As I rush to clean everything before the sink overfills with plates and pans, I am confronted, yet again, with the brutality of my working conditions. My feet and legs throb and ache from sole to calf; I can feel the onset of cramps. But the chef won’t be able to work unless I clean these pans.
The clatter of plates and screaming of orders around me have become a constant, thumping backdrop. The only noise I pay attention to is the “beep” of the service elevator next to me – its door opens to reveal an explosion of leftovers, hastily thrown in by the upstairs waiters amid dirty napkins and cutlery.
To me, the beep has come to resemble a form of torture: every new sound signals more pressure, less space, more to catch up on. I haven’t taken a break since I started working 11 hours ago. There are at least three more hours to go.
