THE BACK ALLEY

Portland, is without a doubt one of the countries best weirdly kept cities to enjoy a vast array of creative meals, be it a lovingly crafted pub burger to soak up one too many well whiskeys resting in your stomach, or a finely composed dollop of roasted beets with a tiny crispy piece of duck meat leaning against it, bone reaching valiantly towards the heavens. When it comes to chefs, we have all kinds. Broad shouldered ex-punk rock tattooed blow-snorting beasts, to elegant exhausted lean and fierce lady chefs, with hair piled neatly atop their head. They've all worked together, they've all yelled at each other, and they all love to make food.

Sadly, too often, with Portland's desperate need to have a gimmick, or a special menu (which I am not personally against) it becomes too much of a popularity contest. Which Chef will look the best holding their masterfully arranged prismatic confections on Instagram? Who knows all the right people, and understands the importance of giant crystals of hand shaved Sea Salt? I have nothing but respect for anyone who achieves these kinds of positions, having worked under many myself as their right hand whipping boy. That brings me to the back alley. The dark truth behind the curtain. The great equalizer. The hall of legends.

Here, after the rush is over, as you shoulder the heavy back door open, and swing the ready-to-burst bag of kitchen garbage with all your might into the overflowing dumpster, thankful to some dark Gods that it didn't tear open, easing your crud-caked stripped kitchen pants down onto a slightly damp milk crate, feeling the ache in your legs and lower back, you become a hero. You look down at your arms, blasted with ribbons of grease, countless swear words spelled out in tiger stripe burns and oil splashed red patches. These are your battle scars. This is your tribute to the taste buds of people you'll never meet. You pull a bent pre-rolled cigarette out from your breast pocket, and light it with a stick torch. You take two drags and rub the sleepiness out of your eyes, replacing it with whatever schmutz was on your fingers. You're a machine held together with coffee, nicotine, and Spotify playlists.

A server comes out, silently fuming at the frustration of stroking their customer's egos. You give a nod of recognition saying “Yep. That kind of night.” You give them the rest of your cigarette, feeling a bond of comradery, despite the fact that you fucked up one of their orders, and they rang in some apps wrong. You give your back one last stretch, and head back inside, because there are dishes to do.

The food industry is a stressful, rewarding, hair pulling, body ruining field. We burn our candle at both ends, and then use it to light the flat top, because it went out again. We're a team. We understand the struggle. When we go out to eat on our own time, we peek back into the kitchen with respect and curiosity. We're all one family. We stay sane with shift drinks, laughter, and countless other chemical comforts, but in the end, we just want to hear you say “Yum” as you walk back to your car, passing the weird grease covered hero in the back alley.