The ovens are turned on early. Six o'clock most days. Earlier on Sunday. Within an hour, bread is rising, apples are being sliced. Pecan pies are pulled hot from the oven and left to cool. Ice cream churns in the machine. Cups of coffee steam on the prep table, the baker's cup marked with chocolaty fingerprints.

By midmorning, pork shoulder, rubbed with spices the day before, is slowly smoked. And white buckets are filled with sliced onions. Corn is shucked. The stock that cooked all night is taken off the stove and strained. Bags of fresh shrimp are delivered in old grocery store bags.

The waiters arrive in groups, shirts and ties on hangers. By then, every burner in the kitchen is being used. Herbs are chopped. Scallops cleaned. Ovens at 500 degrees. All sauces are checked. Bartenders polish their shakers. Silverware is rolled and every surface is wiped down. Music. Lights. Doors are opened.

Dinnertime. At Acme. Seven nights a week. Local never tasted so damn good.

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