thereās a certain smell some restaurants have, of the residue of food on cutlery that has been washed over and over again, food waste lingering in the material of the walls and furniture, lingering on the clothes and skin of the staff, that reminds me of working in these places and getting a face full of dirty steam from the dish washer, pruney fingers from being in water, of oil and slime and saliva and grease on my hands and my jeans and apron from carrying plates, scraping the leftovers into an overflowing bin, piling plates on plates and feeling the food drip and slides over the edges all over me, feeling it absorb into my hair, the fat from the animal being cooked on the grill carried in the stuffy air and melting into my skin