In the Grille’s kitchen, while listening to Noah’s favorite classic rock station, “Paranoid” by Black Sabbath comes on.
Tommy: Does this station only play songs from Guitar Hero?
Nick: (stunned silence for several minutes) What?
Tommy: Well, yeah, I guess this is Rock Band technically…
Nick: (stunned silence for several minutes)
Christmas comes early at the Grille. We have a brand new (powerful) triple-headed, Hamilton Beach milkshake machine bringing our current working total up to five mixers. Of course, the rate-limiting step is still the rate at which milkshakes can be scooped. but this makes possible a mechanical efficiency when multiple employees coordinate tasks.
Two hours of quiet. No milkshakes ordered and I was left doing random prep in the short interval. The rush didn’t come until 11:30 and didn’t let up. Thirty shakes in a straight line. All the mixers were occupied. And my hands, holding the cup, were frozen as the cold steel developed frost.
I didn’t know it, but I was losing grip. The cup slipped axially. Static friction was overcome. It started to spin on its frost-covered base. Luscious chocolate milkshake with centrifugal force escaped the cup in all directions as the colloid was forced up the side of the container.
It was like a Cocoa Puffs commercial. I ended up with a line of brown across my apron and shirt. I looked like I had been slashed across the chest by a chocolate ninja. Everything else in the plane perpendicular to the rim of the cup was also splattered. Including Hope, standing nearby.