Countless times I forgave Chef’s insults in the kitchen because let’s face it that’s what all chefs do. But when I saw his face after tasting my Fall off The Bone Meat, I knew a line had been crossed.

   

     Even you know how ALL my meats are seasoned with love and smoked to nothing short of perfection. Not only must I now restore my name which was dragged through the mud but also show Chef just how the meat falls right off the bone.

 

    It is common knowledge that I was next in line to stand shoulder to shoulder with Chef as he had never doubted my skills with the smoker, and now he did not understand that me following his orders with a “YES CHEF!” was now only to see a man of his standing melt into nothing.

 

    Like most people working in the service industry Chef was a man to rely on many a substance to take the edge off. But nothing ever got him dying for a hit like the sticky icky. He could smell out a good strain on the kitchen staff through the variety of kitchen fragrances- and even during the busiest of times did not hesitate to use his position to have one rolled and then smoked. I was quite familiar with the strains myself and never thought twice before meeting a shady plug in an ever-shadier location to secure a good deal.

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    It was just about time for the dinner rush on April 20th this year and the kitchen was in frenzy prepping for what was going to be a night of nonstop orders, that I encountered Chef just outside the massive industrial size smoker in the restaurant. He was wearing his usual squeaky work boots and a tight plastic apron that seemed to have him vacuum sealed in it much like sub-par racks of rib at the grocery store. Through the apron I could see little stains of ash on his otherwise flawlessly white uniform.

 

    “Chef! Didn’t see you there, I was about to come seek your expertise regarding a rather good-looking zip of moon rocks I recently copped but I am not sure if it’s actually that good shit.” I said to him.

 

    “What!?” he responded. “A zip of authentic moon rocks in the one-star state? You’re tripping.”

 

    “I was dumb enough to drop a bag on it without asking if you wanted to do a little taste test first, I didn’t see you in the kitchen and the plug was about to flake.”

 

“Moon Rocks!”

 

“It might not be that sticky icky..”

 

“In Texas!”

 

“I was about to hit a bong rip and inspect the greens myself, but my affinity for the bud is nowhere as close to yours.”

 

“Pffft! You couldn’t tell moon rocks from broccoli! You have to roll me a joint right away. Let’s go.”

 

“Back to my greenhouse?”

 

“To the Moon rocks! In the one-star state! HA!” he said as his boots squeaked away from me expecting me to follow.

 

    The security guard had taken the day off, as expected from him when I told him it was going to be a busy weekend for me, and he might have to work a double the next day. I grabbed a couple of flashlights as the plants were currently in their UV light phase. Chef was giggling with excitement as we passed through the main entrance, his shoes seemed to join him in squeaky harmony.

 

“To the Moon rocks then!” he ordered.

 

“They’re all the way in my vault, I wouldn’t keep the primo stuff just laying around.” I said, “Take a look at my new Sativa babies, they’re growing quite well under the UV light.”

 

“UV Light” he said as he turned out, his pupils trying to adjust to the light. “It triggers my migraine.”

 

“Let’s turn back I can inspect the moon rocks myself, we can’t risk a migraine on such a big night.”

 

“Pffft! You! You wouldn’t know moon rocks from the sativa you’re growing as fine as it looks.”

 

I offered him a pre rolled of the same which we sparked instantly as we made our way to the back of the greenhouse. The sativa made his eyes even dopier as his shoes continues to squeak on in front of me. We passed by rows and rows of neatly arranged plants ranging from Indicas to hybrids.

 

    We finally reached the open door of the vault through which Chef was trying in vain to shine a light in looking for the moon rocks.

 

“Go on inside, the moon rocks are on the bottom left shelf.” I nudged him ahead. The moment he went inside I shut the vault door leaving open a tiny slit like the exhaust of a slow smoker through which I could see and hear chef.

 

“The moon rocks?” Chef questioned as he began to catch the smell of smoke and hot air slowly starting to fill the room.

 

“The moon rocks!” I said.

 

“Ahh good one! I knew moon rocks are impossible to find in Texas, let us leave the smoke and the heat is making it hard to breathe.”

 

“Yes I think its time to go.” I said “Slow cooking takes a while.”

 

“Don’t fuck around!”

 

“I never fuck around with my smoking techniques.” I said as I closed the slit listening to the rapid squeaking and rabid screams of Chef.

 

“Chef!” I called out.

 

“Chef!” no answer still.

 

I opened the slit to peak inside but was only greeted with a loud thud. My heart began to beat faster as my eyes grew wider. The meat does fall of the bone. Bon Appetit!