The
Uneaten Meal
by
Micki Peluso
The watch hanging from
Ian’s belt loop under his white chef jacket read 8:15. The morning rush was in
full swing. Patrons sat in the sunlit posh restaurant—some drummed their fingers
with impatience, others read the Wall Street Journal. Many seemed barely awake,
sipping coffee for a caffeine jolt.
Ian had worked the
kitchen all morning, his third day on the job as a Sous Chef to the Head
Chef. He had survived the breakfast rush; bagels with cream cheese and lox for
the rushed, Quiche Lorraine for the ones too important to punch a time
card. Still, most would be heading to their various jobs, many on the
104th floor below the
restaurant. The conference room, a floor below the restaurant, on the
106th floor was catering a
breakfast to the Waters Financial Technology Congress, serving seventy-one
guests.
Ian was preparing for the
lunch entrée special; a new recipe Chef would be offering to the lunch
crowd--numbering hundreds. Ian worked quickly, with dozens of cooks helping to
prep the ingredients. It was a gourmet delight – an aromatic concoction of
bowtie pasta swimming in a rich white cream sauce, consisting of sweet herbed
butter, heavy cream, white wine and an imported parmesan cheese. Large shrimp
lightly sautéed in the sauce were placed on top, sprinkled with crumbled Greek
feta cheese, sweet basil and freshly ground black pepper. Parsley sprigs added
décor to the plate along with a few strips of fresh grilled red pepper. Chef
Mike was confident of his creative cuisine. He was not of his new Sous Chef and
often hovered over him, making Ian nervous. He was glad Chef Mike would not be
coming in to work until the noon rush. This entrée could not be made completely
in advance and the chef wanted a few made up to insure the recipe was followed
to the letter. He had a fine reputation to maintain.
As customers rose to go
to their perspective jobs; many glancing out of the rows of large windows
overlooking the panoramic business district of Manhattan and the East River, the
dining room was set up for the lunch rush.
Ian had Chef Mike’s
creation ready to be sampled as soon as he arrived for his shift. He was afraid
his job depended on how well he had prepared the dish. Still, he had done his
best and felt confident it would suit the perfectionist chef.
Blinding light and
roaring noise shut out his world. Fire and smoke filled the entire
107th floor, screams of
panicked customers and workers alike died out quickly as they were overcome by
suffocation and burns. The delectible shrimp and bowtie pasta entrée was
destroyed along with most of the kitchen. Neither Ian nor Chef Mike would ever
know if it met the chef’s high standards. His new recipe would go uneaten, along
with all the meals scheduled for that luncheon meal. Windows on the World,
Manhattan’s noted and loved restaurant was destroyed. It was 8:55 and the
104th floor was
incinerated.
People on other
floors were spared the direct impact of the first passenger jet, Flight 11 that
slammed into the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11,
2001. The ones on the top floor, along with the people in the restaurant were
trapped. There was no way down. Many ran up the staircases to the top
111th floor and climbed onto
the rooftop hoping to be rescued. Ian ran with them. He helped the few people
alive make it to the roof. Helicopters tried in vain to reach them but black
billowing smoke prevented this, as well as bursts of flame. People succumbed to
the heat and smoke and died. Others chose to jump off the top of the building,
rather than burn to death. Ian was one of them.
As he jumped, his
thoughts were of his wife and their new born baby girl. It was such a beautiful
day that they had planned a picnic in Central Park when his shift ended. Before
Ian reached the ground, his spirit left his body. He saw his body splatter on
the street below. He watched as financial wizards, secretaries, businessmen,
maintenance workers, became one in the futile effort to escape the building. He
saw a second plane hit the second tower, taking more lives in an instant. This
plane hit closer to the top of the second tower giving more time for people
below those floors to get out. Many made it, many more did not. Ian’s spirit
drifted through the first tower, watching frantic people calling on their cell
phones for help—some realizing their plight cried and said goodbye to their
loved ones.
911 operators, unaware of
the gravity of the situation, gave wrong advice to many who called--advising
them to remain inside until help came. Help, that was unable to reach most of
them. Most of the ones who survived had ignored that advice and hurried to
escape the building.
New York City responded
at once. Ian watched as police, search and rescue squads, and fire trucks rushed
to the scene. Ambulances raced to help those who survived. People began the long
trek down dark stairways, coughing and choking on thick black smoke; often
meeting police and firemen on their way up the building. The heat was
unbearable. Ian felt anquished, knowing that so many would never make it back
down. He saw many like him who could walk through the ruins, already
dead.
The second tower imploded
almost without warning at 10:05 A.M., through time held no meaning for
Ian. Thousands of lives were crushed into rubble. The ambulances and hospitals
set up triages for the injured. Most beds lay empty, as few made it out of the
towers alive. Except for the ones lucky enough to have escaped before the first
tower imploded at 10:30, there were few patients to help. Ian observed the
nearly 3000 souls wandering lost throughout the ruins. Many did not yet realize
that they were dead.
The shock waves of horror
extended past Manhattan, its neighboring boroughs, rippled across the country,
impacted the world. America had been attacked by cowardly terrorists on her own
soil. New York City wept, Mayor Guiliani wept, the free world wept. And Ian
wept.
The Chef’s new entrée in
the Windows on the World would go uneaten, never sampled for its flavor. There
would be many uneaten meals that day and for many days to follow. Terror, death
and inconceivable destruction had taken away the appetite of the City, the
nation—most of the world. It left a bitter taste in the mouths of all those who
lost loved ones and those who grieved with them.
Ian glanced through the
rubble and saw his chef uniform buried beneath the debris. It held a quickly
scribbled note of love to his wife and newly born baby. He hoped it would be
found and given to her. He also hoped that she would tell his baby girl about
her father—so that his memory would live on, even if he could not. Ian sensed
that this most infamous day would never be forgotten. He wished for new twin
towers to be erected for all the lost lives destroyed this day, taken so
brutally. And maybe a new restaurant and new offices restored—not to replace
those lost but to honor them. Perhaps there would be a new chef with an untried
recipe that would be eaten and enjoyed. If that day arrived, it would signify
healing in a shocked and saddened nation—a new beginning.
Ian turned to see a horde
of people of all ages and occupations gathering together. He looked up and a
bright, warm light spread across the sky. He saw arms outstretched to embrace
those who walked toward the brightness. He joined them.
Seventy-three
employees in the restaurant died that day, all seventy-one in the conference
room and an unknown number of patrons. Remnants from the Windows on the World
restaurant rubble included: a dinner spoon, soup bowl, salad plate, dessert
plate and coffee cup. Also found was a table lamp, champagne flute, bottle of
champagne, grill scraper—and a chef’s uniform.
Author’s note: The terrorists had counted on
taking out from 30,000 to 50,000 lives that earth shattering morning. Their
timing was a little off and many people had not yet entered the building.
However, due to the toxins in the debris, such as mercury and asbestos, many of
those who spent days, weeks and even years searching Ground Zero for body parts
are now dying a slow and agonizing death due to cancers of the throat, lung and
esophagus. Many more will die in the ensuing years—among them, families and
small children whose homes were filled with this debris; which they were told to
clean up themselves. The repercussions of disease from toxins spread to Staten
Island, when they helicoptered the remains to the Staten Island dump. The dump
blew the toxins across the seventeen-mile- long Island and many are dying of
quickly striking and fatal cancers. It is conceivable that the total count of
those lost on 911 will reach 30,000 to 50,000 after all. Damn the
terrorist
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