Thinly Sliced

Rick Jensen groaned inwardly as the alarm went off at six. He didn’t even wake up this early for school. Weekends were sacred to most high school students. Saturday mornings usually meant sleeping until noon or heading off to the beach until sundown. But this one was different.

The first of the day’s sunshine stabbed like an ice bath as it lit upon his laptop and pile of textbooks. All his dark brown eyes wanted to do was remain shut.

He had to make a considerable dent in his homework before his afternoon shift at the restaurant. His essay was due on Monday, and he hadn’t even started the research. The topic? Whether robots would replace humans in the workplace. It wasn’t exactly something that would write itself.

He thought of a few teachers he’d happily replace with robots, then got to work. Four hours later, Rick had lost track of time. He was ready to write a potential outline. He discovered he had a particular interest in this assignment.

The food industry was being reinvented with the help of robots, and as a grill cook, Rick wasn’t fond of over-modernization.

“Ma, what do you think about robots in the workplace?” By this time, Rick was starving and needed more than a coffee refill in the kitchen.

“Well, my home is my workplace. That makes you and your sisters my robots, and I’m happy having it that way. Convenience is overrated, in my opinion.”

“You mean you wouldn’t want a robot to do those little things that take up a lot of time, like shelling peas or shucking corn and peeling potatoes and carrots?”

“Not in the least,” she declared firmly. “I have a heart full of memories that belong to this family doing those very things.”

“I agree, Mom. But the world out there is changing.”

“All the more reason to keep the little things like that alive in here. It takes everything available to raise good kids. That means little things like peas and corn. A real family just can’t be built with robots. Now sit down and have some breakfast.”

Rick couldn’t help it. He agreed with his mom, despite the pros that robots in the food industry presented. He had to be impartial, but he wondered if his mom had inadvertently instilled in him everything he loved about working in a kitchen.

Every chore she’d given him as a child had felt like a privilege that wasn’t reserved solely for his sisters. He had loved doing whatever she gave him to do, and right now, with his mom winking at him, he knew there wasn’t a robot assembled that could compete with the mouthful of fruit-covered pancakes that put a crooked smile on his face.

He enjoyed his job and loved spending at least a few minutes with his mom before heading off to the restaurant. Time with his mom—and her food—had the makings of a great day, no matter what.

He thought about all the technology he had ingested to get this far with his paper. You are what you eat, he pondered. Presentation is everything in the kitchen, but letters don’t have a lot of flavour. How can I make magic happen so that real food sings on the page?

There were more than a few things about automation in the food industry that didn’t agree with him. The suffering environment alone seemed like enough to shut the whole thing down. Even without machines, there wasn’t much difference taking place anyway.

What bothered him the most was that people were losing their jobs to this new technology. His food couldn’t possibly taste any better if it meant someone wasn't able to buy their own.

At work, he talked with his boss. They were both in the kitchen today, and Rick was interested in what she had to say. She was the mind behind this well-oiled machine.

She was a role model for many, not the least Rick, so when the chance presented itself to tell Geraldine Hudson about his assignment and ask her what she thought about food automation, he didn’t pass it up.

He wasn’t surprised that she had some views of her own that made him think. He started taking mental notes.

Geraldine was married, and two of her three children worked for her. She had been running the restaurant for eight years, creating a family-style menu that was reasonably priced and offered plenty of variety.

Porterhouse steaks and burgers on brioche buns, juicy as they were, were not the only signature dishes. Red and white, Geraldine cooked her own vibrant, creamy, classic pasta sauces. If customers were in the mood for it, tender liver and onions, or savoury beef stroganoff were always available.

Fresh lake trout came with a choice of thick fries, earthy baked potatoes or buttery mash. The farmer’s market provided fresh vegetables, and several mouthwatering chicken dishes made the place a hit.

Oozing grilled cheese, hearty clubs, and various tangy salad sandwiches were as popular and delicious as the crispy Monte Cristos and crackly French Dips. If it was on the menu, it was ready to be served.

Geraldine worked tirelessly because she wanted her restaurant to thrive in and for the community, and she had plans to open up a tea room too, someday.

“Not in here!” That was her first statement. “Great meals are made with finesse. That means attention to detail and a knowledge of food that can only be learned by instinct.”

