Manicured hedges lining the pavement flew by at 25 miles per hour. Decelerating to a comfortable 10 mph, our silver 2001 Honda moseyed up the pristine venue, undoubtedly a misfit among such extravagance. My eagerness was evident as I was escorted by my father to the establishment with an air of open mindedness towards the excursion ahead. Quick introductions were established before being directed amidst a maze of sterile corridors and diligent employees. I proceeded to the pastry department to meet my temporary instructors: two 20-year-old women, ambitious about their jobs and thoroughly familiar with their routine of responsibilities.

My apprenticeship began around 8:00am and each unfamiliar situation became a new opportunity; instructions were an invitation and raw materials were the utensils of creation. Pre-baked pastry parts were an incomplete puzzle to an edible masterpiece. The lesson tumbled on into the tending of tiramisu, extended with emptying cream into éclairs, forged ahead by fancily filling fruit tarts, meandered about in the managing of mille-feuille, carried on with the cementation of chocolate structures, and finally crescendos after the creation of cake batter.

An automated bell indicated the termination of the work hour at 12 noon so to engage our lunch break. In reciprocation to the signal, the staff members methodically stripped their hands of the protective elastic gloves, unclad regulatory garments, and pressed on to the dining hall in an orderly fashion only distinguished by professions unquestionably accustomed to this sort of daily ritual. I followed my instructors, implicating the Bystander Affect and mimicking their every gesture. While navigating the labyrinth they had adeptly memorized, the workers took on a new nature. They became a type of neighborly congregation, the kind that acknowledged each other in an amicable exchange. Along with the transition from uninterrupted labor to a social interaction came the succession of more introductions. Over lunch, I was made acquainted with some people from the pantry department, a few behind the culinary art from the kitchen, and even a group in charge of food shipments. I consorted with the employees to enhance my understanding of the adult world I had so recently been able to sample.

When the same bell droned again in its mechanical tone it initiated the commotion of bodies ready to undertake their duties once again. As an unofficial member of the crew, I returned to my post equipped to receive further instruction. This time though, I assumed an almost robotic manner. Directives became tedious requests: Go inside the industrial freezer for foodstuffs. Come back to the worktable and organizing the ingredients. Assemble petite delicacies to be wrapped and frozen again for later affairs. Unearth Neapolitan bars from a separate chamber of the restaurant to be precisely placed upon ceramic rectangular serving dishes. The glamorous idea of working with pastries slowly began to wear off and these formerly attractive tasks resembled wearisome orders. Each glance at the clock convinced me that the minute hand was moving at a tormentingly slow pace. Milliseconds instead of seconds. Days replacing hours.
Cookies were the next item on the everlasting menu of chores that was written for the day. I was put to work straight away assisting with the cookie dough. Around 300 morsels about five inches in diameter were to be made by the end of the eight hour shift. Only a few minutes before, a wave of employees had washed in for their afternoon/night shift. All hands were put on deck in order to tackle the seemingly impossible order for the restaurant’s famous colossal, chocolaty, pecan filled delicacies. The bakers that made up the pastry department became a working machine; while, the kitchen became a scene from Jack and the Beanstalk when they baked in such enormous amounts.

What would have been two cups of chocolate chips for the amount of cookies baked in the comfort of an ordinary home was closer to seven pounds of tiny chocolate bricks in the giant’s kitchen. The combination of flour, sugar, and butter was a savory mixture that could fill a small bathtub. As if mixing the batter alone didn’t seem like a gargantuan requisition, the time it took to shape the discs certainly challenged my basic cookie crafting stamina. Baseball-sized ice-cream scoops were the most appropriate utility at hand, yet it took a long and strenuous hour to attain three pre-baked pyramids.

A cordial and experienced-looking woman wheeled the fructose loaded confections away to their final destination before packaging: the oven. The oven was part of a separate section called the baking room where breads and other goods were sent to take their natural shape in the furnace. This room held a concentrated heat within its metallic walls while radiating the warm smells of rising dough. Between her professional hands and my amateur ones, it took another 45 minutes to bake, arrange, and maneuver the trays between oven and rack. The hour hand on the clock was reaching for the four by the time all 300 cookies were individually wrapped and stored away. This final assignment had not only been the last check mark on the “to do” list, but it was symbolically concluding as well.

With heavy eyelids and lead-footed steps, I made my way through the inner workings of the underground restaurant. I replaced my borrowed apron and chef attire, only to bring with me the tall paper hat and a box of goodies that was kindly put together for me by my generous mentors. After ascending in the elevator to the luxurious lobby of the five-star hotel, I awaited my homely silver carriage to take me back to the place I knew I would never grow weary of.
The drive home was something of a dream as I answered my parents’ inquiries with lethargic nods and unintelligible mumbling. We rolled leisurely through some older neighborhoods when the sudden view of a boy drinking out of his front yard hose flashed by my window. My initial reaction to the odd spectacle was a fascinated chuckle, when I soon came to realize that I would rather be exasperated of mental stimulation from an inquisitive and energetic mind than spend my life ensnared in the trite and incessant cycle of a work day.