Walk the Line.

On the back dock, the day cooks and day preps are sitting by the dumpsters talking --about the breakfast rush, the lunch rush, the wait staff, and the prep list for tomorrow. Chef jackets are strewn on the backs of chairs and cigarette smoke swirls above their heads. They laugh. They horse around. They're finished for the day.

Through the double doors, past the broken-down card board boxes and walk-in cooler, into the kitchen-- the heart of the beast. The clatter of pots and pans are only drowned out by the loud voices of the wait staff yelling for their orders or the line cooks demanding “ more fettuccini to the line."

It’s the beginning of the dinner rush and the cooks are already "in the weeds." Tickets are coming at a constant rate. Mixtures of sliced vegetables and diced meats are being thrown into oiled sauté pans. Burgers, steaks, and salmon, are sizzling on an overcrowded broiler. Plates of food are spun up in the window as an expo franticly grabs tickets and tries to put together each table’s order. The cooks curse under their breath and wipe their brows with the sleeves of their chef coats. Waitresses blame the cooks. Cooks blame the waitresses. The smell of a burned white sauce fills the air. A waitress carries an overcrowded tray in to the dining room.

Follow the tray through another set of double doors. The guests sit with cloth napkins on their laps and sip from their stemmed water glasses. They slice into their steaks. They stab their salads. They chat inaudibly, about their days, about their lives. A group gets up to leave and put on their coats. Their table is cleared as they walk into the front lobby and out the front door.

As their night ends, others have just begun.