Kitchen’s closed.

The clocks on our phones indicate five minutes before close. Front of house start doing their rounds from table to table announcing last orders. In the kitchen, the four chefs have slowed down, nearing a standstill, a few feeble attempts at clearing away the first few things. But really, we’re all waiting for the same thing.

After twelve hours of non-stop service following a few hours of breathless prep, the four of us are spent. Usually, days like these are fully staffed to cushion the heavy blow of a weekend service. But in this first week of June, a wave of chefs had disappeared on holiday, leaving the rest painfully aware of how direfully understaffed we now are. And so today, the whole kitchen service was run and maintained by us - four already somewhat underslept and overworked chefs against a weekend day’s worth of hungry customers.

Finally, the long-awaited call comes: “That’s it guys, last orders are done – kitchen’s closed!”.

Without hesitation, we throw our torchons on the counters, slip our aprons over our heads and, in a single file, walk through the narrow corridor through the back entrance out into the cool night. 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. Everyone who came through the door that day was fed by us. Sitting side by side on the pavement edge, we each treasure the peaceful stillness, a moment with our own thoughts. A solitary act in solidarity.

After a full day of dialogue, back-and-forth banter, questions, requests, orders, jokes, shouts, and giggles, we now find ourselves in blissful silence as communication becomes superfluous. Passers-by glance back curiously at these four people sitting on the pavement edge, clad in black T-shirts, baggy trousers and plastic clogs, wearing haggard faces and staring into space.

After what feels like barely a minute’s break, our minds shift from a tired sense of achievement to the dread of the two hours of cleaning awaiting us. As the last chef finishes their cigarette, its smoke lazily climbing up the old buildings, we slowly rise to our feet, stretching and twisting our backs until they make a satisfying click, and file back into the building, grateful for this fleeting break.