I love being a cook. I love being in the capacity to effect even a small amount of difference in people lives. I know, it's a stupid job.
We're not curing cancer or inventing the longer-lasting light bulb, or anything like that. But I like to think that we can make a small difference. When a man wants to take his wife out to the nicest restaurant in town for an anniversary, he takes her to L'Espalier. When some guy wants to show his wife a good time on her birthday, he takes her to L'Espalier. These are usually rich guys who aren't exactly short on expendable income, so, let's face it, we're not exactly feeding the hungry. (I guess these people are actually hungry when they come in, but you know what I mean.)
I think it's a cool job. It's fun. I like it. But at what cost?I haven't seen my family in months. Christmas this year will be in Atlanta, or so they tell me. Thanksgiving will be in Cedar Hill, and they'll all be there. Family? Ha. I thank God that mine are so understanding. I just hope my grandparents will be around long enough for me to spend some more time with them before they are gone. But with my job, I'm not so sure.
Social life? Not even a consideration. It's not that I don't have time off, I do...usually tuesday and wednesday night. When my friends are out having a good time on Friday, I'm at work. After work, I'm thinking about Saturday. Saturday? Forget it, I'm booked until Sunday. The rest of the world is out having a good time, you know, having a life. When I'm finally off work, they are in the middle of the week.
Girlfriend? Not a chance. Even if I had the time to meet someone I don't have the money. (Oh yeah, "my love don't cost a thing." Thanks, J-Lo, but you clearly haven't been around the singles scene in Boston. If I had a nickle for everytime I have been asked what kind of car I drive, I would not be cooking for a living. [And yes, they really ask that.] Besides, anyone who has ever tried to maintain a girlfriend knows that this is not a cheap proposition. I'm certainly not closing the door on anything, but I'm a long way from finding a girl that is understanding enough to accept my situation as-is.)
Speaking of girlfriends, cooking kind of screws you up in that regard as well. There is a certain mindset that begins to permeate your life: perfection. In the kitchen, only perfection is remotely acceptable. It becomes your obsession. You start to expect it in everything. It becomes your mantra in life; even your dating life. After a while it doesn't matter who she is. She's not pretty enough. She's not smart enough. She's not personable enough. There's always an excuse. (Lately, she just lives too far away.)
I love cooking, but is it worth livng a life of poverty and loneliness?
But about once a week we get a table that really does make me think that my job is worthwhile. We had one Sunday.
I don't know who this guy was, or what he did for a living, or even if he was a nice guy. But he might be my hero.
What I do know about him is that he had sweaty palms. He didn't check his coat at the door, and he ordered the Chef's Tasting menu, the most expensive menu option at an already very expensive restaurant (that he didn't look like he could really afford). Later that night, outside the steps of L'Espalier, in the shadow of the Prudential Center in the Back Bay of Boston, he knelt down on one knee, took a small box out of his pocket, and asked the young lady he shared dinner with if she would be so kind as to be his wife. She lowered her eyelids, bowed her head, covered her face with her hands, and knelt down beside him. The two of them then embraced within her tearful acceptance.
I may not have had very much to do with it, but I hope they had a kick ass meal. They deserve it. They made my life make sense again.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Cell Phone...ahem...Services
*For quality assurance purposes, this blog may be recorded or monitored.
I missed you, Sprint. You may have been in my pocket all this time, but you weren't really there. You were distant, cold, indifferent. I never felt so lonely as when you were around. I wanted things to be like they were, when we were new.
We've been together a long time, but it hasn't always been easy. You've dropped my calls. You've made me sit on hold. I even had to listen to that terrible elevator music while I waited. (Who picks that stuff out, anyway? Nobody likes easy listening jazz, why not spice it up a little? Throw me some Journey or Skynard...whatever you want, just save us the Kenny G!! How can I take you seriously when you don't even care about your own appearence?)
Today was a tough day for us. I had to call and tell you something that wasn't easy for me to say: I had found another. It's not that I wasn't happy with you, I was, but there are things Verizon wanted to do for me that you just didn't do anymore. They paid attention to me. They made promises you couldn't make. Or maybe you just didn't want to. When it comes down to it, they made me feel wanted. It's that what we all want? Someone to tell us that we matter, that we're important, that we're not just another pretty face. (What I can't get in my personal life, I seek in a wireless provider.)
I didn't want to do it, but you forced me. And then came the promises. New phone, discounted service, and, I shouldn't be talking about this, even...additional services. Really, I thought to myself, this is getting embarrassing. I wanted you to just accept that it was over, but you couldn't do it. That's when I realized, I didn't want to accept it either.
We've been together long enough for both of us to admit, we have too much history to just walk away from so easily. Sure, Verizon was flashy, they have better commercials, cooler phones, maybe even better service...but are they going to be there for me like you were? It's always exciting to start a new relationship, but once the honeymoon is over all there is is the love and trust built over the years. I couldn't do it. I had strayed, but you brought me back.