Rick was so pleased with this free instruction that he almost felt guilty. With first-hand insight into the direction he wanted his paper to go, and words of on-the-job wisdom from the source, this information was priceless.

“If they want to start using machines in food, it should make them take a good, hard look at what they’re putting into it.”

“Robots should revolutionize the quality of food, and if they don’t help solve world hunger, then they’re not worth their salt.” Her pun was reflected in the twinkle of her eyes.

“When it comes to food, you have to use your head, and your heart as much as your five senses. You want to satisfy your customers, not program them.”

“This is a meal in itself,” thought Rick. He was glad he had asked, and his admiration for his boss increased. He also couldn’t help but feel that his job was secure. He wanted to ask her what she thought about robots replacing humans and taking their jobs, but it seemed like a redundant question—an insult, even—that might make her angry.

That night, when Jeff got home, he sat down and talked with his mom about what his boss had said.

“If anyone would have this much to say about it, it would be Geraldine,” she said.

“Don’t think she doesn’t know about how technology in food services can take a person’s job right from under their nose. She most likely hates the very idea of it, with a family-run business.”

Rick was readier than ever to write his assignment.

He showered and settled up in bed with his word processor, and found a cup of homemade cocoa on his bedside table. “Thanks, Ma!” he yelled out.

“It's on the house!” came the reply.

He finished his outline in record time and dirty-wrote a rough draft. He’d be up again early in the morning with a second afternoon shift and might not be as jazzed as he was right now.

All that would be left was the final editing, and there was nothing better than time spent away from writing to make it easier. Sleep would only further improve the process, much like the flavours are enhanced when food is left in the fridge overnight.

He wasn’t just excited about his next shift, but also about his report. He was excited about everything. And tired.

Once asleep, Rick slowly slipped into a dream. He was doubly unaware of his surroundings. He wasn’t exactly sure who he was because he had become a robot, a machine with no ability to move, see or feel anything but food being dropped from the hollow metal casing that made up the location where his head should be.

His thoughts were fainter—dimmer than they should be, and more limited. He had to work harder to form them, even in sleep when they should be running amok. He had lost his sense of smell. He could vaguely sense the food passing through him and landing in open containers. He was a robot, but he also had vague recollections of being someone else he was connected to. He remembered Rick, but Rick was in the robot, and they were worlds apart.

“I. Remember. This…Substance. Used. to...handle. Differently. It. Was…Important.to.me.”

The edible items had different textures but similar flavours and smells. They fell in unappealing clumps, or drips, dribbles, or sprays. Rick the robot had no control. It was like being an invalid.

Heavy or light, solid or liquid, Rick felt the contents flowing from his encasement. The containers moved along the conveyor belt attached to him, but he couldn't move.

He was dispensing meals without using his hands, and whatever didn’t make it into the containers ran over the sides or landed on the floor. It was disgusting, but at least he couldn't see any of it unfolding before him. Was that a meatball—or a mistake?

He was making food available to others without using his arms. People he could not see were being fed food he had not prepared from a mechanical chamber that was not his body. From somewhere in the depths of his dream, someone was crying out.

"STOP! This is not the way I do this!"

"People don't want this!"

"HELP!"

The worst part of the dream was that he could not put his head, his heart or his hands into anything, and these retained words, filtering through his dream, gave his mind a surge of activity.

He saw that he would never be the one to present a meal to a customer, or even take their money in exchange for it.

There wouldn't be any more compliments for his efforts.

Gone were the regular customers whose preferences he enjoyed catering to, and the satisfaction of handling food and creating new dishes was a thing of the past.

Getting paid would become obsolete, and he would never know the pain he was causing by taking jobs and incomes from humans.

There would be no love at all involved in such an important part of life—feeding and nourishing people and making them feel good.

The mental trauma had finally caught up with his emotions, and he was forced back to wakefulness. He was sweating, and his eyes were wide as he lay in the dark and felt his heart pounding against his chest.

Feeling saddened, discouraged and let down by the food industry, Rick couldn’t help thinking:

Why take the risk? What are they competing for? What do they need to prove by introducing technology that detracts from the dining experience?

"If machines replace workers, it’s a far cry from the ambience that even fast food adds to eating.”

He saw clearly that everything he did with food was a love—a love for himself that he gave to others.

He decided then and there that he would not try to be better than any robot but work harder and smarter and enjoy the satisfaction of his labours for all they were worth. No robot could ever do this or take it away from him. It was a gift, and he would never stop opening the box and peering into it to mine its treasures.

