The Pub Cook



It only takes two minutes in the kitchen to smell like fried cod, so Alex reeks of that, and 20 ounces of Smithwick’s amber ale. He didn’t buy it, but no one cares.

Alex can curse better than anyone I’ve ever met, and he’s got it down to a form of crude poetry, complete with obscure sexual references that only he gets.

The yellow and white carbon paper hangs from the two swaying bars; I’ve learned to read backwards, as the cook is more important than me.

He reads constantly, and not shitty science fiction, but the good stuff. Here he is though, flipping off stoned servers. A near-genius nuking soup.

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