It amazes me how little the black/white issue is an issue in the kitchen. Oh, it always signifies, but in diminished ways. Perhaps it is the great diversity … the two French girls, the Belgian, the Africans (including my friend Kumba, from Sierra Leone), the Vietnamese hive in housekeeping, the Islanders, my Portugese Exec Chef, the Italians we just hired.
Then there is the other diversity … the retarded guys in Dish and Maintenance who like really friendly designations: Bobby, Tommy, Jerry. Tommy always talks about the weather. “Hi, Pat. Hot one today.” Yeah, Tommy, I say, thinking about 93 degrees and the Patio Grille adding another hundred degrees or two. Hot. “Hot one today, Pat.”
Where black spills over is in designations: Miss Pat, Miss Kumba, Miss Blanche, Miss Cheiko … my Japanese friend. Miss Cheiko thought she was old until I told her I was 60. “You not,” she said. All women over the age of mademoiselle are Mama, all men are Papa. Miss Pat will say to me when I am pulling chicken, “Save de wings, Papa,” and I do.
How could I not?
