And when the Department of Health came calling, the temperature of those fuming kitchens sweltered with the anxiety of his scrutiny.
Very quickly the tempo would shift from its ordinary organised speed: the cooks would fumble, the dish-licks would crash the crockery, and the animosity was palpable.
Grills would cackle; refrigerators groaned, pans hissed and the fryers would spit at him, all together, in the heated moment.
And so, through the smoke and fetid odors, amongst the surgical tables and high powered hoses, George consorted with the long hats, and their starch-aproned drones - overseeing these lofty souls, initiated into the mysterious culinary arts that lay hidden from the front-of-store, and the hungry public.
He perused the stock, searched for moulds: read carefully through the use-by dates - George checked fingernails for filth, and made sure that the floors were non-slip and shining clean.
-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances
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