sweating and cursing to move orders out without falling in the weeds.
We had only a few moments of peace to go, and I smoked and fidgeted
and half-listened to what my crew was talking about.
The tone of the repartee was familiar, as was the subject matter, a
strangely comfortable background music to most of my waking hours
over the last two decades or so—and I realized that, my God . . . I've
been listening to the same conversation for twenty-five years!
Who's the bigger homo? Who takes it in the ass? Who, exactly, at this
particular moment, is a pédé, a maricón, a fanocchio, a puta a pato? It's
all about dick, you see. It's chupa mis huevos time, time for mama la
ping, take it in your culo time, motherfucker, you pinche baboso, crying
little woman. And your vierga? It looks like a fucking half-order of
merguez—muy, muy, muy chica . . . like an insecto.
This is the real international language of cuisine, I realized, watching my
French sous-chef, American pâtissier, Mexican grill, salad and fry guy
exchange playful insults with the Bengali runner and the Dominican
dishwasher. It's been, for twenty-five years, one long, never-ending game
of the dozens, played out in four or five languages.
As an art form, cooktalk is, like haiku or kabuki, defined by established
rules, with a rigid, traditional framework in which one may operate. All
comments must, out of historical necessity, concern involuntary rectal
penetration, penis size, physical flaws or annoying mannerisms or
defects.
The rules can be confusing. Cabrone, for instance, which translates
roughly to "Your wife/girlfriend is getting fucked by another guy right
now—and you're too much of a pussy to do anything about it" can also
mean "my brother", depending on inflection and tone. The word "fuck" is
used principally as a comma. "Suck my dick" means "Hang on a second"
or "Could you please wait a moment?" And "Get your shit together with