wine, loud music, & delirium

I’ve been absent from writing for a bit now. I won’t lie to you (and by you, I am assuming that there is only one of you out there who actually reads this. And that one person is probably my wife, who only reads my blogs because she also happens to be my publicist, constantly making sure I don’t do anything stupid. moving on.) I wont lie to you by saying that I’m back. I don’t know how long this urge will stick around, but tonight somewhere between the termpranillo and delirium of exhaustion from a menu release binge, there are a couple of things I’ve got to get off my chest.

The socially acceptable thoughts of a chef are few and far in between. It’s not that we are fried from the pseudo rock star lifestyle, but more like we don’t have the time to think about anything else except for – ourselves. Selfish, no doubt. But it’s the craft at fault. The consuming passion that drives us is infectious. We retreat to our purgatory and set up camp. Life outside of the kitchen is something we dread. It takes away from where we really want to be. The sacrifices are many, and yet with knowing all of the side affects and complications from this brutal habit we pretend the caution tape doesn’t exist.

Its funny in a way that patrons never think about the person actually cooking their food. Chances are, if you frequent a real restaurant (and by real I mean an establishment that thrives to progress the profession) those guys and girls fingering your favorite food aren’t there for the paycheck. Even more ironic, they aren’t there for the client. They are there for themselves. To feed the fire that keeps them up all night thinking about how to better peel an egg instead of catching some shut eye like an actual human being.

A chef- no longer human. Part beast, part machine. Designed, stripped of all prior programming and rebuilt to spend every second of every hour agonizing over everything that you are too busy to notice as you shove food down your throat. I don’t mean to be rude but its time that someone tells you to pay attention. The notion that cooks are uneducated and unable to hold any other career is about as retarded as segregated water fountains. I have some seriously talented people in my kitchen. No doubt rough and unfit for any other social environment other then a sweatbox filled with sharp blades and scorching surfaces- these people are fucking brilliant. 


I know this because I refuse to surround myself with anything less. The little success that I have so far accomplished is totally from their dedication, loyalty, and sometimes fear to my vision. By now you should know how I feel about the word “chef”. I am a cook. That is my craft and thankfully the only thing that I have so far in my short life not managed to make a soup sandwich out of.

I have some serious complications to my personality. I consider myself fortunate that the craft is the love of my life so much that it leaves time for nothing else. Too many cooks turn that addictive personality to substance abuse in hopes to catch that same high from being assaulted by an onslaught of orders every night. Even more unfortunate is that there is no drug like this craft.

My main flaw is that I am never satisfied. I am in love with this trade, but I don’t love all of it. The backstabbing, piracy and gossip I could do without. There has never been a moment where I have found myself at peace. A single slice of the pie doesn’t cut it. I want the whole thing. And I will stop at no measure, short of being an asshole and treating people like shit like some other chefs (cough cough.. Ramsey.. cough cough) to get it. It’s unhealthy- but that is me, and I either have to find a way to harness and control it, or let it destroy me. The later, I honestly doubt it’s success.

I believe in the Universe. That is my religion. I take things as they are given to me, listen for instructions and seek the direction it wants me to take. The Universe has shoved its massive foot up where it doesn’t belong in the past few days. The message- now it’s time! Confidence is on my side. And even more dangerous, so is the felling of being utterly bullet proof. My blood is at boil with an exploding willingness to break the rules and take risk.

Knowing that you are not at home is a disturbing realization. The calm settles when you identify where home is, and to spread more cheese on the topic – home is where the heart is. I honestly believe I live in one of the best places on earth. I will forever claim the little easy my starting point, but I am dying for excitement. I am a city boy at earth. Give me a concrete jungle, you can keep your beach. I’ll take the smog over the sun. I’ll choose sirens over crashing waves. There is something amazingly comforting in being in a place that swallows you whole. Being totally surrounded and flooded by mass population. A city where you matter nothing is a very beautiful thing. The knowing that all opportunity is sitting there waiting for you to earn its respect is the challenge I cannot do without forever.