The following morning brought some quiet writing time. Rick tapped into lyricism just waiting to be released. His paper was finished within hours, and he printed off a couple of copies for his mom and Geraldine.

"Your heart's in it," his mom said. "You're sure to get an excellent grade."

"Thanks, ma. But you know what? I don't think I'd ever want to work where machines replace humans, when food is meant to be the main attraction."

"I must have taught you well," his mom reflected.

"You know," she added, "There are people in the community who have lost their jobs to this, but some of them are landing on their feet again. For the others, it will take a little longer. You're not wrong to feel the way you do."

He ate in silence for the most part, grateful for his mom's understanding. It had been a long night, and he was still making sense of such a defining dream. He had finished the paper, though, and with school tomorrow and a shift ahead of him, his work was clear. At the restaurant, he left a copy of his paper where Geraldine could see it, if she wanted to give it a read. She'd given him a lot to work with, after all.

He eased into his shift and started filling orders as they came in with his usual thoroughness. He still had the remnants of the dream kicking around at the back of his mind, where he had no use for it. Geraldine was in the kitchen too and noticed he was a bit quieter than usual. It's not that he was in a bad mood or sullen; just pensive. He was doing a fantastic job, so she decided to let him be and, for her part, be a boss. That meant getting out of his way. Rick had something to work out, and this rush was exactly what he needed to do it. She understood he could handle this more than he thought. He needed to stretch his legs or spread his wings. He was 17, and growth would always be on his plate. How better could she serve him than by letting him fly a little? She left him in the kitchen and grabbed his paper on her way out.

Orders were doubled and sometimes tripled, and Rick seemed to be on every one of them, but having Geraldine leave him was something unexpected that threatened to throw him into crisis mode. He was flustered, but he checked in with himself. He was still on top of everything. The dream could have derailed him at that moment, but he met the thoughts head-on and wrestled them to the ground, to reality. He was no robot. He was Rick Jensen, a young man at large, and he had his whole life ahead of him. He sensed there was greatness in him. He would let it keep seeping out as he continued to grow from all of the nightmares that life would throw at him. It would always follow after the waves receded. He only needed to keep absorbing the greatness left in their wake and use it for the good of mankind. He would strive to bring it into every aspect of his life and everyone he met. Something was singing in him now that words could not express. That something was existence, and the best he could do was to let its music play and enjoy it as his reality. He wouldn't just use technology, either. He would embrace it as long as it didn't do for him what he could do for himself and with all of his heart.

He was ready to take on the world, and at this moment it meant manning the kitchen with every one of his mental faculties working at peak performance, with new neurons just looking to make connections. He poured himself into the orders. He was in a zone he knew to be his own, but it was edgier and more exciting, requiring just enough added focus to exhilarate him. He wasn't rushing or hurrying; he dove into the rush as though partnering with it. The steam, the sizzle and the smells that could make customers melt brought the kitchen to life. Geraldine couldn't help but have complete confidence in him. She noticed that something had changed with him. If the paper would help her to know what that was, she wanted to read it. It might just contain a new kind of recipe for living.

Rick continued to work, flowing with the food and his surroundings as though they were one. It was something to behold about him on any day, but with an unusual rush, it was spectacular to watch him throw himself with the same care into every order. He made food dance on plates. Rick had needed to work something out. It was exactly what he'd told himself he would do. He was working harder and smarter, and it was paying off. It felt amazing. By the time the rush was over, Geraldine was bringing in news of how the customers were enjoying their meals. This put that crooked smile back on his face. He looked at Geraldine and asked, "Did you happen to get a chance to look at my paper?"

"She smiled back at him and replied in the affirmative. "You've managed to breathe a soul into a topic that won't ever have one to give to people."

Heart and soul. What better feedback could he ask for? But for guys like Rick, there was better, and Geraldine had it at the ready.

"The more you give to anything, Rick, the more you'll get back for it. Give it all the good you've got and you'll almost always get the best in return."

He was jazzed again, and about everything. He looked out at the dining room from the kitchen and watched as people ate and drank, talked and laughed, and he smiled because he had helped make it happen. Whatever he did in life, he would do the best he could to bring happiness to people because they gave it to him. Food was satisfying in more ways than one.