French Toast plush via Etsy
“This is very good. But you are still 2 out of 10. When you are 10 out of 10, you are ready,” Carlos had spoken.
I prodded my squishy boule. Then I prodded his firm boule and nodded humbly.
While Carlos kept a watchful eye from across the work station, I set to work with a new partner. Mr. Furbie was a veteran of the joint and had little patience for a new intern. He comfortably allowed my limpy dough to slide and floured only his own work surface.
There was no music blaring today. We worked in silence. The mood was sombre as Mr. Furbie smirked at Sharon, whom, he decided was worthy of his attention.
I was put to work hauling heavy racks filled with dough back and forth. I provided back-up: I oiled, dunked, dipped, covered and seasoned. When there was a slight lag, Star Child (the male favorite of the women working there and the envy of the men) would throw me a piece of dough to work on.
Work fast, work hard, support your team, slow down. Oil splattered from the pastry brush across my face. Get out of the way or get anointed in flour, “Cake Boss” style. Laugh when you do.
And so we worked. Like a well oiled machine we worked in a Zen-like silence.
My pants were covered in flour, which was typical but for the fact that I had forgotten my work pants. I was wearing my “real job” pants, which was a nice pair of Theory slacks. I silently thanked God for not forgetting my work shoes or else my Burberry boots would’ve been wrecked!
The minutes ticked on to the passing hours and then I saw it, a crack in the shiny veneer of Mr. Furbie’s “I don’t careness.”
“Watch. Like this.” He showed me his tucking technique: quick and firm, no fancy turns with a smooth finish, before walking away.