I hope we can make this a new beginning. It's hard for me to talk like this, but some things need to be said. Sprint, I...I...I love you.
PS-For everyone that changed my number in their phones...eh...sorry, change it back.
I missed you, Sprint. You may have been in my pocket all this time, but you weren't really there. You were distant, cold, indifferent. I never felt so lonely as when you were around. I wanted things to be like they were, when we were new.
We've been together a long time, but it hasn't always been easy. You've dropped my calls. You've made me sit on hold. I even had to listen to that terrible elevator music while I waited. (Who picks that stuff out, anyway? Nobody likes easy listening jazz, why not spice it up a little? Throw me some Journey or Skynard...whatever you want, just save us the Kenny G!! How can I take you seriously when you don't even care about your own appearence?)
Today was a tough day for us. I had to call and tell you something that wasn't easy for me to say: I had found another. It's not that I wasn't happy with you, I was, but there are things Verizon wanted to do for me that you just didn't do anymore. They paid attention to me. They made promises you couldn't make. Or maybe you just didn't want to. When it comes down to it, they made me feel wanted. It's that what we all want? Someone to tell us that we matter, that we're important, that we're not just another pretty face. (What I can't get in my personal life, I seek in a wireless provider.)
I didn't want to do it, but you forced me. And then came the promises. New phone, discounted service, and, I shouldn't be talking about this, even...additional services. Really, I thought to myself, this is getting embarrassing. I wanted you to just accept that it was over, but you couldn't do it. That's when I realized, I didn't want to accept it either.
We've been together long enough for both of us to admit, we have too much history to just walk away from so easily. Sure, Verizon was flashy, they have better commercials, cooler phones, maybe even better service...but are they going to be there for me like you were? It's always exciting to start a new relationship, but once the honeymoon is over all there is is the love and trust built over the years. I couldn't do it. I had strayed, but you brought me back.
I hope we can make this a new beginning. It's hard for me to talk like this, but some things need to be said. Sprint, I...I...I love you.
PS-For everyone that changed my number in their phones...eh...sorry, change it back.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Around the World 3 1/2 Times
I've put 86,323 miles on my car. Many of them while completely sober.
For those geography types, that's almost three and a half times around the equator.
My car doesn't get very much credit, especially from me. She's done her job, though, and hasn't once complained. Other people give their cars creative names like Crayola, Blue Bomb, or Hercules. Not my Nissan. If anything, she should just be called Rodney Dangerfield; she gets no respect. (And no, that is not her new name.)
I get a kick out of how people describe her. I've gotten parking tickets that say everything from yellow to orange to gold. For the record, she's Brushed Pewter, thank you very much.
I haven't liked my car very much lately. She's showing her age. There are so many dings and dents and chips all over her it makes me cringe just to look at her. Sometimes it seemed like that stripper across the street that you know used to be really hot, but now...it just makes you sad to see.
That was until today. She got washed today. Not one of those drive-through buy-five-gallons-and-get-a-free-wash gas station jobs, but the real thing. Vacuum cleaners, mat shampooers, and foreigners with blue rags and bottles of glass cleaner. She's beautiful. She still has the dings and dents, but without all the dirt and tar all over her it makes it easy to see what all she's been through for me.
I still remember the first time I drove my car. It was the night of my high school graduation. I still remember the look on my girlfriend's face when she had to ride in the back because my big brother jumped in the front seat first. What can I say, he called shotgun. She's also the reason I chuckle a little bit when someone sits in that certain spot on the backseat. Don't even try to look, you can't see it. But I know where it is, and it makes me smile inside.
It took me several years to finally get the last bit of crusty dried vomit out of the dashboard after almost driving home from the Library in Lubbock. I never got out of the parking lot, thank God. (editor's note: the Library is a bar, not a big building with books.)
There's a little ding on the left side of the front bumper from driving home on Sept. 1, 2001. It was opening day for dove season in Texas, and I was driving back to Dallas for the weekend. I killed the first dove that year, but I didn't think there was enough left of the bird to keep...I was doing about 85.
She took me from Dallas, to Lubbock, to Atlanta, to Hyde Park, and now to Boston. The day she was registered in Massachusetts was a sad day. I thought I heard a sniffle as I took off the Texas licence plate, then I saw a tear drop as I put on the Mass plates. As I found out the next morning, it wasn't a tear after all. It was transmission fluid. But I know she ached just the same.
Maybe I'll sell her one day, but it'll be hard to do. I might even shed a few drops of transmission fluid.
For those geography types, that's almost three and a half times around the equator.
My car doesn't get very much credit, especially from me. She's done her job, though, and hasn't once complained. Other people give their cars creative names like Crayola, Blue Bomb, or Hercules. Not my Nissan. If anything, she should just be called Rodney Dangerfield; she gets no respect. (And no, that is not her new name.)
I get a kick out of how people describe her. I've gotten parking tickets that say everything from yellow to orange to gold. For the record, she's Brushed Pewter, thank you very much.
