel confident. Then the printer started spewing orders, back to back. Omelets, eggs over easy, medium, and hard. Rye bread, wheat bread, bagel- no butter. DEET-DA-DEEEEET. Sauce on the side, hash browns extra crispy, smoked salmon Benny. I started to lose it. I was so shaky I would break the yolks on perfectly cooked eggs and have to start over. I forgot to toast bread, ran out of precooked bacon, and the hollandaise broke. Hung-over JC (who was filling in for a flaky server), couldn’t pick up his food in time, and I would have to refire entire orders. My confidence started fading as panic took its place.

If I had been able to pause for one minute, I would have burst into tears. Hugo, the dishwasher, could sense my frustration. He gestured that he would take over the fryer, and while I spun around to drop food on the plates, he flipped pancakes and French toast. He would ask my approval before plating anything, "Amiga, mas papas fritas?". I would look over and blurt out a grateful, "SI!" then get back to organizing my thoughts. By the time the night crew rolled in, I had officially been defeated. I didn’t even bother to make myself a shift meal, I just walked to my car in shame.

That day broke me. It shattered my confidence as a cook, and put me in my place: just a novice culinary school freshman. How could I ever make it in Paris if I couldn’t even cut it at the nastiest dive bar in Seattle? I could talk about foie gras torchon and truffles, but I realized none of that mattered unless you could hold down a line. I learned that speed, agility, and memorization were much more valuable than being able to list culinary facts.

I wanted to run away from the Triangle and never look back, but I knew I had to stick it out. That summer I got scars on my hands and blisters on my feet. I learned kitchen Spanish, and became good buddies with my savior, Hugo. I learned how to multitask and organize ticket orders in my head. I tried many types of alcohol for the first time, often before noon. I unclogged a toilet in the ladies room on a Saturday night in front of a line of impatient drunks. Working at the Triangle Lounge, not only did I learn how to be a cook, but I grew up.