Thursday, 20 December 2001 | The kitchen

The woman in the kitchen (who kept insisting she wasn't the main chef) was from the Czech Republic, probably in her early twenties. She wore lots of blue eye shadow that rimmed her eyes above and below, and she had a healthy, rounded build and a soft, distinct accent, the vowels in her mouth stretching like rubberbands. She didn't want her picture taken, but she humored me, behaving unnaturally natural, relaxed, occasionally flashing me a warm, shy smile.

Her blond hair was pinned up haphazardly, revealing that the end of her shift was near, falling into her face as she chopped and kneaded and swirled the pan over the flames. Her coworkers gave her friendly jabs as they passed by, telling her she was a movie star, that she was going to become famous, that this was her night. They watched with mischievous grins from their corners, hiding and giggling when I turned the camera on them.

Even the managers were a little giddy when they noticed they were being watched through the lens of my camera. He was also from the Czech Republic, she was from Sweden, and they followed each other around trying to act natural, but most certainly acting—opening the cash register needlessly, grabbing a bottle of wine and setting it back again, pretending to pour mixed drinks and setting up a ghost table of peaked cloth napkins, half-empty wine glasses and a basket of bread. All the while they were trying to conceal their smiles, trying to whisk past the camera before my flash froze them on paper.

Are you sure you don't want something to eat? Can I get you something to drink? You must try something. Finally I accepted their offer of wine, which was poured liberally into a shiny, stemmed glass. While I took generous sips, my camera and flash still on and ready, we talked about America and Europe, perceptions, traveling, work. Work. It didn't occur to me until after I left that I had been working.