A smile always on her lips, which immediately dropped from her face once she was behind the swinging kitchen door. Three or four plates in one hand a porcelain fan. My mother in a black skirt, sensible shoes and a white, stiffly ironed bow tied behind her back. He took a long, thorough shower to remove the smell of grease from his hair. My father would come back to the apartment late at night I could hear him through the thin walls. The studded tiles on the floor that would acquire a film of grease throughout the day, making you slip while walking around the kitchen island. The extraction system, the shaft of which hung like a huge steel caterpillar from the ceiling. The stainless-steel surfaces, the small window hatch, the industrial dishwasher, the double deep fat fryer. Like a room within a room I wasn’t allowed to enter. I learned very early on to read the level of strain my father was under before speaking to him, in his face, in his eyes, in the corners of his mouth. A flash of flame shooting upwards from time to time. The kitchen full of hissing and rustling. The speed with which he would cut onions, the look of concentration on his face, red and glowing from the heat, mouth slightly open as if he couldn’t get enough air. Never without a fluttering tea towel on his shoulder, as if he’d trained it to sit there. My father in his workwear, a white chef’s jacket and black and white checked trousers. There were two signs in the window of our small restaurant.
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