Saturday, February 27, 2010
Enjoy the Ride
There are brighter days ahead. This I know. Often it seems like I'm in a car driving at night. I leave from New York and the headlights of the truck only illuminate a few hundred yards in front of me. I'm going to California and I want to see the entire path, the whole road, every twist and turn, each mountain pass and yawning valley. My headlights don't cast the light that far. All I can see is what's directly in front of me. It takes a leap of faith to know that the path will spread out before me in the inky darkness. I have to trust that the road continues, that bridges will span rivers, that signposts will be erected to help guide my way. I can't make every turn from this point. I can't take every exit or navigate every interchange from this place here, where the wheels of the truck spin and asphalt recedes beneath the chassis. I have to be patient. If I have a map (or in this age a navigation unit) I will know that I need to guide my vehicle in this way or that. All I can do is prepare for the next step of the journey. I can't make the journey all at once. It takes time to cross a continent. I have to settle in my seat and pay attention behind the wheel. I turn up the radio, adjust the cruise control and lean back in my seat. I need to enjoy the ride.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Re: The Myth
It's a long road each man must walk. Everyone has their own story. I never wanted to tell another man's story, only my own. When I was a younger man I wanted to be a writer. I liked the idea of it. It felt like a suit of clothes that I could comfortably wear. I didn't know then what I know now, namely that back then I really didn't have anything to say. I thought I had a lot to say. I thought I had it all figured out. What a bunch of bullshit. I was as lost as lost could be and whistling in the dark to take my mind off the fear. I wanted to write because I thought it was cool. I wanted fame and glory. I wanted people to know my name. I wanted to be admired, accepted, adored, respected. I don't find anything wrong with those desires per se but I don't find them to be good enough reasons to want to write. I used to want to write. Now I feel the need to write. It's knocking at my door so loudly now. During my days and nights I think lyrically. That is, my thoughts are lyrical. I think in prose and poetry. I don't know if this is abnormal or unique because I really haven't ever thought in any other way. I don't know how other people think, whether it be in pictures and images or music or what all. I only know how I think. And I think in words. Strings of words spun together and woven on the wind.
All of our lives are a myth. Each life is a story, a fable. Everything has meaning. I believe it's for each man to decide the meaning of his own myth. I can't ascribe a value to an other's myth anymore than I can ignore the weight of my own. My story is not unique. My story is not extraordinary. It's every one's story. Only the names and places are different. I was born. I lived. I made my mistakes. I learned. I was victorious, defeated, heroic, cowardly, suspicious, trusting, fearful, brave. The whole gamut of human emotions, thoughts, feelings, actions, consequences. But again I return to my original point. I cannot tell of an other's experiences as I can of my own. The rich tapestry of experience is woven in the fabric of our daily lives, our actions and reactions, the thought world that underlies everything. If you were able to see others' thoughts on a daily basis what would it be like? Say you were walking down Main Street and above each soul's head there was a thought bubble containing that person's exact thought at that moment. Do you think you'd be shocked or surprised? Would it be amusing? Terrifying? Perhaps it would make your skin crawl. Maybe, just maybe you would look at your own life differently. I honestly don't know. I can't say how I'd react with that knowledge. This is why I can only tell my own story. I can't see your thought bubble. If I could I'd tell yours. But I don't have that gift. So I tell my own.
All of our lives are a myth. Each life is a story, a fable. Everything has meaning. I believe it's for each man to decide the meaning of his own myth. I can't ascribe a value to an other's myth anymore than I can ignore the weight of my own. My story is not unique. My story is not extraordinary. It's every one's story. Only the names and places are different. I was born. I lived. I made my mistakes. I learned. I was victorious, defeated, heroic, cowardly, suspicious, trusting, fearful, brave. The whole gamut of human emotions, thoughts, feelings, actions, consequences. But again I return to my original point. I cannot tell of an other's experiences as I can of my own. The rich tapestry of experience is woven in the fabric of our daily lives, our actions and reactions, the thought world that underlies everything. If you were able to see others' thoughts on a daily basis what would it be like? Say you were walking down Main Street and above each soul's head there was a thought bubble containing that person's exact thought at that moment. Do you think you'd be shocked or surprised? Would it be amusing? Terrifying? Perhaps it would make your skin crawl. Maybe, just maybe you would look at your own life differently. I honestly don't know. I can't say how I'd react with that knowledge. This is why I can only tell my own story. I can't see your thought bubble. If I could I'd tell yours. But I don't have that gift. So I tell my own.
Friday, February 19, 2010
"When I get big and you get little..."
I have no idea where this is going but felt the need to write. I've got a few hours before I head off to the restaurant for the evening. I've got some chef jackets and bistro aprons drying in the clothes' dryer and am waiting for them to finish before heading out to run some errands before kitchen time. Tonight I'm going to make some sweet potato gnocchi for a special. I'm not sure exactly how I'll serve them, what protein I'll pair them with but they've been on my mind for several days so I'll bust'em out tonight.
Last night was my first night off in about ten days. Funny how I sit around on my ass for almost six weeks and then BAM! Get super busy all of the sudden. Guess that's the way it goes sometimes. I was settling in for a night of watching the Vancouver Winter Olympics after an afternoon of napping when I checked my voice mails to receive one from my sister. She relayed that my Dad was in the hospital again. Immediately I phoned her and then headed off to the hospital to find my Dad. He was in the emergency room all plugged up to machines again with my Mom at his side. Long story short he's not been eating properly or drinking enough water. He was weak and dehydrated. I stayed with them for several hours, helped my Dad to the restroom so he could produce a urine sample and went on an errand to fetch some dinner for my Mother.
I experienced the strangest sensation helping my Dad out of the hospital bed and onto his feet to go to the bathroom. I lifted his legs, his calves, which I recall were once so muscular and thick, so tanned and healthy. They were a husk of their former selves, thin and emaciated. I put my arm around his torso and lifted him from the bed. He's so much smaller now. It's heart breaking. Something I said long, long ago, in another life, came into my mind. It was something I uttered during my childhood in West Virginia when my Father and I had gone to the farm in Spanishburg to cut down the family Christmas tree. I guess I was waxing philosophically about the future (always a poet, even at age 5.) I said something to the effect of "Dad? When I get big and you get little..." I'm not sure what I said after that and no one else remembers either. Everyone laughed about it back then and the phrase was repeated over and over and smiled at for being so cute.
