Enter from the kitchens

You step forward and push open the double doors leading to the kitchens. Then you immediately step back.

The smell of greasy animal fat and sizzling pork invades your nostrils in a combination that makes you want to vomit and salivate at the same time. You can practically taste the air, and you can feel your skin getting slick with the oil and grease wafting in the air. When your eyes finally stop watering from the smoke, you look inside the kitchen curiously.

For some reason you were expecting a full roster of chefs, dashing from table to table as flames burned high on their stoves, shouting orders and requests to each other over the din of rattling cooking tools. Instead you see a kitchen with the kind of cleanliness that would make even cockroaches scream in disgust.

All of this is managed by a two-man staff from what you can see. One of them is a young boy, probably fifteen or sixteen years of age, sprinting around the room doing a dozen tasks at once, grabbing ingredients, washing pots, and futilely trying to wipe the counters with a filthy rag. The other is an overweight chef, screaming out orders to the boy and stirring a flat pot with some indiscernible mix of meat.

You watch the fat, balding man as he reaches into a barrel of dirty animal fat to his left. He grabs a big handful of it in his pudgy hands and tosses it into the pot, letting it sizzle and pop into oil. You can feel your arteries harden at the sight of it.

Noticing the smoke and steam rushing out of the room by the doors you just opened, the chef turns to the distraction and sees you standing there. His eyes narrow dangerously in your direction and he takes the pan off the fire, setting it on the counter. You watch him as he storms towards you, his chins jiggling in sweat and oil. You had better think of something to say fast.