Deliveries be damned. The thought drummed through N.K.’s head. Why couldn’t a drone do this. Why’d it have to be her. It was just some food wasn’t it. These big corpos never thought of any and their needs, especially when it came to the little ones and the endless levels of security to get through.
Drones were safe. Drones were reliable. They were happy to have drones do just about everything else for them. But for some reason this food had to be carried through the byzantine mesh of corridors and corporate art, past guards, past doors with paper pushers and account execs, past drones doing the same exact thing, by a human.
Not just any human - N.K. For some bigwig on high had it in their head that the chef should also be running errands rather than seeing to the line. She loved meeting people, that was half the fun of sourcing. Prowling the city’s markets to find the best produce while learning more about the people who made her art possible.
Once she was in the kitchen though, there was no removing her. Yet here she was, taking just a little too long to smoke so the food would cool that little bit more. N.K. knew she couldn’t risk spitting in the food, the corpos were bound to have scanners for such things. Plus she still respected what she made. And what she made was a damn fine quiche.
It wasn’t her go to dish, or the one that had made her name. The only thing she was thankful for was the fact the corpo order from the menu. N.K. knew she should make nice and play ball, as it were, with the money but she detested when someone came in and then wanted something that wasn’t on the menu. What was the point of coming then. Or for that matter why call and get the food delivered. Part of the restaurant going experience was being in the restaurant and getting the shitty service.
N.K. would just have to bring the shitty service to them. With that, she stubbed out her smoke picked up her quiche and made her way into the complex.
Today’s art is courtesy of Eric Geusz from San Francisco, California.