I'm not laughing so much lately. I've been through so much personal pain over the past decade. Massive amounts of physical, mental, psychological and spiritual pain. I'm a different person as a result, no longer the naive, idealistic young man. There are moments when I miss him, when I long for that naivete, that innocence, that ignorance to life's tragedies. You can't go back though. And truth be told I wouldn't go back even if I could. Truth be told I am more "me" than I have ever been in my entire life. I wear a new pair of glasses. Reality sparkles before my eyes. I've lost my illusions. My head may still often be found in the clouds but my feet are still firmly planted on the ground. LSD trips and week long cocaine binges are a distant memory. Lunatic drunks sailing headlong into the sun. Feverish nights of sex and drugs. Cold cornflower mornings in winter cursing the songbirds. Ten mile runs in the snow. White powder lines down mountainsides during the day, white powder lines up my nose at night. No future, no past. No colloquies in the sun. Madness, virtue, spite. Twisting trees all dolled up in lace. Furnace the sky sparkling space. I quit the race, saved no face, dropped the pace, got my taste.
And now I help carry the broken body of my Father to the bathroom. My heart is breaking into a million tiny pieces and I wonder how it'll ever become whole again. The memory of last year's romance is fading but still powerfully charged with feeling and emotion. Brief nights lost in love, swimming in lust. Hot bodies and perfumed mystery. Delicate strands of tickling blonde hair, Jupiter eyes, fingernails scarring my tactile flesh. All lost, all fleeting, all ephemeral. Burn bright the mid-day sun, flush out the shadows White hot our burning, pulsing star. Shadows recede from the mortal flame, three dimensions fall to two, diametric universes collide and explode in stinging bursts of atoms. Neutrons swirl around mindlessly obeying some ancient law that is written in rock. One grows bigger, another grows smaller. Mirrors line the floors and ceiling. Images transfix. Parallels to infinity. Repeat. Repeat. The mind searches for purchase, a safe place to take hold, a harbor to moor.
Dreams. Idiotic images of passing people in your life. Fairy tales of wine and women. Childhood mates are heroes and martyrs. Dragons swallow my pride. I conquer them one by one. I am victorious. I stand atop the hill and yell "I am KING of the MOUNTAIN!" My voice echoes through the hollows, descends from Woodlawn Cliff, usurps the train tracks and coal cars from MineComp, breaches the Whitestick, flows across valleys and fields, brushes the ears of deer, ruffles hides, spins and swirls through lonely passes, up yawning mountainsides cloaked in moss and ferns. The mountain is strewn with bodies and memories. Mouths open and blood drying on parched lips, scarlet stained cheeks, cracked hands, upturned earth.
And in an instant it is over. I am home again. I am in my place at the dinner table. My Father is home from work and my Mother has dinner on the table. The black and white television blinks and Walter Cronkite comforts me. President Carter seems asleep sitting at the head of the long wooden table on the TV screen. My father smiles, a big, eye sparkling grin as he bows his head and my sisters and I begin to pray. We sing "God is great and God is good and we thank you for this food...Awwww Men!" Outside the linoleum kitchen squirrels twitch and search for a nut on the wooden deck my Father built. There will be no school tomorrow as the snow is falling. It is coating the oaks, the pines, the hemlocks, the dogwoods, the rhododendron. It is drifting down King Street. It is piling up on my Father's Chevrolet. It is burying Mary Calbert's rose bushes. In long deep piles it is building up on fence posts and old rock walls. The heaters hum, Walter Cronkite speaks and all is right with the world. We eat.
Last night was my first night off in about ten days. Funny how I sit around on my ass for almost six weeks and then BAM! Get super busy all of the sudden. Guess that's the way it goes sometimes. I was settling in for a night of watching the Vancouver Winter Olympics after an afternoon of napping when I checked my voice mails to receive one from my sister. She relayed that my Dad was in the hospital again. Immediately I phoned her and then headed off to the hospital to find my Dad. He was in the emergency room all plugged up to machines again with my Mom at his side. Long story short he's not been eating properly or drinking enough water. He was weak and dehydrated. I stayed with them for several hours, helped my Dad to the restroom so he could produce a urine sample and went on an errand to fetch some dinner for my Mother.
I experienced the strangest sensation helping my Dad out of the hospital bed and onto his feet to go to the bathroom. I lifted his legs, his calves, which I recall were once so muscular and thick, so tanned and healthy. They were a husk of their former selves, thin and emaciated. I put my arm around his torso and lifted him from the bed. He's so much smaller now. It's heart breaking. Something I said long, long ago, in another life, came into my mind. It was something I uttered during my childhood in West Virginia when my Father and I had gone to the farm in Spanishburg to cut down the family Christmas tree. I guess I was waxing philosophically about the future (always a poet, even at age 5.) I said something to the effect of "Dad? When I get big and you get little..." I'm not sure what I said after that and no one else remembers either. Everyone laughed about it back then and the phrase was repeated over and over and smiled at for being so cute.
I'm not laughing so much lately. I've been through so much personal pain over the past decade. Massive amounts of physical, mental, psychological and spiritual pain. I'm a different person as a result, no longer the naive, idealistic young man. There are moments when I miss him, when I long for that naivete, that innocence, that ignorance to life's tragedies. You can't go back though. And truth be told I wouldn't go back even if I could. Truth be told I am more "me" than I have ever been in my entire life. I wear a new pair of glasses. Reality sparkles before my eyes. I've lost my illusions. My head may still often be found in the clouds but my feet are still firmly planted on the ground. LSD trips and week long cocaine binges are a distant memory. Lunatic drunks sailing headlong into the sun. Feverish nights of sex and drugs. Cold cornflower mornings in winter cursing the songbirds. Ten mile runs in the snow. White powder lines down mountainsides during the day, white powder lines up my nose at night. No future, no past. No colloquies in the sun. Madness, virtue, spite. Twisting trees all dolled up in lace. Furnace the sky sparkling space. I quit the race, saved no face, dropped the pace, got my taste.
