Friday, February 17th

Hot damn, turkey in the middle of a shift. A table buys me a shot. We chant something in Korean and knock it back neat and quick. It's a madhouse in the restaurant. The booze goes right to my head, little drips dry in my beard. A table hitherto looked upon with the greatest of suspicions becomes now a group of friends. Good men of old, these fellows at table one. I run from place to place, swiping credit cards and praying for good gratuity.