Hospitality

Nicole Melanson, Island, Issue 162

Customers don’t care about your stellar reputation if their food is late or cold, or their order gets mixed up. So what if someone smashed your heart into a million tiny pieces? South end of the bar needs a vodka tonic and a frozen margarita stat. While my father was dying, the entire world was busy baking bread. Ovens everywhere, full of carby comfort. Challah knots. Cinnamon scrolls. Enough fucking sourdough to sink a thousand ships.

(Note: this piece was shortlisted for Island’s 2021 Nonfiction Prize.)