And now I help carry the broken body of my Father to the bathroom. My heart is breaking into a million tiny pieces and I wonder how it'll ever become whole again. The memory of last year's romance is fading but still powerfully charged with feeling and emotion. Brief nights lost in love, swimming in lust. Hot bodies and perfumed mystery. Delicate strands of tickling blonde hair, Jupiter eyes, fingernails scarring my tactile flesh. All lost, all fleeting, all ephemeral. Burn bright the mid-day sun, flush out the shadows White hot our burning, pulsing star. Shadows recede from the mortal flame, three dimensions fall to two, diametric universes collide and explode in stinging bursts of atoms. Neutrons swirl around mindlessly obeying some ancient law that is written in rock. One grows bigger, another grows smaller. Mirrors line the floors and ceiling. Images transfix. Parallels to infinity. Repeat. Repeat. The mind searches for purchase, a safe place to take hold, a harbor to moor.
Dreams. Idiotic images of passing people in your life. Fairy tales of wine and women. Childhood mates are heroes and martyrs. Dragons swallow my pride. I conquer them one by one. I am victorious. I stand atop the hill and yell "I am KING of the MOUNTAIN!" My voice echoes through the hollows, descends from Woodlawn Cliff, usurps the train tracks and coal cars from MineComp, breaches the Whitestick, flows across valleys and fields, brushes the ears of deer, ruffles hides, spins and swirls through lonely passes, up yawning mountainsides cloaked in moss and ferns. The mountain is strewn with bodies and memories. Mouths open and blood drying on parched lips, scarlet stained cheeks, cracked hands, upturned earth.
And in an instant it is over. I am home again. I am in my place at the dinner table. My Father is home from work and my Mother has dinner on the table. The black and white television blinks and Walter Cronkite comforts me. President Carter seems asleep sitting at the head of the long wooden table on the TV screen. My father smiles, a big, eye sparkling grin as he bows his head and my sisters and I begin to pray. We sing "God is great and God is good and we thank you for this food...Awwww Men!" Outside the linoleum kitchen squirrels twitch and search for a nut on the wooden deck my Father built. There will be no school tomorrow as the snow is falling. It is coating the oaks, the pines, the hemlocks, the dogwoods, the rhododendron. It is drifting down King Street. It is piling up on my Father's Chevrolet. It is burying Mary Calbert's rose bushes. In long deep piles it is building up on fence posts and old rock walls. The heaters hum, Walter Cronkite speaks and all is right with the world. We eat.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Back in the saddle
Tomorrow night will be my first busy night working in a restaurant in over 5 years, almost 6. I've been meditating on this over this past week of prepping and getting ready for Valentine's weekend at the local Columbia restaurant. We'll see how it goes after the weekend. At the beginning of the week I was dreading it a bit. I'd been going back and forth with the restaurant owner on the menu, trying to get product ordered and then prep the menu. It's a bit of a trip to start consulting at a restaurant midway through one week and then completely overhaul their menu for the next weekend which is one of the busiest of the year in the restaurant industry. In the back of my mind thoughts of all the restaurants I've worked in and all the experiences I've had over the years have been simmering...stewing away. When I first returned to Columbia I worked in another local Columbia restaurant for 9 months. I didn't work many nights though, by design. Restaurants in Columbia are notoriously poorly managed. I knew what I was getting myself into by taking this consulting gig. I had no delusions. And truth be told it is a little better than I had imagined. I've seen much, much worse. What strikes me is the lack of organization, the "recreate the wheel everyday" mindset, rather than methodically planning ahead and following a detailed game plan. Anyone who's worked in a restaurant knows that things hardly ever go as planned but you need to at least HAVE a plan! Three different people order food for the restaurant. It's stupid, inefficient and leads to confusion and missed items. There are no prep lists, no order guide, no employee schedule, no chain of command. The fact that they pull it off with any measure of success on a daily basis is actually quite astonishing.
I've been lucky though. I've worked with some of the best chefs and staffs in the country. IN every kitchen, at every restaurant, in every hotel, on every property I've learned and learned a lot. I always pay attention to things. I always try to figure out how to do things more efficiently, more productively. I can't stand sloppiness and disorganization. It used to be really, really bad. When I was younger I had quite the attitude in the kitchen. Yep, I was a screamer. I'd fly off the handle and make an ass out of myself. Like many old school chefs I led by fear. I've long since abandoned that particular style of management. It doesn't work very well and is unhealthy for all involved. When I first take a position I watch. I listen. I watch how every single person works. I watch how they relate to one another. I watch how they react under pressure. I see how organized they are, how prepared. Insouciantly I judge every person's strengths and weaknesses. I make mental notes constantly and often at the end of the night I make written notes at home and never bring them into work with me.
Then I make a game plan. Before I've even taken the job I have goals in mind. I have things I want to accomplish. Once I've done a great deal of auditing I begin the real work. Dealing with employees is the single most difficult aspect of being a chef. Hands down. This is part of the reason you see so many chefs worn down and ragged. They'd rather do the work themselves than have it done improperly. To get cooks to do things YOUR way is the biggest challenge. It's a constant battle. The worst case scenario is when you don't have the power to fire someone. You might as well give up right there. Once a cook knows you can't fire him you're fucked. You've been neutered. All this talk of the bad ones is giving the wrong impression. There are many cooks out there who want to learn, who want to advance, who want to become chefs themselves. If you can find the right buttons to push, the right tack to take with these fellows you are in luck. I've tried to "bring people up" on every team I've ever led. I'll tell them, "I don't know everything but I'll teach you everything I know. What I don't know we can learn together."
It's been a crazy life. I'm thinking now of the last place I worked in Santa Fe before splitting to recover from alcoholism and drug addiction. I can't remember the exact numbers but over the Christmas and holidays we knocked the ball out of the park. At night in the kitchen of the luxury hotel there were three of us, four including the dishwasher. Myself, working the grill, expediting and leading the team, Neil, who was basically a sort of sous chef to me, working saute, and Jenna, who worked garde manger, mainly salads and desserts with a couple of hot apps as well. We cranked and cranked hard for those 3 solid weeks. It was a thing of beauty. We were a well-oiled machine the three of us. After prepping in the afternoon we'd clean up and psych ourselves up for the dinner rush. I'd play the theme from "The A Team" on the CD player in the kitchen and off we'd go. I don't think we had a single "re fire" come back to the kitchen during that whole holiday season. Table after table, plate after plate we churned out perfectly executed dishes. Unlike many restaurants there was no back of the house/front of the house animosity. We were a team. The food and beverage director wouldn't have stood for that kind of nonsense. He was the consummate front of the house manager. To watch him work the tables in the dining room or lead a staff was to witness top-notch professionalism in action. I wish I could say the same about myself during that time but I was more like the captain of a pirate ship then a decorated military officer.
