Manuel was a short but stocky guy. His rolled-up sleeves revealed the massive, tan muscles of his arms. It was a strange sight. Like kangaroos. They seem so cute and fluffy, and then BAM, a row of chiseled abs that not even an Olympic swimmer could.

But Manuel didn't seem fluffy, he was just short. Shorter than me and Nico, shorter than my grandma who had lost four centimeters since she turned seventy.

"Welcome to the team, guys," Manuel said, flashing a Colgate advertisement smile. He had a Hispanic accent. There was no chance I could guess its origin, so I didn't even try.

He gestured for us to follow him. "Come on, let me show you around. This way, this way!" Our guide exclaimed, leading us out of the kitchen and up the stairs just outside. Were we... going up? Weren't we supposed to work in the kitchen?

Nico and I followed him, exchanging perplexed glances.

"Here we are. Pastry section." At the top of the stairs, Manuel pointed to a SECOND kitchen opening on the left. "Refrigerated cells." He indicated the row of doors on the right wall. "The storage." Which was beyond the pastry section. "Vacuum machine and first-aid kit." Those must have been hidden in a corner, beyond the row of refrigerated cells.

That place wasn't just slightly larger than the school kitchen, it was GIGANTICALLY larger.

"The lift can only be used if you need to bring up or down trolleys," Manuel explained.

The lift was that elevator we had seen from below, in front of the stairs. And by "trolleys," Manuel meant those metal towers taller than me that were parked downstairs. They had trays on each level, like a giant rolling dresser.

"Come on! Come on!" Manuel seemed as excited as a kid who just found rare trading cards in his pack and couldn't wait to show them to you.

We stopped at the threshold of the pastry section. There was only one stove there; everything else consisted of tables, mixers, and ovens. There was also a meat grinder, crammed into a corner. It didn't seem to fit much with pastry, maybe they didn't know where else to put it.

"It's big," I commented. I looked at Nico to let him know I was talking to him, but Nico wasn't listening. I don't like the expression "his eyes sparkled," but his eyes were literally sparkling.

"Cesare is our Pastry chef," Manuel said, pointing to a man with a goatee and mustache and a sprinkle of gray-white hair. He had wrinkled skin even though he didn't seem that old. Maybe he didn't seem old because he stood as straight as a soldier.

When he heard his name called, he turned to us. He looked at me and Nico without smiling.

"They're the new interns," Manuel explained. Cesare nodded, then turned to talk to a girl who looked barely twenty, completely ignoring us.

There were only the two of them in the pastry section.

"Alright, over here are the cells." We turned around and found ourselves facing five metal doors. They had a really cool handle, like the levers in front of spaceship hatches, and in the center, they had a plate with the door number on it.

"Cell number one is for fruits and vegetables, at a temperature between four and five degrees. Number two has dairy and egg products, always at four degrees. Number three is for fish and meat we use the same day, at one, maximum two degrees. Number four is for frozen goods, at minus eighteen; and number five is for frozen meats at minus twelve."

He said it a bit too fast, I had already forgotten everything. The first one was fruits, and then...

"What was number two?" I whispered, turning to my companion.

Nico had taken out a tiny notebook and was furiously scribbling on it. Did we... did we have to take notes?! Nobody had told me! I didn't have a notebook!

Okay, no panic. I could copy Nico's notes after service. I knew having him with me would come in handy.

It was strange to be on the side of needing to copy, usually I was the one giving out notes.

"And over here is the storage." We went in, to a large space littered with iron shelving. "Here we have all the fresh items that don't need to be refrigerated: potatoes, onions, garlic... This shelf needs to be left clear for the trays of fresh pasta, and then... over here we have oils, dried pasta, canned tomatoes... there are all the spices, and for God's sake, put them back in the same place you took them from, or Michela will decapitate you."

Alright. Remember never to get close to the spices. Or to Michela.

Our guide led us back outside, where, beyond the row of refrigerated cells, there was a niche with the vacuum machine, which was essentially a huge metal box with a glass lid. There was a table next to the machine, and on the table hung the green first-aid kit with the white cross.

