Quote 386 of 497

Then, grabbing a saute pan, I burned myself.

I yelped out loud, dropped the pan, an order of osso bucco milanese
hitting the floor, and as a small red blister raised itself on my
paln, I foolishly--oh, so foolishly--asked the beleaguered Tyrone if
he had some burn cream and maybe a Band-Aid.

This was quite enough for Tyrone.  It went suddenly very quiet in the
Mario kitchen, all eyes on the big broiler man and his hopelessly
inept assistant.  Orders, as if by some terribly and poetically just
magic, stopped coming in for a long, horrible moment.  Tyrone turned
slowly to me, looked down through bloodshot eyes, the sweat dripping
off his nose, and said, "Whachoo want, white boy? Burn cream?  A
Band-Aid?"

Then he raised his own enormous palms to me, brought them up real
close so I could see them properly: the hideous constellation of
water-filled blisters, angry red welts from grill marks, the old
scars, the raw flesh where steam or hot fat had made the skin simply
roll off.  They looked like the claws of some monstrous
science-fiction crustacean, knobby and calloused under wounds old and
new.  I watched, transfixed, as Tyrone--his eyes never leaving
mine--reached slowly under the broiler and, with one naked hand,
picked up a glowing-hot sizzle-platter, moved it over to the cutting
board, and set it down in front of me.

He never flinched.
		-- Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen
		   Confidential, p. 33--34

Tags: mario steam wounds sciencefiction palms constellation blisters bandaid cuttingboard bucco broiler redwelts bloodshoteyes kitchenconfidential horriblemoment nakedhand rawflesh oldscars anthonybourdain redblister