9.5

The twice-toasted smell of old crumbs is gagging me. There's something stale and hollow about them, something greasy about the rancid aftertaste of every breath, and something metallic mixed from the screaming aluminum of the countertop. I stand up, spine tingling, knees creaking, and stop sweeping behind the stove only to find my self-satisfaction is fleeting and the next order, this time a reuben with a side of fries, waiting for me.