Neil was from Guatemala. He understood English very well but could speak very little. I knew some "kitchen" Spanish and we never had any problems communicating. Neil was also the one who supplied me with cocaine. He'd reach down into the pocket of his baggy chef pants and slyly hand over a plastic baggie to me with a golf ball size hunk of coke in it. I disappear into the walk in cooler out back and chop lines onto a small white china bread and butter plate. I'd get one good line up one nostril and then fill the other. I'd wait a few minutes for the drip and then I'd reload each again. Instantaneously the world sparkled with excitement and energy. My mind raced with thoughts and I was ready to take on the world. "Open the floodgates! I'm ready to COOK!" Wide-eyed and electric I re-enter the kitchen and try to hide the fact that I was high out of my mind on cocaine. I'd nod to Neil and he'd leave the line and get his fix in the walk-in cooler. We'd keep an eye out for Cal, the f&b director. This always made me feel sick inside because Cal was a good friend, in addition to my boss. He knew I was a drunk (other stories for other days) but if he'd known I was using drugs at work he'd not only have fired me I know he would have been deeply, deeply disappointed and hurt. I couldn't help myself though. At the time I just couldn't stop the madness. If I could have stopped for Cal I would have. But I couldn't stop for anybody, not even myself. I'm sorry Cal. I hope that now, years later, you will forgive me for being such a fuck up in that way.
What is truly astonishing is despite the fact that I was a raging coke head and drunk I was an awesome chef. I'd return to my station and wait for the printer to start chattering away with orders. Neil, Jenna and I were organized, focused and fast. We didn't fuck around when it came to the food. Each plate had to be perfect. Nothing less would do. My work station was a work of art in itself: freshly cut meats lined up orderly in rows in refrigerated drawers, portioned fillets of fish neatly laid out in gleaming stainless steel pans, tiny metal containers of expertly diced vegetables and minced herbs, sauces holding a perfect "nappe." Everything clean, everything in order. When the printer would erupt with a fresh ticket I'd take it and call out the orders, "Fire a bisque, shrimp. Second course halibut, mixed grill!" Neil and Jenna would call back to me, "Firing a bisque! Firing a shrimp! Second course halibut! That's four all day!" Once entrees were fired Neil and I didn't even have to talk to each other to synchronize our dishes coming up at the same time together. We knew where each other's dishes were, what stage of cooking. All I'd have to say is "Fire 23!" and hear Neil yell back "Firing 23!" to know that it would take him 2 minutes to have the halibut in the window and ready to be served to the guest. On and on this went. Night after night, week after week, and month after month. I began writing about the three week holiday period but that stint of perfection was by no means a fluke. We worked like that together almost from the start. Neil and Jenna took a little grooming, sure. But as soon as we started partying together they were totally on board. More about that later. I best get some sleep. I've got a kitchen to run tomorrow night.
I've been lucky though. I've worked with some of the best chefs and staffs in the country. IN every kitchen, at every restaurant, in every hotel, on every property I've learned and learned a lot. I always pay attention to things. I always try to figure out how to do things more efficiently, more productively. I can't stand sloppiness and disorganization. It used to be really, really bad. When I was younger I had quite the attitude in the kitchen. Yep, I was a screamer. I'd fly off the handle and make an ass out of myself. Like many old school chefs I led by fear. I've long since abandoned that particular style of management. It doesn't work very well and is unhealthy for all involved. When I first take a position I watch. I listen. I watch how every single person works. I watch how they relate to one another. I watch how they react under pressure. I see how organized they are, how prepared. Insouciantly I judge every person's strengths and weaknesses. I make mental notes constantly and often at the end of the night I make written notes at home and never bring them into work with me.
Then I make a game plan. Before I've even taken the job I have goals in mind. I have things I want to accomplish. Once I've done a great deal of auditing I begin the real work. Dealing with employees is the single most difficult aspect of being a chef. Hands down. This is part of the reason you see so many chefs worn down and ragged. They'd rather do the work themselves than have it done improperly. To get cooks to do things YOUR way is the biggest challenge. It's a constant battle. The worst case scenario is when you don't have the power to fire someone. You might as well give up right there. Once a cook knows you can't fire him you're fucked. You've been neutered. All this talk of the bad ones is giving the wrong impression. There are many cooks out there who want to learn, who want to advance, who want to become chefs themselves. If you can find the right buttons to push, the right tack to take with these fellows you are in luck. I've tried to "bring people up" on every team I've ever led. I'll tell them, "I don't know everything but I'll teach you everything I know. What I don't know we can learn together."
It's been a crazy life. I'm thinking now of the last place I worked in Santa Fe before splitting to recover from alcoholism and drug addiction. I can't remember the exact numbers but over the Christmas and holidays we knocked the ball out of the park. At night in the kitchen of the luxury hotel there were three of us, four including the dishwasher. Myself, working the grill, expediting and leading the team, Neil, who was basically a sort of sous chef to me, working saute, and Jenna, who worked garde manger, mainly salads and desserts with a couple of hot apps as well. We cranked and cranked hard for those 3 solid weeks. It was a thing of beauty. We were a well-oiled machine the three of us. After prepping in the afternoon we'd clean up and psych ourselves up for the dinner rush. I'd play the theme from "The A Team" on the CD player in the kitchen and off we'd go. I don't think we had a single "re fire" come back to the kitchen during that whole holiday season. Table after table, plate after plate we churned out perfectly executed dishes. Unlike many restaurants there was no back of the house/front of the house animosity. We were a team. The food and beverage director wouldn't have stood for that kind of nonsense. He was the consummate front of the house manager. To watch him work the tables in the dining room or lead a staff was to witness top-notch professionalism in action. I wish I could say the same about myself during that time but I was more like the captain of a pirate ship then a decorated military officer.
