And it doesn't matter how long it's been since you've worked in a restaurant, because that shit will haunt you for the rest of your natural days. Perhaps more. I'm pretty sure the 6th layer of hell involves a buffet line and Mother's Day.
Last night, I had a 9 table section and it was full. Like, full full. There was one table I kept forgetting no matter how hard I tried to, and one table of two that were fairly regular customers who came in with a double pork chop and a chocolate cake made with garbanzo bean flour (shockingly good, I've learned. Thanks, Zoeyjane. I'm totally waiting for that recipe.) They wanted the pork chop cooked to medium and the chocolate cake served to them in 5-7 minute intervals, each at a different style. And they had an evaluation form. And they were filling it in as the night progressed.
I realized this was a dream when I didn't tell them to bite me.
So, it was 20 minutes before the kitchen closed and the dish racks were all full and lined up in front of the kitchen door so I had to go outside, enter through the alley, and cook my own food. The pork chop got thrown on the grill with two steaks that someone wanted stacked up like a double cheeseburger with a side of defibrillator and I got started on the chocolate cake. I got round one plated up and ready to go, then had to run next door to the crack house to sit on the couch with the crack momma and her social worker. I wish I knew why. I was offered tea, and I can't say no to tea, and before i knew it, more than a half hour had past. I ran back, got the heart attack stack out, checked the pork and ran the first cake. And the people weren't at their table. So I took the cake back to the kitchen.
I wasted another thirty minutes looking for a hammer and chisel to open a coconut I was suddenly carrying around before I remembered the pork chop who's asian glaze I hadn't even begun to make. I ran back to the kitchen to find all of the lights out, every cooler locked and an empty grill. Romero (his name was Romero) (because I name imaginary dream people) threw the pork away when he left.
That's the point in the dream when you wake yourself up because you're about to hit the ground and if you fall that far in a dream and actually hit the ground, you'll die in your dream and in real life. If you've never worked in a restaurant, you'll hate me for wasting your time with this whole post but if you have, odds are you're puking right now, just like I wanted to when I woke up.