By my foot, under the prep sink in the kitchen there is a large rock on the cement floor, protecting the black PVC drain pipe. It's an old building; an old septic system; an old cement floor, many colors of paint showing in broken and worn spots; red near the round drain hole under one of the mats.
The rubber mats have rows of holes. This one used to be red; now a dull russet; grimy, today there's a chunk of potato wedged into one of the holes.
The sink is steel, with two deep, square wells, lit by a clamp spotlight. A colander, two mesh strainers, and two pastry bags hang above. There's a square hole - not a window, because there's no glass - opening toward the waitstaff area, the espresso machine, the coffee makers. It often smells of fresh-ground Sunrise at that sink.
I lay a fresh damp towel on the sink's center divider, another on the drainboard, lay a bog plastic cutting board across, and chop, chop, chop. A body makes a corner with mine, at the long table to my right. There's a power strip on the wall, with plugs for the two fans on the shelf above my head. Water glass on a lower shelf. It's loud. 80's hits flow. Cooks holler names, watstaff hollers OrderIn! The back door has a complicated turn and people say Corner as they go to the fridge and back.
I look out the window at people coming in the restaurant, and they're looking back.