Neil was from Guatemala. He understood English very well but could speak very little. I knew some "kitchen" Spanish and we never had any problems communicating. Neil was also the one who supplied me with cocaine. He'd reach down into the pocket of his baggy chef pants and slyly hand over a plastic baggie to me with a golf ball size hunk of coke in it. I disappear into the walk in cooler out back and chop lines onto a small white china bread and butter plate. I'd get one good line up one nostril and then fill the other. I'd wait a few minutes for the drip and then I'd reload each again. Instantaneously the world sparkled with excitement and energy. My mind raced with thoughts and I was ready to take on the world. "Open the floodgates! I'm ready to COOK!" Wide-eyed and electric I re-enter the kitchen and try to hide the fact that I was high out of my mind on cocaine. I'd nod to Neil and he'd leave the line and get his fix in the walk-in cooler. We'd keep an eye out for Cal, the f&b director. This always made me feel sick inside because Cal was a good friend, in addition to my boss. He knew I was a drunk (other stories for other days) but if he'd known I was using drugs at work he'd not only have fired me I know he would have been deeply, deeply disappointed and hurt. I couldn't help myself though. At the time I just couldn't stop the madness. If I could have stopped for Cal I would have. But I couldn't stop for anybody, not even myself. I'm sorry Cal. I hope that now, years later, you will forgive me for being such a fuck up in that way.
What is truly astonishing is despite the fact that I was a raging coke head and drunk I was an awesome chef. I'd return to my station and wait for the printer to start chattering away with orders. Neil, Jenna and I were organized, focused and fast. We didn't fuck around when it came to the food. Each plate had to be perfect. Nothing less would do. My work station was a work of art in itself: freshly cut meats lined up orderly in rows in refrigerated drawers, portioned fillets of fish neatly laid out in gleaming stainless steel pans, tiny metal containers of expertly diced vegetables and minced herbs, sauces holding a perfect "nappe." Everything clean, everything in order. When the printer would erupt with a fresh ticket I'd take it and call out the orders, "Fire a bisque, shrimp. Second course halibut, mixed grill!" Neil and Jenna would call back to me, "Firing a bisque! Firing a shrimp! Second course halibut! That's four all day!" Once entrees were fired Neil and I didn't even have to talk to each other to synchronize our dishes coming up at the same time together. We knew where each other's dishes were, what stage of cooking. All I'd have to say is "Fire 23!" and hear Neil yell back "Firing 23!" to know that it would take him 2 minutes to have the halibut in the window and ready to be served to the guest. On and on this went. Night after night, week after week, and month after month. I began writing about the three week holiday period but that stint of perfection was by no means a fluke. We worked like that together almost from the start. Neil and Jenna took a little grooming, sure. But as soon as we started partying together they were totally on board. More about that later. I best get some sleep. I've got a kitchen to run tomorrow night.
Monday, February 8, 2010
A Simple Meal
It was a cold winter day in early February as the man drove down the city street beneath a misting of light rain. Moments earlier he had been in the drafty old house where he lived in a rented second-story apartment. His mother had called him on his cell phone. Her voice was shaky, uneven, strained.
"He's still in the hospital. We need you, honey."
"I'll be right there," the man answered. He put on a battered wool jacket and grey hat, stuffed a book in the inside pocket of the coat and went out the door of his flat. Driving down Sumter Street his mind was lost in thought. For a few punctuated moments his thoughts drifted. He was trying to recollect the last time he had felt light and free inside. He was trying to summon the image of the last time he had felt joy. It escaped him. Just then a shadowy figure appeared on the rain-slaked street before him. It was early afternoon and the sky was gray and fallen, tiny pellets of rain kissed the windshield of his truck as the heater blew warm air through numerous vents. The darkened figure came more into view and he could see that it was a man in a wheelchair. He was slowly rolling himself up the wide city street. The sidewalk of the street had been blocked off for repairs so the dark figure had taken to the street. As the man came upon him he noticed more details of this person. He wore dark clothing and a black stocking cap and where his legs should have been there was nothing, only space. The truck moved soundlessly by and the dark figured receded from view.
Several blocks ahead the man maneuvered his truck into a parking space next to the large brick building. He killed the motor and sat for a moment and took a deep breath. Stepping out of his truck and onto the broken asphalt pavement he made his way through the light rain and into the brightly lit building. Scanning the hospital register he found his father's room number and proceeded to snake his way through the cavernous hallways to find it. At last he came to the door, knocked lightly and let himself in. Here he found his father and mother. His father was sitting in a chair beside the bed where he had slept the night before. Tubes were twisting out of his arm and snaked loosely to a stainless steel carriage upon which a clear bag of fluid hung. It dripped eternally slow. His father had grown a beard. It was by turns shades of gray and white. The skin of his face hung loosely where once it had been round and full. His clothes hung off of his frame. The belly, which once had been so round and full as to be the subject of joking was flat now, non-existent. The man realized that he was now larger than his father. He weighed more and he took up more space. The man's mother rose from her spot on the tiny couch and greeted him. He held her to him and squeezed her in his arms. He felt the softness of her hair on his own whiskered face and kissed her softly on the top of the head. Then he took his father's thin hand into his own and squeezed it gently. His father was slumped in his chair, dazed and confused. When he spoke the words didn't make much sense. The words were there. The sentences were intact, but the meaning behind them was absent. All the man could read from them was that his father was confused and angry. His eyes had the look one sees in a frightened horse, wide, incredulous, untamed and moments from fury. On a rolling table the same shade of shiny silver as the carriage that was tethered to his father sat an eaten meal. Prior to entering the room the man had spoken to a nurse who had asked him to try to get his father to eat. The man mentioned the food and tried to persuade him. Instead his father offered it to him.
"Nooo, I'm fine...I'm good, You have some."
"I've eaten Dad. The nurse said you should eat some."
"Yeah, they've been saying lots of things," he seethed angrily.
Unfazed, the man prodded on, "Hey, look here, banana pudding. That looks good!"
"Have some, son," his father urged.
"Why don't you have some, dad?"
"Nawww, I'm good. You have some. Taste it. Go on taste it."
His mother picked up the little dish of pudding and began to taste it herself.
"NO Suzanne! Let Mark taste it! I want him to taste it!" the father growled, his eyes widening wildly and pierced with fury.
Mark gave his mother a compassionate look and took the pudding in his hand.
"Mmmmm..this is good, Dad! You should really have some!" Mark encouraged.
"I don't want any. You go ahead."
