shake my hand, just as I feel it on others of my profession. It's a secret
sign, sort of a Masonic handshake without the silliness, a way that we in
the life recognize one another, the thickness and roughness of that piece
of flesh, a résumé of sorts, telling others how long and how hard it's
been. My pinky finger on the same hand is permanently deformed,
twisted and bent at the tip—a result of poor whisk handling. Making
hollandaise and béarnaise every day for Bigfoot, I'd keep the whisk
handle between pinky and third finger, and apparently the little finger
slipped out of joint unnoticed and was allowed to build up calcium
deposits, until it became what it is today, freakish-looking and arthritic.
There are some recent scrapes and tiny punctures, a few little dings here
and there on the backs of my hands—the result of rummaging at high
speed through crowded reach-in boxes, hauling milk crates filled with
meat upstairs, busting open boxes and counting cans on Saturday
inventory—and a few shiny spots where I must have spattered myself
with hot oil or simply grabbed a pot handle or pair of kitchen tongs that
was too hot. My nails, such as they are—I gnaw them in the taxi home
from work—are filthy; there's dried animal blood under the cuticles, and
crushed black pepper, beef fat and sea salt. A large black bruise under
the left thumbnail is working its way slowly out over time; it looks as
though I've dipped the thumb in India ink. There's a beveled-off fingertip
on the left; I lopped off that fingertip while trying to cut poblano peppers
many years back. Jesus, I remember that one: the face on the emergency
room intern as he crunched the curved sewing needle right through the
nail, trying vainly to re-attach a flap of skin that was clearly destined to
become necrotic and fall off. I remember looking up at him as I twisted
and writhed on the table, hoping to see the cool, calm, somehow
reassuring expression of a Marcus Welby looking back at me. Instead, I
saw the face of an overextended fry cook—a kid, really—and he looked
pained, even grossed-out as he pulled through another loop of filament.
There's a raised semi-circular scar on the left palm where I had a close
encounter with the jagged edge of a can of Dijon mustard. Almost passed