Scraps

In the first weeks, when this job is new, I still get most of my daily calories from greek yogurt, eaten in my car. My job during this time is to shuttle around the patio, offering sourdough with carrot pesto and nasturtium, laid particularly on a raw stone. At first, proximity to this, to the businesswomen in their pumps, to their small and beautiful things, is all. At first, taking order tickets to the garde-manger, its literal translation “guardian of the meats,” the newness of restaurant work, is enough. 

I wait outside in the middle of the cocktail party as long as I can. These small bites the line cooks have layered heartbreakingly: I can’t get them all gone. I don’t want to insult the cooks by bringing their food back, uneaten, but it is still summer, still nearly a hundred degrees, and I am still wearing a three-piece suit and wool socks. I leave the patio, seeping everywhere, set the half plate on the steel counter; no eye contact. I don’t even know to glance up at the man whose whites say his name is Fox as he hands me a crisp with hazelnut crème and trout caviar, asks very simply, “You don’t want a snack?”