After this went on for a while Mark gave up on trying to get his father to eat. Instead he turned his attention to trying to distract his Dad from taking the tubes out of his arm.
"It's nothing," he said, "The doctor said it's fluid but who the hell is he kidding?!" he laughed resentfully.
"It is fluid, Dad. You're dehydrated."
"Everybody knows what's best for me. Is that it?!"
"No. But Dad, you have to try to understand you're not in your right mind right now."
The old man's eyes grew more incredulous. He smacked his knee with his hand.
"Is that so?! Is that right?! That doctor is a dumb, lying son-of-a-bitch and that fairy nurse is even dumber. They're all jackasses."
"No one's against you, dad. They're only trying to help."
"Oh I know. I know," the old man answered unconvincingly
Recognizing that this tact was not working either Mark instead tried something else. He remembered the book he had brought. He felt it in the breast of his jacket, nestled against his heart. He had thought his father would be lying in bed, half-asleep. He had planned on reading the book quietly to himself while sitting there at his father's bedside. Instead he offered to read to his Dad. Pulling out the thin paperback volume from his jacket he asked if he could right to him.
"Sure. Sure," his father, answered.
"Just let me know when you want me to stop, okay?"
"Sure. Sure," his father nodded, his chin resting on his chest.
His mother now seated back on the tiny sofa and his father seated beside him, Mark opened the book and began to read. The book was about a man growing up in a small town in Ohio at the beginning of the 20th century. Only a few sentences in and he could tell his father was actually listening to the words, paying attention. A few more sentences in and Mark was heartened to hear his father chuckle at a humorous passage. He continued to read about the life and characters of this small town and his father began to relax, his eyes softened. After a solid twenty minutes of this, Mark noted that his mother had drifted to sleep on the small sofa and although still awake his father's manner had grown more subdued as he sat listening to the sound of his son's voice and the tales the author was weaving.
Then, without warning, the peace the man had created by reading aloud from the book was shattered by the nurse returning to the room. Again his father grew agitated. He stood up and began pacing with the silver tube carriage, attempting to remove the iv and arguing with the nurse. After the nurse left the man went to work again with the book. Reading aloud his words were pronounced and carefully spoken. The old man began to settle down again. This time he said he'd like to lay on the bed for a while.
"A Victory!" Mark thought as he helped his father navigate the iv carriage and get situated in the hospital bed. Once his father was settled Mark moved his chair closer to the bed and began reading again, his words filling the sterile room with lovely imagery of a time long past. Corn rows and berry fields sprouted along the floor, saloons and general stores made their storefronts on the latex paint-covered walls. One could almost smell the fresh horse manure and hear the daily train rumble in from across the prairied plains. He read on and his father relaxed ever more so. Mark felt he had him right on the edge of sleep. He kept reading. He kept casting the fabled yarn in hopes that the pastoral web he was spinning would catch his father and suspend him drowsily in its comforting net. He was almost there when...again the peace was obliterated by the coming of the nurse. Now Mark was beginning to get agitated. If they had been actually doing anything to help his father it would have been one thing. But every interruption was a fool's errand.
This little play went on in this manner for two or three hours until the old man had the mother and son convinced that he just needed to go home. It was clear to both of them that he still wasn't in his right mind but nothing was getting done here. He was only being kept for observation and at that the staff were only annoying and disturbing him. Against medical advice he was allowed to check out. Still paranoid the old man left the hospital escorted by his son and wife. Mark walked them to their car and helped his father into his seat. He walked to his own truck, keyed the ignition and drove the twenty miles out to the family home, the home where he himself had grown up, the home which had seen many an adolescent fight between the father and son. The house had been witness to countless Christmases, Easters, birthdays, graduations, news of newly born grandchildren, marriage proposals, divorces...all the rich pageantry of American family life.
Mark arrived before his parents and waited for them. He sat on the back steps with the two family dogs. They nuzzled against him and warmed their odorous coats against his legs as the light faded from the winter sky, the drizzle stopped and evening began to drop her mysterious veil. The wind was cold against the skin of his face and he took the dogs in his arms, one on each side and brought them closer to him. He kissed them each softly on the nose and petted their warm pink bellies.
A short while later his parents arrived home from the hospital. His father came in followed by his mother. His father found his way to his leather recliner and eased his fragile bones into the soft cushions.
"Whatdya feel like eating, Dad?" Mark asked, hoping that the non-chalance of the question and the comfortable surroundings would invoke a different response than was given earlier.
"How about some eggs, pancakes, and bacon?" his father answered, much to Mark and his mother's surprise and delight.
"You got it!" Mark answered enthusiastically.
Now the man was in his element. Here was something he knew he could do to help his father. The worst part of his father's suffering, for Mark, besides just the fact of it, was the helplessness he felt to do anything about it. So when the call came out for eggs and pancakes he jumped at the opportunity. In a blink of nothing, pancake batter was whipped up in a bowl. A bowl Mark had remembered from childhood. A bowl he recalled licking clean after his mother had put together a batch of brownies, a bowl that had seen countless birthday cake batters, a bowl that had held Halloween candy on nights long ago in another time, another epoch. Mark laid out bacon on an ancient baking sheet and began rendering it in a hot oven. Eggs were beaten, potatoes sliced, syrup warmed, butter set on the table. There was loving action. And all the while the father sat, comfortable at last, in his leather recliner. Mark began portioning the batter into the hot skillet and flipping pancakes, quickly building a stack on a large plate beside by the stove. The smell of bacon wafted through the kitchen, down the halls of the house, and filled the rooms. His mother set the table with silverware, place mats and napkins. A sense of normalcy developed and began pushing out the madness of the afternoon.
The sun had drifted beneath the horizon of stately pines and the fading light disappeared slowly to the west. Mark set the plate of pancakes on the dining table, a platter of freshly scrambled eggs and bacon, a bowl of fried potatoes. The three of them took their seats, bowed their heads, reached for one another's hand. In the silent mystery of the family home they prayed. Mark thanked the Lord for this day, this family, these blessings. He thanked the Father for His Son. He asked the Father to bring health and vitality again to his father's body and mind.
"In Jesus Christ's name we pray. Amen."
"Amen," the father and mother spoke in unison.
