The Bistro

The Bistro


         It takes thirty seconds to assemble a turkey Panini.
         In that time I try not to think about how stupid the customer who just ordered it is.
         No tomato.
         No mustard.
         Extra mayo; heavy duty extra mayo.
         Add lettuce.
         Add fucking lettuce. That’s great. A Panini is a grilled sandwich. Grilled means hot. Hot means nasty-slimy lettuce.
         In that thirty seconds I try not to think about how long it’s going to be until I’m off.
         I try not to think about what I’m doing in a place like this.
         I try not to think about how old I am, or how many years I have left before I die.
         Seventy years?
         Sixty?
         Fifty?
         Fuck. No tomato. God damn it.
         I try not to think about the last time I had sex.
         Think Zen.
         I try not to think about how many cigarettes I’ve smoked already, or how many I can smoke yet today.
         Heavy mayo. I won’t forget that. I wonder what would happen if I put mayo on both sides of both slices of bread.
         I don’t.
         I try not to think about how much money I’ll have in the bank after this month’s bills.
         I try not to think about having to do laundry after work, or the fucking dishes that have been piling up for the past two weeks.
         The sandwich goes on the grill. Three minutes until it’s ready.
         I work at a bistro. A bistro restaurant is the equivalent to a hipster person.
         Be unique.
         Look unique.
         We serve coffee, espresso, Panini’s, breakfasts, and a variety of food I probably never would have eaten if I hadn’t ever worked here.
         Margherita Pizzette.
         Black Bean Burger.
         Tabouleh. I still haven’t tried that.
         Antipasto.
         Frittata.
         Shit like that.
         All Panini’s come with plain kettle chips, a pickle slice, and an orange slice.
         Look unique.
         The girl that has ordered this Panini doesn’t want chips, though. She wants some fruit instead.
         Be unique.
         I try not to think about how much garbage this place produces.
         Think Zen.
         One minute left until the Panini is done.
         Think Zen. Think being content with where you are, what you’re doing, and who you are.
         I’m in the kitchen of a bistro, cutting fruit, and I’m a nobody.
         Think Zen.
         Being a nobody is okay, no ego.
         Think Zen.
         Working in a bistro is okay, modest pay.
         Think Zen.
         Cutting fruit up for a whiny-prissy fucking customer is okay.
         Think Zen.
         I bring the sandwich out to the lady.
         “Oh, actually, could I get that to-go? I didn’t realize how long it was going to take to make it.” She says.
         Think Zen.
         “Sure, no problem.” I smile, more fake than the tits of a forty year old self-conscious, self-absorbed, lady who used to look good when she was younger.
         Think Zen.
         It takes thirty seconds to assemble a turkey Panini. It takes three minutes for it to grill.
         That’s three and a half minutes. Add a minute and a half at most for running the food or taking the order or waiting in line.
         That’s five minutes.
         How much fucking time did she think it was going to take? Did she expect it to just pop up right after she ordered it? Did she think we pre-heat the sandwiches? Did she think this is fucking McDonald’s?
         I try not to think about consumer America.
         I try not to think about the problematic addiction to instant gratification.
         Think Zen.
         Think of how everything is the universe.
         Kinhin Zen; walking meditation.
         I try not to think about what might happen if I drop a piece of her fruit on the floor before putting it into the to-go container.
         “Here you are, ma’am.” I give her the food.
         “Thank you.”
         I walk back to the kitchen.
         It’s the middle of our lunchtime rush.
         I try not to think about that.
         “There’s three more sandwiches for you. I just put the tickets back there.” One of my co-workers says.
         I try not to think of how pretty she is. She has a boyfriend.
         Think boyfriend.
         Think Zen.
         Zen monks don’t have girlfriends or wives or any type of significant other.
         I need a cigarette.
         No, no, I want a cigarette.
         There’s a difference.
         I’m trying to quit smoking because Zen monks don’t smoke cigarettes.
         Think zazen; sitting meditation.
         “Order. Here’s two more sandwiches.” My pretty co-worker says.
         This is where I work. This is my job. A lot of people say it’s the best job in town to have if you don’t have any schooling.
         I don’t have any schooling.
         And I don’t like working here.
         It’s not so much this place, but the working. I don’t like working. I don’t like the idea of a job or a career or making a living.
         I am fucking living.
         Why do I work here then?
         I have to be. I went to prison for selling drugs, so I have to deal with the restrictions of being on parole.
         No alcohol. That’s fine.
         No drugs. Obviously.
         No guns. No shit.
         No voting. No problem.
         No leaving the state without written permission. Problem.
         Must have a job at which I must work at least thirty-five to forty hours a week. Problem.
         That’s why I work at the bistro.
         If I wasn’t on parole I’d be in Japan right now, practicing sitting around and doing nothing, thinking nothing. If I wasn’t on parole right now, I wouldn’t be working at the bistro, I wouldn’t be living in a shitty-two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-month studio apartment downtown, I wouldn’t be driving a car my parents sold to me at half of what it’s worth because they’re just so darn proud of me for getting out and staying out of prison for this long.
         Thanks, Mom and Dad. I know, it’s a real fucking accomplishment.
         If I wasn’t on parole right now I wouldn’t be writing this.
         If I wasn’t on parole right now I’d be in Japan practicing Zen.
         “Order. This ticket has five sandwiches on it.” My pretty co-worker says to me as she hands me the ticket. “All of them have soup, too.”
         Call me nobody.
         I need a cigarette.
         And some fucking coffee.