It’s 2004 in downtown San Francisco.
The alley I work in is cold and damp. Sewer sludge. Whipping wind.
We have one of those trap doors in the pavement out front that truck drivers throw deliveries down.
There’s a shute that incoming boxes of produce, meat and fish tumble down, twisting and skidding through the dish pit into the prep kitchen on a food waterslide.
The dishwashers scramble to catch the parcels and unpack their contents while our sous chef stands on his tiptoes reaching up into the street to receive a soggy invoice from a thick, hairy hand.
A loud engine rumbles, clinking glass racks and soup bowls. The piercing echo of a back-up beeper and the smell of diesel seep into the kitchen just as the metal doors slam shut.
Everyone goes back to business.
To this day, still the most efficient (and entertaining) delivery system I’ve seen .