Sun Tzu - The Art of War

Restaurant cooking is nothing like home.

Every morning shines on another battlefield bloodthirsty.
White jackets as obscene as shields painted before war.
Blood and dirt and vegetation smears.
Sharpening your finest blade, gently following every grain in steel, soft handwashed caress on implement of slice and hack and butchery.

Fibers of tendons sinewy raw and ready.
Orders hang like scalps.

No burn nor slice nor broken thumb can make you flinch.

Reflex takes over and limbs slip into the paths of least resistance. The glide and toss, the internal timers running in parallel.


Waitress bolt from patron to patron counting coup.