Hands Like Asbestos

So, presumeably an old chef came into the resturant on Friday night. He came in after a large party of people decided to go out to eat at 10:15 at night. I'll never understand why this is the trend, but so be it. In any case he wants to order some pizzas and asks for garlic bread, and marinara for dipping. Now, why in the middle of a rush with only two on the line do I go out of my way to kick my ass a little more? No idea.

In the midst of running all over the place I make all these special requests for this kind man, normally things I would never do for anybody. Why did the other people start groaning and complaining because they had to wait, while this guy forcefully hands me money and says one of the greatest compliments I have ever gotten

Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.

Nobody has ever thanked me for my time in a kitchen. Ever. Well, a patron at least. It was rare, beautiful, and slightly mysterious.

Shortly after he orders even more food. Then I hear the greatest phrase ever coined.

Careful Dad, the plates are hot.

It's ok, I used to cook for a long time. I have hands like asbestos.

It was then that the appreciation made total sense, the twenty dollars in my pocket, the memories I will have from this, and memories I left with them.

I never got his name, but he didn't quite hear mine. So to him and his family I will be remembered as Jeff.