45 Queen Street BTS
There’s something particularly special about working in the kitchen. The intimacy, the mess, the victory. Days happen on structured loops that feel both infinite and fleeting. You wash your hands 60 times a day, lemon juice in little cuts, blue plasters on bigger ones. Blenders, ovens, hot plates, grills, windows open. Anticipation. A memory game. We communicate via a simple shorthand quick fire script. Doors open, music changes, we’re on the stage and the curtain has been drawn. We move deliberately and it’s a dance, all of us weaving in close contact like worker bees. Respect, pride, expression, success. Toast and peanut butter with a cocktail for dinner after service, vegetable ends becoming flowers, our belongings sprinkled across our work spaces.
