Morning, and the exhaust fans roar to life.
The heat from the oil rushes into Li Zhe's face.
He takes up a basket of peppers. Just as the knife rises, Zhang Jianguo, the northeastern chef, shouts:
"Can't you go faster? You're slowing everyone down!"
The blade hangs midair.
He's heard this a thousand times before—never enough to break him,
but always like dull stones dropping into his chest.
He says nothing, lowers his head, and chops faster.
The board trembles, vegetables piling quickly.
From the pass comes another call: "Table Four, beef with peppers!"
Li Zhe answers, sets down the knife, and grabs the wok spatula.
A handful of beef, into hot oil.
Hiss! A burst of steam, fire licks the rim of the wok.
The beef colors at once; he scoops it out to drain.
Next—scallions, ginger, dried chili.
The scent bursts upward, flames flicker red under the pan.
He flicks his wrist, peppers tumble in, followed by the beef.
Spatula and iron clash in rapid rhythm—clang, clang, clang.
The whole kitchen seems to tighten under the sound.
He splashes in sauce; thick smoke surges up, heat slams into his face.
Timing decides everything:
too slow, the beef turns tough;
too long, the peppers collapse and weep water.
A swirl of cornstarch, a drizzle of hot oil—
the dish shines bright, fragrant, ready.
Seconds only, and the plate is out.
He wipes his brow and returns to the board. Knife, wok, knife, wok.
Over and over.
There's no fixed role for him here.
Sometimes he's the cutter, slicing baskets of meat and greens.
Sometimes the wok cook, jumping in when the shouting starts.
Sometimes the go-fer, cleaning benches, mopping the floor, hauling boxes.
In this kitchen, he is both cog and patch: wherever something is missing, he is pushed in.
Zhang smirks. "At that speed, you think you'll survive in New York? You'd better go back to Canada."
Li Zhe's brows tighten; his knife stops short.
He is young still, temper caged but not dead.
The words strike sparks.
"Enough." His voice is low, hard as steel.
"I know how to do my job. I don't need you lecturing me every day."
Silence drops.
Only the crackle of oil answers, drumming at the still air.
From the pass, Lin Guorong, the Fujianese boss, pokes his head out, waving irritably.
"Cut the chatter! Eyes on your work!"
His dark skin shines with grease, his fingers thick with calluses from years of counting cash.
His Minnan accent is fast, pressed low, as if even talking wastes strength.
He doesn't care about flavor; only about speed.
To him the restaurant is a machine, and people are parts—the only measure of worth is how fast they spin.
Li Zhe lifts the knife again, steady this time, though fire still burns inside him.
At the sink, Ruan Ming slides over a plate, muttering,
"Don't mind him. His mouth is faster than his knife."
Li Zhe glances up, says nothing, only nods.
The smoke rolls on, metal strikes metal.
Sweat drips down his neck, but his hands can't stop.
Here, there is never a moment to breathe.
"Fire"—that's what matters.
Handle it right, the dish sings.
Miss it, and the food burns—or the man breaks.
—
Late at night, he steps out into Manhattan's streets, reeking of oil smoke.
On the train back, leaning against the glass, he closes his eyes.
Music flows in his ears; bitterness rises in his chest.
New York. Vancouver.
What's the real difference?
Only this: the beat is faster, the noise louder, the loneliness deeper.
He lets the song cover his thoughts.
The carriage rattles on, but he feels trapped,
still stuck inside the kitchen's smoke.