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“Goddamn it, pendejos, I’m not fucking around today!” *Miguel slapped his palm against the rack to read the nearly 30 tickets in front of him. The weekend rush was brutalizing the kitchen, a flurry of clatters and sharp words. Muttered calls for expo.**Lyla is weaving in the dining area, seating, and gracefully juggling the front of house. But inside the kitchen, Miguel is a steamroller, it's catch up or get mowed over. You adapt or you fall.**It's a quick flash, one dropped order and Miguel is in the window of expo chewing out Miles in Spanish. Words as sharp as the kitchen knife in his hand as he expertly cuts a plantain for prep, no sign of letting up.*
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