Imagine a giant slab of roast beef warmed under a heat lamp for six hours.
The fat drippings congeal at the bottom of the pan. A busboy makes his rounds and wipes the buffet surrounding the roast beef with a rag soaked in salad dressing, grease, crumbs, milk, and soda. He's spent the afternoon wiping every counter, table and chair with the same rag occasionally dunking it into a bucket of lukewarm water and ammonia. It's crawling with bacteria. Customers circle the carving station, piling mounds of roast beef onto their plates already full of french fries, chicken wings, country fried steak, creamed corn and hamburger patties. They wrap their booger-picking fingers around the serving utensils and ladle dripping spoonfuls of gravy on top. After wiping their hands on their filthy sweatpants they waddle back to their tables, burping and farting with each step.
In the kitchen the cooks are re-heating trays of food from last night's service. They're coated in a layer of oil and skin flakes from previous patrons. The cooks drop sweat beads and strands of hair into enormous vats of mashed potatoes as they hunch over to stir them. A small army of dishwashers can hardly keep up with the avalanche of dirty dishes. The floors, walls and counter tops are sticky and wet. Dozens of flies hover over entrees warmed and ready to be served. This is hell.
