You risk a glance over your shoulder, looking at the digital clock behind you. Twenty-one minutes to open. You turn around again to focus on your tasks, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest and internal monologue (“fuck, fuck, fuck!”) and remembering the things still left to do, rearranging the order of priority at a minute’s interval.

Ideally, at this time of the day, there’s a little dip in orders to allow for a calm handover between the morning and evening teams, but the weekend crowd had different plans. Likely sleeping off their hangovers until midday, by 3 p.m., the East London crowd descends on our restaurant like a wake of hungry vultures.

One after the other, we sink down onto the pavement edge with a groan, forearms propped onto knees, as sighs are uttered and cigarettes are lit. We stare wordlessly up at the grand building, looking through the windows of the restaurant we’d just spent the whole day running.

Sitting side by side, we each treasure the peaceful stillness, a moment with our own thoughts. A solitary act in solidarity.

“The sun is slowly setting behind the tall buildings, dunking the churchyard and the willow leaves in a golden hue. We watch on from the small but buzzing pub, as the gold-speckled trees move in the soft warm breeze. The cars and buses slowly snake their way through the traffic, and people walk past decisively.

The cool pilsner goes down, smooth and crisp. “

Prep time passes ruthlessly.

You think you have another full hour left to prep, but then you realise that your section isn’t as set up as you thought it was, you notice orders that need to be put away, and before you know it, it’s fifteen minutes before opening.

Shouts of ‘Backs!’, ‘Hot behind!’ and ‘Mind your legs!’ fill the air, regular like clockwork, as chefs bounce back and forth from plating dishes, ladling liquids, tossing pans, turning meats, sprinkling seasonings, and washing hands. As your adrenaline shoots up, your brain shuts down, minimising the mental effort required to build, cook, and plate each dish.

There is no comparable feeling to the moment when the extraction fan is turned off.

After a full day of working away and blending out the continuous noise, the peaceful silence which enters after the fan is shut down can only be described as utter bliss.

The day is done.

Clogs on, apron on, fresh towel tucked to my side, I get out my knives, glance over the task list of the day, and start taking stock of the service fridge.

The day has begun.