Third Wind happens after the weeds. Things went crazily pear-shaped an hour ago, a screaming Chef, a flustered Sous, annoyed lines, and a shaking commis (who knows, darn well, that shit always rolls downhill), and hectic reconciliation of failures, mishaps, forgotten mise, broken tools, spoiled food, and angry servers and customers. Sweat is running, ovens are cranked to 500 to eek out another thirty seconds, the dish washer even puts down his iPod and starts grabbing useds from stations. The weeds get dense. And then, somehow, something happens. Third Wind. Suddenly the pans sing, dull knives become sharp again, ovens roar, everything … works.

As much as I loathe the weeds, I live for this moment. This one, perfect, moment in which things come together. To see Fredo chop like there’s no tomorrow, Juan (who always burns his potatoes and never, ever, got a hollandaise right) juggle six pans in perfect harmony, watch Chef taste and season while dancing between lines, grabbing things left and right that just magically appear at the very second he needs them. Amalie and Steve play off each other, six more sole on the grill, here’s the potatoes, here’s the crushed mustard seeds, and here’s the plate, warm and clean.

I am glued to my spot. Scared to move, scared to step into this perfect ballet of hands, knives, pans, spatulas, torches, and ingredients. Then the moment fades, we’re back. Out of the weeds, humming along as we did forty minutes ago before it all went bassackwards.

I move back to expo. “Ordering two steak, medium, medium rare, fries on medium, loaded, ordering one garden, dressing on side, no eggs, fire two sole, vegs, need one special, sauce on side, loaded, one veg with nuts allergy,” this is my world. We all had our chances. To get up and leave, to change jobs, to make more money and be at home on weekends. And we all have our reasons to stay. For Juan it’s a love for the kitchen, for Amalie it’s her two kids and the hope to one day start her own bistro, for Chef it’s the flavors and textures, and for me it’s this one moment, this one perfect tick of the clock, when time slows down and the men and women around me work in perfect, total, harmony.

And when I leave the kitchen, walk down the small path towards the employee parking lot, watching late diners stand next to their Beemers and Benzes, smoking expensive cigars, reminiscing about a great meal, I don’t envy them. I was there when the magic happened, I was there when six ordinary people turned the tables and made that perfect dinner happen. I witnessed something that, no matter how many “melt in your mouth” filets were consumed, no one “outside” will ever understand. I’ll see your corporate takeovers, perfect share holder meetings, brand new Blackberries, and $1200 dinners, and raise you Nirvana, or a pretty darn close approximation.