Smoking Chefs

In the noisy bustle of London’s West End, I have been looking for sanctuaries of quietness and contemplation. I found them in the back alleys and doorways of Chinatown. At night, when the countless restaurants compete for tourists and theatregoers, throngs of visitors collide with Chinatown’s tight-knit ethnic community. By the time the restaurants open, some of the kitchen staff have already been working since early morning. Many of them are recent immigrants who speak little more than a few words of English. Some will have clocked more than 60 hours when the week is over. I think of them as kindred souls. I share with them the few minutes it takes to smoke a cigarette, condensing the timespan into a single image. Just like the chefs have established their rituals of seeking out the same locations, acting out the same routine to escape the relentless demands of their work, I am following my own routine, trailing the same path along the streets and alleyways of Chinatown.