Kitchen Close

 That night, the kitchen received orders non-stop.

It looked like a battlefield in full action, constant combat everywhere.

The pots at the dishwashing station clashed one after another, giving no time to breathe, while his hands stirred the soapy water, splashing across the area.

The frying pans, like smoking machine guns with flames licking their edges, sautéed the vegetables at full speed.

The knives —hammering as if in a carpenter’s workshop— chopped the vegetables in rhythm, responding to the urgent demands of the tickets.

And in the back, with a cold, calculating gaze, stood a man.

The one conducting the orchestra: the chef.

Wearing his white, spotless jacket, he repeated the orders relentlessly, forming a long, endless chain.

As if it were an infinite rope, from which came the constant buzzing of the receipt printer —hypnotic, marking the tempo of the battle.

The soldiers who opened fire waited for commands from their commander-in-chief.

Orders rained down on them, and the enemy advanced without mercy, leaving their captain on the verge of retreat and the restaurant close to shutdown.

But he couldn’t abandon his comrades in arms without their well-earned return home.

Their desperate gazes longed for the warmth of the flames on their chests, and their fingers, reddened by the unending motion of the pans, clung to the fight.

No —he couldn’t leave his troop without their reward.

When the tickets finally stopped, silence rang in the ears of the fighters.

Some were frightened… because they knew silence sometimes invites storms.

And there, in the middle of that sepulchral stillness, it was heard loud and clear —

as if it were a cry of victory:

"Kitchen closed."