"In case someone loses a finger," Manuel said with an amused smile. I would have laughed if it weren't for the fact that he was showing us, all happy, how he was missing the last phalanx of his pinky.

Then we went downstairs to be introduced to the rest of the crew. First, Manuel took us to the short leg of the T. "This is the appetizers section, and Flavio is our Garde-Manger chef."

Flavio waved with his hand. He was very round, like Dr. Robotnik from Sonic, except he didn't seem like a super villain. He wore glasses and had all black, straight hair. He was smiling at us even though he was clearly busy.

"And over here is the pasta section." We moved to the long part of the T, on the right side of the stoves. "She's our new Entremétier chef, arrived just last month."

"Hello, guys," the woman said. She was tall. Tall, very tall. Taller than Manuel and me put together. "I'm Veronica." She wiped her hands on her apron and then extended one to shake ours.

"I'm Nicola, nice to meet you," Nico said first.

"I'm Gioele." I didn't know if omitting the nice to meet you would be rude, but if I said the exact same thing Nico did, it would seem like I was copying him. Is there another way to say nice to meet you?

"Gio!" Nico whispered. We were making progress! I left Veronica and hurried behind the others.

We went around the stoves, but Manuel stopped at the curve before reaching the last section. "He's Rick." He indicated a guy who was washing vegetables in the sink. "But he doesn't count for anything, you can just ignore him."

Rick turned around, and with dripping hands, he snatched Manuel's hat from his head and stacked it on top of his own.

"Idiot," Manuel hissed, looking around frantically, maybe to make sure the chef wasn't in sight.

Rick was young, with a dazzling smile and a pair of dimples. "New meat for the grinder. How delightful," he said all happily. "Who's going to be the sacrificial lamb this time?"

"Give me back my hat. Eu vou chutar seu traseiro."

Rick chuckled, pointing to his colleague. "If he starts insulting you in Brazilian, it means he likes you."

Manuel pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've told you a thousand times, stupid carcamano. In Brazil, they speak Portuguese. There's no such thing as Brazilian! At most, you can say Brazilian Portuguese. AND GIVE ME BACK the hat!"

Rick obeyed only because the chef's voice became louder.

"Uh..." I tried to interject. "What was that about the sacrificial lamb?"

"Don't listen to him," Manuel muttered. "His brain is full of worms."

"But these worms have seen many interns come through here. And I know one of you two will be assigned to the second section." He indicated the section opposite to the first one. "Where the sacrificial lambs are cooked."

I withdrew like a turtle. Knowing my luck, I knew it would be me.

"Hey, look, Manuel. This one seems scared." Rick pointed at me all happily. "He's perfect to become Michela's new slave." He looked from me to Nico with that amused smile of his. "Are you both legal adults?"

"We're in the fourth year of high school," Nico said.

"That doesn't answer my question."

Manuel gave him a pat on the chest. "Leave the kids alone. They just arrived." Then, to us, "No one is offered as a sacrifice. As commis, you'll simply be assigned to a station chef as assistants."

"And can't we assist you?" I asked with a small voice. Manuel seemed like a reasonable guy. Nice, even.

Rick burst out laughing. "He's not a station chef. He's an apprentice." He said the word apprentice making air quotes.

Manuel glared at him. "We're both apprentices."

I felt like there was an underlying meaning to that conversation that I wasn't grasping.

"Come on, let's finish the tour." Manuel waved his hands to direct us towards the last section, and Rick bid us goodbye with another chuckle.

We reached the dreaded second section. Sink and counter on one side, and a row of stoves on the other, directly opposing the first section's stoves.

"And here's Michela." Manuel introduced. "Our Sous chef. She handles meat and fish, and takes over from our big boss when needed."

Michela was the woman who scolded us for being late. She had eyebrows so light they were practically invisible. Her face was thin, sharp as a spear. She didn't smile at us, she just said, "Hurry up with this tour, service starts soon."

It wasn't even a surprise. When the chef reappeared in the kitchen and came straight towards us, I knew what awaited me. First, the chef said, "You've won several pastry contests, right, Demir?"

And Nicola said, "Yes, chef."

And then the chef said, "Then you'll go to the pastry section. Dagostino to the second section with Michela."