The cook he was yesterday

The man at the falafel window near a bus stop in Giza works the hours nobody wants. He is frying before the sky turns grey, and by the time the first buses pull in there is a line of drivers, students and men in work boots, coins ready in their hands.

I have no idea how he slept. Some mornings he must have argued with someone at home, or felt a fever coming, or simply hated the thought of the oil and the heat. None of that reaches the sandwich.

The bread is warm. The discs are crisp outside and green inside. The tahini is the same thin pour, the salad the same small handful. The fortieth customer gets what the first one got.

We talk a lot now about being real, about bringing your whole self, about letting people see how you actually feel. There is a place for that. It belongs at the table with friends, on the phone with a brother, in the long talk after midnight.

It does not belong in the sandwich. The driver at the front of the line has twelve hours ahead of him and one breakfast. He is not asking the cook to be honest about his mood. He is asking him to be the cook he was yesterday.

That is what a professional is: someone whose good work does not depend on how the morning went. The feeling is real. It just does not get a vote.

The hard mornings are the ones that count. Anyone can make a good sandwich on a day they want to.