She presses the tongs onto the raw meat, searing the red beef until it turns as brown as the table that has specks of hot grease. Her eyes are focused on the glazed pieces of succulence, taking extra precautions not to burn or overcook each side. I'm powerless, a slave to entertainment and time. I'd read the menu properly, but I can't speak Korean at all (I'm afraid to butcher the name in public). I'm starving, and jealous—the one who controls the cooking utensil gets the first and best slices of meat. But hell, could be worse. I had a rough first day at the internship; filing receiving and transmitting calls, paperwork and papercuts, paper copies and paper planes, hotlines, boring-ass cubicles deprived of air conditioning in the midst of May, all in a ruffled suit and tie drenched in sweat.