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Smashing Plates They were smashing plates in the kitchen. The first time I heard a crash, I thought it was an accident. But then there was a second crash. And a third. And a fourth. All in regular increments, followed by ruckus laughter. I was at the front of the restaurant serving tables in my section. I�d just sat down a large tray loaded up with six enchilada dinners, three servings of guacamole, and an extra side of grated cheese. Another crash. More laughter � this time louder. I set each plate in front of a person without flinching. The people were starting to peer over their shoulders, trying to figure out what was going on. I put the guacamole on the table. Crash. I put the cheese on the table. Crash. I asked if there was anything else they needed. Crash. I picked up the tray and decided to go back to the kitchen and tell the guys to knock it off � whatever the hell the were doing. They saw me coming down the hallway and the laughter stopped abruptly. It must have been the look on my face. I was probably scowling � thin-lipped with brows furrowed. It's not a pretty look. "Hey, chica," Eduardo acknowledged with a sheepish smile. He's the head cook � a big, beefy guy, who looks like he could be real mean in a dark alley but was a big softy for the most part. He had a plate in his hand. I stared at him hard, eyebrow raised in silent challenge. A plate flew past my ear and hit the wall � crash � shattering into a thousand tiny shards. It scared the crap out of me, and I spun around to see who'd done it. The waiter Gabriel stood there with a guilty smile. He didn't say he was sorry � not even with his eyes. A dozen others hung around and snickered � waiters, busboys, barbacks, and cooks. "What the hell are you doing?" I demanded. "Chica, the big jefe is closing Lupita's," Eduardo said. His voice was soft and his smile held regret. "He tell us five minutes ago. No warning. We close in two days." He might as well have punched me straight in the gut. For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe. Closing Lupita's in two days � what the hell were we going to do? I am your typical blue-collar worker. I live paycheck to paycheck. Or in this business, tip to tip. I count on the daily cash in my pocket. Everyone in that kitchen was no different. Two days ... The nerve! How am I supposed to find a replacement job in two freaking days? And rent was coming up in a week. Shit. The ice in my stomach melted a little and I took a deep breath. I looked into Eduardo's eyes and could see the resignation there. The desperation. The anger. The betrayal. And there was a touch of laugh-or-cry there, too. He was holding the plate out for me to take. I stared at it for several seconds. "He's closing us down for real," I said, my voice a little hoarse. "Si, chica. En realidad. In two days." He paused. "So we break plates. What can el jefe do? Fire us? Ha!" I watched my fingers wrap around the plate. For a few seconds, there was total silence. Then I raised my arm slowly, pulling it all the way back behind my head. And with all the strength and frustration I had, I sent it flying across the kitchen. The plate crashed against the far wall � between the back door and the fajita station � and shards of porcelain speckled the floor. Tiny pieces fell into the deep fryer and sprinkled chicken and onions on the grill. "Now you've done it!" Eduardo shouted and clapped enthusiastically while the dishwashers and grillmen hooted with laughter. They handed me another plate. I smashed it, too. We were smashing plates in the kitchen. We didn't give a crap about the consequences. It was the best thing I ever did at Lupita's. Given the circumstances, it was the only thing I really could do � the only thing that would let me leave with a certain degree of satisfaction. Feedback? E-mail me at [email protected]. |