Saltwater

Despair always felt like drowning. It’s the panic before the acceptance. The way its claws would dig into my throat as the air was yanked out of me. The longer I tried to fight it, the more it dragged me down, further and further into that dark abyss. At that point I just let it happen.

The things that used to give me passion now leave me feeling empty. I’m stuck on a loop, the same orders being given, the servers coming back every few minutes to ask for a customer’s order. Pots and pans being thrown into the dishpit to be cleaned, music blaring loudly to drown out the thoughts that haunted everyone’s minds.

The aroma of various spices and herbs are what kept me from drowning further into that dark mindset. Whenever the rush started to subside, it was our downtime. Restocking, cleaning, eating when we can and yet all of this used to give me ambition, striving me to work harder to be more than just a prep cook.

I wanted to be a chef, a true chef.

They created art, new flavors and new experiences with their food. That’s what I have been craving for, to finally create a dish worthy of being seen on the main menu. Just once in my life, to get the approval of the head chef.

“Tony what the hell are you making man? You’re wasting your time with that dish, I’m telling ya.” One of the older prep cooks said, shaking their head at him.

I can feel his eyes on my hands, using what little ingredients were left over from the rush that didn’t get used. The plating looked good--decent maybe, it could be better in my opinion. It would just have to do for now as I picked up the plate and carried it over to the head chef. Who was sitting in his office, having his quick lunch before the dinner rush began.

I didn’t even get to set the plate down before he spoke, his accent thick, there would be times where I would have to strain myself to hear him speak. “No good.” He gruffed.

“Chef, you didn’t even try it.” I frowned, looking down at my plate.

“Chicken undercooked.” He said simply.

“I was going for a juicy-”

“No good.”

Rejection came down harsher than any girl I have ever asked out. A soft scoff leaving my lips as I turned away and tossed the food into the trash without a second thought.

No good, no good, no good. The words that continued to ring in my head, I lost count how many times I had been rejected. Yet, I still find myself in the kitchen, prepping the food for the next meal, for the next order, for the next customer that could walk in those doors. Someone who could one day enjoy my food.

Every rejection left me feeling like I would never touch the fire that burned within me. Dish after dish, rejection. From a main meal to a side salad, even dessert. There had been something that had inspired me to make it, a flicker of hope? Maybe? The colors were so bright that the glaze on top made it shine at every corner. At least the chef tried this one.

“Sour.” His lips were pressed together in a thin line, his brows pinched together.

Trash.

At least this dish made it outside, I was stupid to make a whole 10 inch pan. The outside lights flickered on as the sun set, I could smell the faint scent of saltwater from the pier nearby. The ocean sprays like a wake up call, calming me just for the moment just before those claws of despair sank back into my skin again. I had my back turn for a moment, digging into my pockets for my keys before I heard munching behind me. I spun around to see a homeless man, digging into the trash. He pulled out the same dish I just threw out, my face twisted in disgust as he dug his fingers into the tart.

“That’s disgusting.” I said, repulsed by the sight.

To think my dish would result in this? A homeless man eating it with his bare hands. I almost vomited, not only from his stench but noticing the dirt in his fingers mingled with my dessert. No, it was trash now. “It’s delicious, sour but I like sour.” The homeless man grumbled, licking his fingers.

I gagged, “You’re delusional.”

“May not be everyone’s cup of tea, but you can’t please everyone.”

Was I crazy to be encouraged by a man who ate my food with his hands? Yes. Someone who reeked of sewage and was in desperate need of a hose down? Sure. But he liked my food. I couldn’t please everyone, which left me to try harder to create that one dish. Something that screamed that I did it, that I put those flavors together and cooked everything in the right temperature.

This was it, I was excited. I also felt a little sick, that homeless man’s stench haunted my nightmares but didn’t stop me from presenting the dish to the head chef again. It was a main entreé, sirloin cuts marinated in a variety of sauces and spices and herbs. It smelled good, I had even sliced up some onions and tomatoes from some leftovers I didn’t use to prep. I topped it over some rice.

When I presented it to the chef, I could see the approval in his eyes at the plating, “Not bad.”

I was standing on the edge of the pier, waiting for that ship to arrive. To hear those words that I longed to hear. The scraps of his knife and fork on the plate were the chains of the ship docking. That first bite had my heart in my hands.

He set his cutlery down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “No good.”

Son of a b-

What was I doing wrong?

I must have had that question slapped onto my forehead because the chef answered, “It looks nice, but it’s tasteless.”

The chef didn’t even finish the food. I had the plate in my hand and I could feel the frustration and anger show its ugly self to me again. I was yanking at my apron, throwing it into the trash bin outside, along with the plate of food I made. I kicked an old crate out of anger, yelling in frustration as I stomped on the plastic crate that the scent of saltwater couldn’t calm me down.

The only thing that pulled me out of that ugly cloud of dread was the sound of rustling from behind me. I turned my head to see the same homeless man eating out of the trash again, I pointed a finger at him, “Liar!”

The homeless man only blinked, chewing on the piece of steak. I didn’t even give him a chance to speak, “You have no taste! You gave me hope! Saying my food was delicious when it’s not!”

The homeless man took another bite out of the steak before he answered me, “Do you know what it needs? A pinch of salt.” He takes another bite, chewing as he spoke with a mouthful, “Not those fancy stuff like star anise, it’s too strong when you need it to be simple.”

“What do you know? You’re homeless.”

“Homeless or not, food is food and sometimes a grain of salt can go a long way.”

Had the answer always been there? Was I really so blind that it was literally being thrown into my face every single time I stepped out to throw my food away in the trash? I tried my recipes again, this time making sure to add salt. Salt, being seen as a simple ingredient that I easily left out.

I always thought it would make my food salty if I put too much, to think it would enhance the flavor and make all the other ingredients shine better than before. I presented both entreé and dessert to the head chef again.

This time I was terrified.

I was afraid to look as he ate, I almost missed the approving nod of his head as he chewed on the steak. My heart did a somersault, even as I watched him eat the dessert to hear that hum of approval as he savored it. “Very good.”

FINALLY!

I’d kiss that homeless man if I wasn’t afraid of knowing the last time he brushed his teeth. I didn’t even have leftovers to give to him as I rushed outside, searching around the trashcans for him. Had that homeless man been a figment of my imagination? Wherever he may be, I just hope he gets to try my food again. This time on a table. The sun slowly begins to set over the horizon, my eyes drawn to the sight of the water.

Right on the other side of the brick road, always out of reach but still lingered in the air. That ocean scent that drew me closer to the water until I could see it lap at my shoes. The despair that once clung onto me stared right back at me, it was a constant reminder that it would always be there at the back of my mind. Always ready to latch its claws into me again and pull me down under.

Just as the sun finally set, painting the skies in dark hues of blue and violets. The salty air clinging to my skin, a reminder of what I have accomplished as I stared out into that ocean water.