If you want to know what real New Yorkers are really thinking about the war, put a tape recorder in a commercial kitchen.
I share my catering kitchen with a company that supplies food to a college commissary. Between our two crews, we've got a mishagash stew: one Ecuadoran, two New York Jews (best kind), one all-American rocker (cross Kurt Cobain with John Tesh), one Colombian, one Filipino raised in NYC and an African-American from the projects.
A typical afternoon banter might start something like this:
"So, Sergio, what are your feelings about the war today?"
"Oh, you know. ... I think it sucks!"
We never used to discuss politics in the kitchen, but things have changed.
After September 11th, the rocker plugged an old television set into an extension cord shared with the meat slicer. It only got two channels. One of them ran 24 hours of news, so the kitchen stayed in touch with the outside world, even if the slicer ran a bit slow.
Our kitchen, by the way, is the last warehouse in a row of warehouses, with thick concrete walls and 20-foot ceilings. We're in Long Island City, only a minute from the Mid-town Tunnel or the 59th Street bridge, but it feels like we're nestled on the Isle of Nowhere.
FYI, Long Island City is part of Queens, not Long Island. You'd be surprised how many diehard Manhattanites don't know that.
It's pretty easy to feel disconnected from the world out there, especially if you enter 3,000 feet of concrete and stainless steel before the sun rises and leave after it sets, as the rocker's crew does.
As for moi, well the entire reason I started my business is that I'm incapable of facing the world before 11 a.m. So I send in my chef at 10 and saunter in jovial and bubbly (NOT) at about 11:30.
When the towers were hit, the rocker and his prep cook walked down to the end of the block, where Manhattan suddenly unfolds like a giant postcard, and watched. They stared dumbfounded as a second plane hit the towers. With eyes wet and jaws hung open, they watched the first tower implode, then they trudged back to the kitchen lost and speechless.
How do you make egg salad for 200 after that?
"That's when I plugged in the TV, duuuuude," said the rocker, trying to shove his long, blond hair under his headband, "I wanted to know what was coming next!"
Before 9/11, the most our kitchen ever talked about current events was during the recent presidential election. We kept track of the counting and re-counting of the votes, on our radio and cheered when Gore was ahead. When Bush was ahead, we stirred our sauces and chopped our onions with a vengeance as if that could somehow just push him away, out of our world.
When Bush stole, errr, um, won the election, we began a chant that seemed to last for weeks. "Fuck Bush! Fuck Bush!"
But no one cares about that now. Some of the crew is glad to have him in office, because in the words of my chef (one of the New York Jews; I'm the other, natch), "We need a war monger right now. Gore is too decent of a guy."
To which I always add, "Bring back Clinton!"
Our motley crews have not always been in agreement, especially when the U.S. first started simultaneously dropping bombs on the Taliban and food for the Afghan people.
"We're dropping food?? Dude!! Just blow them all the fuck up!" screamed the rocker. A lively humanitarian speech ensued from the New York Jewish contingent.
When the anthrax reports started, we listened on the radio and seasoned our marinades and roasted our turkeys and thought out loud, "This shit is getting scary."
But mostly the comments bantered around are about how much the war has changed our lives. Business is down. Deliveries take an extra hour or two or three. Our vans are searched (and uncharacteristically, we don't mind). Strangers asking for directions are scrutinized as though they have a bomb taped under their Mets caps.
Every time we pass the armed guards as we enter the Midtown Tunnel, we are reminded instantaneously of the real-ness of this war. I always feel a pang of fear that first moment we plunge into the tube. I picture it all crashing down on me. When we emerge from the other side, I remember to breathe again.
In the first month after September 11th, I had a lot of trouble caring about whether my vinaigrette had just the right hint of honey. I did not ask the others, but I could tell that we all felt it. Nothing we were doing seemed that important anymore. How can you obsess about the right proportion of salt to sugar in coleslaw, when thousands of people died, right over there, in the empty space cut out of the post card?
The Filipino doesn't come in as often now. He spends a lot more time with his kids. He comes around to make a sauce or two and then runs off to pick up his children. He's a nice guy. His kids must adore him.
Members of the Latin contingent seem mostly lost in their own thoughts, going about the business of their inner lives. I know the Colombian sidelines for a company that fed the rescue crews, but he doesn't talk about it. He smiles a lot and reminds us what sucks and what doesn't. Mostly he thinks any war sucks but doesn't question the need for this one. None of us do.
The Ecuadoran doesn't speak English, but she laughs at our jokes. I have no idea how she feels about the war, but I think the television irritates her.
As for our brother from the projects. He mostly just does his job and leaves. Doesn't want any shit from us, doesn't want to dole it out neither. He always seems a bit bored with all the war stuff. "I just want to get home," was mostly all he said this fall. We've nicknamed him "Mr. Personality."
My chef ponders it all and questions everything. He questions the authenticity of the bin Laden tape.
"I don't know if it's fake or not, but it's great timing."
He rolls his eyes at the very mention of Arafat.
"Yeah, sure he wants peace. That's why he's been doing such a grrrrrrreat job getting it."
He laughs at the notion of capturing bin Laden.
"He's probably in his little private cave right now with a candle and a lot of books."
As for me, well, sometimes I like to lose myself in this concrete cavern, just push myself over to a back table and make my marinades and listen to jazz and try to pretend that I haven't seen and heard all the things I've seen and heard these last few months.
Yeah. Well, that lasts about 10 minutes, but it's a sweet 10 minutes, let me tell you.
If you want to know what real people really think about the war, just come over to our place. We've got it all covered. Mostly though, we're a little out of sorts like the rest of the country and a little sad. Even the rocker. He hasn't said "dude" all day. I'm worried about him.
