OPINION
Notes from Behind the Bar Pulling Teeth
THE PACIFIC SENTINEL
“Ok… let ‘em in.” Somebody moved to unlock the outside doors. It was precisely 10:00 and I was standing next to the oven folding boxes as the bricks began to turn a hot white, almost to temp. As the doors were unlatched and swung open, a slow stream of curious tourists and tired locals flooded the lobby, filling up every conceivable space. The ones at the head of the torrent filed around to the front of the line where the new hire stood prepared to greet them, marker and order sheet in hand, presenting a plastic smile that displayed all too many teeth. The quiet before the storm was now replaced with the chattering of children accompanied by strung out adults and the collective sighs of half a dozen employees—overly caffeinated, hungover, and underpaid. It was another day working under the Space Needle. I floated between folding boxes and manning the oven, the damp starch of my flour powdered jeans just beginning to crisp up next to its growing heat. The distance between Capitol Hill and the Seattle Center was noth-
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ing extraordinary yet in the eight months of constant rain and biting cold, it had certainly begun to feel that way. I told myself again that I should buy some proper rain gear but my bank account argued otherwise. The warmth of the pizza oven would have to do for now. “Order’s up!” The first of many pies for the day was slid across the table to me from the end of the line. Removing it from the mesh wire plate and sliding it into the oven, I used the metal spatula to shift it around in place, all too aware of the district manager hovering nearby with his clipboard and pen at the ready. As another was placed on the table ready for me, I snatched it up and deftly tossed it in the oven next to the first. I was trying to look smooth for the corporate suit nearby, busy marking up all of my shortcomings in bright red ink to discuss in his next meeting with our store manager. Two more on the table. I rotated the half cooked pies around to make room before
by Dan Chilton Illustrations by Aspen Crawford grabbing the newcomers and placing them carefully in the row. Taking a sip of my cheap coffee while I still had a chance, I winced at the electric pain that shot up from my molars as they were engulfed in hot liquid. When this pain had first cropped up, dull and growing in intensity, I’d thought there was just a bit of food stuck between my teeth and had vigorously flossed until I was spitting globs of red. Yet with the pain failing to subside and with no health insurance nor any money for a dentist, I’d resorted to beer and weed—the anesthetics of poverty. Yet another pie was placed on the table. Placing it in the oven and rotating the others, I clenched my jaw to ease the pain shooting through my skull. There are few things you need to master when working a pizza oven. The first is to understand heat distribution. Those white hot bricks in the center of the oven will burn your pies. Unless you want to deal with being accosted by an unsympathetic customer during
