PG-13 · Poetry

The Pub Cook

Alex’ Apple earbuds are as much a part of him as the black, butter-stained apron, thick-rimmed glasses, or fiery Norse beard and complementary runic tattoo.

He has five main pivot points: the fryer, the grill, the fridge, the prep station and the silver table; rotating seamlessly between, never misstepping.

It only takes two minutes in the kitchen to smell like fried cod, so Alex reeks of that, and 20 ounces of Smithwick’s amber ale. He didn’t buy it, but no one cares.

Alex can curse better than anyone I’ve ever met, and he’s got it down to a form of crude poetry, complete with obscure sexual references that only he gets.

The yellow and white carbon paper hangs from the two swaying bars; I’ve learned to read backwards, as the cook is more important than me.

He reads constantly, and not shitty science fiction, but the good stuff. Here he is though, flipping off stoned servers. A near-genius nuking soup.

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