The three of them ate the lovingly prepared meal with egerness. The father had not eaten in days. Although still not of an appetite that he once enjoyed he chewed and swallowed the soft, light fluffy pancakes with relish, enjoyed the eggs, potatoes and bacon, washed it all down with a glass of cold, clear water. A calm settled among them, a peace, a stillness not in danger of being shattered by a stranger's unannounced intrusion.
After they had eaten their fill, Mark cleared the table, put away the leftovers and cleaned the kitchen. Then he sat in a rocking chair across from his parents as the football game began on the television. Before long his mother had drifted asleep lying peacefully on the couch. Darkness had now descended and covered the pine-forested land outside. Inside the home the ambiotic light of the television flickered on the faces of the two men watching the game.
"Thank you, son." the father said in between plays.
His heart filling with gratitude the son answered,
"Thank you, Dad."
(too tired to edit tonight. MG)
"He's still in the hospital. We need you, honey."
"I'll be right there," the man answered. He put on a battered wool jacket and grey hat, stuffed a book in the inside pocket of the coat and went out the door of his flat. Driving down Sumter Street his mind was lost in thought. For a few punctuated moments his thoughts drifted. He was trying to recollect the last time he had felt light and free inside. He was trying to summon the image of the last time he had felt joy. It escaped him. Just then a shadowy figure appeared on the rain-slaked street before him. It was early afternoon and the sky was gray and fallen, tiny pellets of rain kissed the windshield of his truck as the heater blew warm air through numerous vents. The darkened figure came more into view and he could see that it was a man in a wheelchair. He was slowly rolling himself up the wide city street. The sidewalk of the street had been blocked off for repairs so the dark figure had taken to the street. As the man came upon him he noticed more details of this person. He wore dark clothing and a black stocking cap and where his legs should have been there was nothing, only space. The truck moved soundlessly by and the dark figured receded from view.
Several blocks ahead the man maneuvered his truck into a parking space next to the large brick building. He killed the motor and sat for a moment and took a deep breath. Stepping out of his truck and onto the broken asphalt pavement he made his way through the light rain and into the brightly lit building. Scanning the hospital register he found his father's room number and proceeded to snake his way through the cavernous hallways to find it. At last he came to the door, knocked lightly and let himself in. Here he found his father and mother. His father was sitting in a chair beside the bed where he had slept the night before. Tubes were twisting out of his arm and snaked loosely to a stainless steel carriage upon which a clear bag of fluid hung. It dripped eternally slow. His father had grown a beard. It was by turns shades of gray and white. The skin of his face hung loosely where once it had been round and full. His clothes hung off of his frame. The belly, which once had been so round and full as to be the subject of joking was flat now, non-existent. The man realized that he was now larger than his father. He weighed more and he took up more space. The man's mother rose from her spot on the tiny couch and greeted him. He held her to him and squeezed her in his arms. He felt the softness of her hair on his own whiskered face and kissed her softly on the top of the head. Then he took his father's thin hand into his own and squeezed it gently. His father was slumped in his chair, dazed and confused. When he spoke the words didn't make much sense. The words were there. The sentences were intact, but the meaning behind them was absent. All the man could read from them was that his father was confused and angry. His eyes had the look one sees in a frightened horse, wide, incredulous, untamed and moments from fury. On a rolling table the same shade of shiny silver as the carriage that was tethered to his father sat an eaten meal. Prior to entering the room the man had spoken to a nurse who had asked him to try to get his father to eat. The man mentioned the food and tried to persuade him. Instead his father offered it to him.
"Nooo, I'm fine...I'm good, You have some."
"I've eaten Dad. The nurse said you should eat some."
"Yeah, they've been saying lots of things," he seethed angrily.
Unfazed, the man prodded on, "Hey, look here, banana pudding. That looks good!"
"Have some, son," his father urged.
"Why don't you have some, dad?"
"Nawww, I'm good. You have some. Taste it. Go on taste it."
His mother picked up the little dish of pudding and began to taste it herself.
"NO Suzanne! Let Mark taste it! I want him to taste it!" the father growled, his eyes widening wildly and pierced with fury.
Mark gave his mother a compassionate look and took the pudding in his hand.
"Mmmmm..this is good, Dad! You should really have some!" Mark encouraged.
"I don't want any. You go ahead."
After this went on for a while Mark gave up on trying to get his father to eat. Instead he turned his attention to trying to distract his Dad from taking the tubes out of his arm.
"It's nothing," he said, "The doctor said it's fluid but who the hell is he kidding?!" he laughed resentfully.
"It is fluid, Dad. You're dehydrated."
"Everybody knows what's best for me. Is that it?!"
"No. But Dad, you have to try to understand you're not in your right mind right now."
The old man's eyes grew more incredulous. He smacked his knee with his hand.
"Is that so?! Is that right?! That doctor is a dumb, lying son-of-a-bitch and that fairy nurse is even dumber. They're all jackasses."
"No one's against you, dad. They're only trying to help."
"Oh I know. I know," the old man answered unconvincingly
Recognizing that this tact was not working either Mark instead tried something else. He remembered the book he had brought. He felt it in the breast of his jacket, nestled against his heart. He had thought his father would be lying in bed, half-asleep. He had planned on reading the book quietly to himself while sitting there at his father's bedside. Instead he offered to read to his Dad. Pulling out the thin paperback volume from his jacket he asked if he could right to him.
"Sure. Sure," his father, answered.
"Just let me know when you want me to stop, okay?"
"Sure. Sure," his father nodded, his chin resting on his chest.
His mother now seated back on the tiny sofa and his father seated beside him, Mark opened the book and began to read. The book was about a man growing up in a small town in Ohio at the beginning of the 20th century. Only a few sentences in and he could tell his father was actually listening to the words, paying attention. A few more sentences in and Mark was heartened to hear his father chuckle at a humorous passage. He continued to read about the life and characters of this small town and his father began to relax, his eyes softened. After a solid twenty minutes of this, Mark noted that his mother had drifted to sleep on the small sofa and although still awake his father's manner had grown more subdued as he sat listening to the sound of his son's voice and the tales the author was weaving.
Then, without warning, the peace the man had created by reading aloud from the book was shattered by the nurse returning to the room. Again his father grew agitated. He stood up and began pacing with the silver tube carriage, attempting to remove the iv and arguing with the nurse. After the nurse left the man went to work again with the book. Reading aloud his words were pronounced and carefully spoken. The old man began to settle down again. This time he said he'd like to lay on the bed for a while.
