A View From The Other Side of Your Tortellini Carbonara

"Clemente, I need silverware," one of the waitresses calls across the kitchen. Her voice is raised in high pitch. He does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on his hands that scrape food off pasta-covered plates into the trashcan. "I need it now," the girl repeats. At her words, he lifts his plump face and manages a small nod. Sweat soaks his forehead and bright red t-shirt. The large circles of moisture could be dishwater but it's unlikely--the humidity in the back left corner of the kitchen is almost tangible.

I lean my back up against the tile lining the wall that was cold at the beginning of the night but now sweats like the other fifteen men surrounding me. The silver dish rack sits to my left, and plates and cocktail glasses are placed on and pulled off with the traffic that glides constantly across the wet floor. "Hey, silverware's ready," Clemente calls out to whoever will listen. Within moments the blue plastic container is drawn from the dryer and out to the bar to be rolled into black-cloth sticks. Without receiving a simple "thanks!" Clemente returns his attention and already-pruney fingers to the stainless-steel sink of scalding, soapy water.

Girls zoom in and out of doors on the far left and far right of the small, cramped room. If entering from the left, they rush past Jose the salad man with his bowls of crisp green leaves and endless compartments of toppings. "Crap! I forgot a side-Caesar," a girl with short brown hair shrieks. Returning just moments later, she is handed a glass plate and whisks it out to the hungry customer. There is no time to revel in his quick handedness--he tears off another yellow slip from the printer and begins building his next small creation.

"Lia, my lover," a soft voice calls, bringing my eyes to John's blue, mesh Hawaiian shirt. "How are you today?" he asks, his voice making a clear distinction at the stop and start of each word. With his left hand, he flips small pieces of chicken in a skillet and simultaneously checks on the boiling pot of tortellini. I smile at him, wishing I could sink deeper into the walls and watch the goings-on without disrupting their work--without being a distraction.

But that's just the thing--I don't belong here. I am still wearing my work-clothes from the lunch shift. My black outfit strongly contrasts the vibrant colors of the cooks and kitchen staff. My pale skin, badly needing sunlight, sticks out amongst their softly tanned bodies and rhythmic Hispanic accents. John yells something in Spanish to Dino on the other side of the kitchen, where the pasta is prepared and soon after clumps of meat are produced from the meat grinder.

"You ready for lasagna?" Dino says, catching another waitress's arm as she hurries by. "Yeah, um, yeah sure," she replies, pausing to adjust the bowl of soup she already carries. And just as she makes her way through the wooden swing-doors she swings her blond head back around to face him. "Thanks!" she calls out.

His face is swollen in a smile as he returns to fill bowls with slimy spaghetti noodles and rigatoni. It calls me to think about their place in this Italian restaurant--how nothing we wouldn't exist without them. How the tips, sometimes pushing $150 on weekend nights, would evaporate without their speed, their expertise. I am so thankful for their diligence, for all the little things like 30-second salads and dishes prepared just the right way for the pickiest of palates.