I haven't liked my car very much lately. She's showing her age. There are so many dings and dents and chips all over her it makes me cringe just to look at her. Sometimes it seemed like that stripper across the street that you know used to be really hot, but now...it just makes you sad to see.
That was until today. She got washed today. Not one of those drive-through buy-five-gallons-and-get-a-free-wash gas station jobs, but the real thing. Vacuum cleaners, mat shampooers, and foreigners with blue rags and bottles of glass cleaner. She's beautiful. She still has the dings and dents, but without all the dirt and tar all over her it makes it easy to see what all she's been through for me.
I still remember the first time I drove my car. It was the night of my high school graduation. I still remember the look on my girlfriend's face when she had to ride in the back because my big brother jumped in the front seat first. What can I say, he called shotgun. She's also the reason I chuckle a little bit when someone sits in that certain spot on the backseat. Don't even try to look, you can't see it. But I know where it is, and it makes me smile inside.
It took me several years to finally get the last bit of crusty dried vomit out of the dashboard after almost driving home from the Library in Lubbock. I never got out of the parking lot, thank God. (editor's note: the Library is a bar, not a big building with books.)
There's a little ding on the left side of the front bumper from driving home on Sept. 1, 2001. It was opening day for dove season in Texas, and I was driving back to Dallas for the weekend. I killed the first dove that year, but I didn't think there was enough left of the bird to keep...I was doing about 85.
She took me from Dallas, to Lubbock, to Atlanta, to Hyde Park, and now to Boston. The day she was registered in Massachusetts was a sad day. I thought I heard a sniffle as I took off the Texas licence plate, then I saw a tear drop as I put on the Mass plates. As I found out the next morning, it wasn't a tear after all. It was transmission fluid. But I know she ached just the same.
Maybe I'll sell her one day, but it'll be hard to do. I might even shed a few drops of transmission fluid.
Welcome to the Voices
I always wondered who reads these things. Probably nobody. Well, maybe somebody. We shall see.
I often find myself coming home after work or the bar having had a few rounds and a lot to say. Something about the nether regions between drunk and sober make me want to expound. Previously, I've had no outlet for this and I end up on the front porch talking to myself, only mildly aware the the neighbors might be awake and think that the guy across the street is someone they should keep an eye on. In an effort to be a more courteous neighbor (and possibly to help their children sleep a little better), here we are.
I have to confess that I have been a frequent reader of other blogs for some time. I've always been entertained by Jason's blog (cookingwithjason.blogspot.com), but he has felt the need to discontinue his updates for professional reasons. I'm a big fan of a blog written by a new friend in Utah who has a lot to say about...well, not very much. But she's a very gifted writer and somehow manages to elicit a few chuckles out of the Utah dating scene and the personification of inanimate objects (namely rocks).
I have to say, I was a little inspired by these two. It made me think, if a jihadist rock could be entertaining, why not the life and thoughts of a semi-incompetent line cook? Besides, I used to write (I did win the Creative Writing Award in high school, don't you know.), and I'm tired of all those voices having their way with my conscious unanswered. No more, dear reader(s)!! (I won't be so presumptuous as to assume that there is or ever will be more than one reader, but you never know.)
With that, here you go. I may not make much sense, you will have to deal with an often confusing stream-of-conscious filled with parenthetical afterthoughts, and, honestly, this may be the only time I write anything here at all. So please excuse the spelling errors, the nonsensical gibberish, and the excessive use of commas as we all explore just how cracked up the mind of a cook can be.
I often find myself coming home after work or the bar having had a few rounds and a lot to say. Something about the nether regions between drunk and sober make me want to expound. Previously, I've had no outlet for this and I end up on the front porch talking to myself, only mildly aware the the neighbors might be awake and think that the guy across the street is someone they should keep an eye on. In an effort to be a more courteous neighbor (and possibly to help their children sleep a little better), here we are.
I have to confess that I have been a frequent reader of other blogs for some time. I've always been entertained by Jason's blog (cookingwithjason.blogspot.com), but he has felt the need to discontinue his updates for professional reasons. I'm a big fan of a blog written by a new friend in Utah who has a lot to say about...well, not very much. But she's a very gifted writer and somehow manages to elicit a few chuckles out of the Utah dating scene and the personification of inanimate objects (namely rocks).
I have to say, I was a little inspired by these two. It made me think, if a jihadist rock could be entertaining, why not the life and thoughts of a semi-incompetent line cook? Besides, I used to write (I did win the Creative Writing Award in high school, don't you know.), and I'm tired of all those voices having their way with my conscious unanswered. No more, dear reader(s)!! (I won't be so presumptuous as to assume that there is or ever will be more than one reader, but you never know.)
With that, here you go. I may not make much sense, you will have to deal with an often confusing stream-of-conscious filled with parenthetical afterthoughts, and, honestly, this may be the only time I write anything here at all. So please excuse the spelling errors, the nonsensical gibberish, and the excessive use of commas as we all explore just how cracked up the mind of a cook can be.
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