"A Victory!" Mark thought as he helped his father navigate the iv carriage and get situated in the hospital bed. Once his father was settled Mark moved his chair closer to the bed and began reading again, his words filling the sterile room with lovely imagery of a time long past. Corn rows and berry fields sprouted along the floor, saloons and general stores made their storefronts on the latex paint-covered walls. One could almost smell the fresh horse manure and hear the daily train rumble in from across the prairied plains. He read on and his father relaxed ever more so. Mark felt he had him right on the edge of sleep. He kept reading. He kept casting the fabled yarn in hopes that the pastoral web he was spinning would catch his father and suspend him drowsily in its comforting net. He was almost there when...again the peace was obliterated by the coming of the nurse. Now Mark was beginning to get agitated. If they had been actually doing anything to help his father it would have been one thing. But every interruption was a fool's errand.
This little play went on in this manner for two or three hours until the old man had the mother and son convinced that he just needed to go home. It was clear to both of them that he still wasn't in his right mind but nothing was getting done here. He was only being kept for observation and at that the staff were only annoying and disturbing him. Against medical advice he was allowed to check out. Still paranoid the old man left the hospital escorted by his son and wife. Mark walked them to their car and helped his father into his seat. He walked to his own truck, keyed the ignition and drove the twenty miles out to the family home, the home where he himself had grown up, the home which had seen many an adolescent fight between the father and son. The house had been witness to countless Christmases, Easters, birthdays, graduations, news of newly born grandchildren, marriage proposals, divorces...all the rich pageantry of American family life.
Mark arrived before his parents and waited for them. He sat on the back steps with the two family dogs. They nuzzled against him and warmed their odorous coats against his legs as the light faded from the winter sky, the drizzle stopped and evening began to drop her mysterious veil. The wind was cold against the skin of his face and he took the dogs in his arms, one on each side and brought them closer to him. He kissed them each softly on the nose and petted their warm pink bellies.
A short while later his parents arrived home from the hospital. His father came in followed by his mother. His father found his way to his leather recliner and eased his fragile bones into the soft cushions.
"Whatdya feel like eating, Dad?" Mark asked, hoping that the non-chalance of the question and the comfortable surroundings would invoke a different response than was given earlier.
"How about some eggs, pancakes, and bacon?" his father answered, much to Mark and his mother's surprise and delight.
"You got it!" Mark answered enthusiastically.
Now the man was in his element. Here was something he knew he could do to help his father. The worst part of his father's suffering, for Mark, besides just the fact of it, was the helplessness he felt to do anything about it. So when the call came out for eggs and pancakes he jumped at the opportunity. In a blink of nothing, pancake batter was whipped up in a bowl. A bowl Mark had remembered from childhood. A bowl he recalled licking clean after his mother had put together a batch of brownies, a bowl that had seen countless birthday cake batters, a bowl that had held Halloween candy on nights long ago in another time, another epoch. Mark laid out bacon on an ancient baking sheet and began rendering it in a hot oven. Eggs were beaten, potatoes sliced, syrup warmed, butter set on the table. There was loving action. And all the while the father sat, comfortable at last, in his leather recliner. Mark began portioning the batter into the hot skillet and flipping pancakes, quickly building a stack on a large plate beside by the stove. The smell of bacon wafted through the kitchen, down the halls of the house, and filled the rooms. His mother set the table with silverware, place mats and napkins. A sense of normalcy developed and began pushing out the madness of the afternoon.
The sun had drifted beneath the horizon of stately pines and the fading light disappeared slowly to the west. Mark set the plate of pancakes on the dining table, a platter of freshly scrambled eggs and bacon, a bowl of fried potatoes. The three of them took their seats, bowed their heads, reached for one another's hand. In the silent mystery of the family home they prayed. Mark thanked the Lord for this day, this family, these blessings. He thanked the Father for His Son. He asked the Father to bring health and vitality again to his father's body and mind.
"In Jesus Christ's name we pray. Amen."
"Amen," the father and mother spoke in unison.
The three of them ate the lovingly prepared meal with egerness. The father had not eaten in days. Although still not of an appetite that he once enjoyed he chewed and swallowed the soft, light fluffy pancakes with relish, enjoyed the eggs, potatoes and bacon, washed it all down with a glass of cold, clear water. A calm settled among them, a peace, a stillness not in danger of being shattered by a stranger's unannounced intrusion.
After they had eaten their fill, Mark cleared the table, put away the leftovers and cleaned the kitchen. Then he sat in a rocking chair across from his parents as the football game began on the television. Before long his mother had drifted asleep lying peacefully on the couch. Darkness had now descended and covered the pine-forested land outside. Inside the home the ambiotic light of the television flickered on the faces of the two men watching the game.
"Thank you, son." the father said in between plays.
His heart filling with gratitude the son answered,
"Thank you, Dad."
(too tired to edit tonight. MG)
Saturday, February 6, 2010
"Famous" Paul
[In the late summer of 2001 I was working at a resort hotel called The Bishop's Lodge in Tesuque, New Mexico. We'd just had a very busy weekend with the annual Indian Market Fiestas in Santa Fe. It was a Wednesday night I think that my friend Devan came back into the kitchen towards the end of the night's dinner service. I was wrapping up some food when he came back to me and said,
"Hey dude. Paul is in the bar."
"Who?"
"Paul," he said again, then "Famous Paul."
"Paul McCartney?" I asked.
"Yeah, that Paul."
I had grown somewhat accustomed to celebrities frequenting the restaurants where I worked but their presence and patronage still excited me. For some reason it made me feel like I was in the right place, that I was doing the right things. Even if, at the time, my life was unraveling on a personal level. Even if, the fragile thread that was holding my marriage together was beginning to split and fray.
I followed Devan out to the host stand and non-chalantly peered into the bar. Sure enough, standing at the bar smiling and talking to the bartender was the Walrus himself. I went back to the kitchen to share the news with my staff, all of whom were Mexican.
"Hey! Pablo es en la cantina! Tu saba Pablo? La Beatles?"
"Ohh Si Si..." they answered, unimpressed.
I got the heads up from the restaurant manager that Paul and his date would like to have dinner. The kitchen had just closed and the staff were just finishing mopping the kitchen floor. Anyone else, a non-famous person, or even a famous person who wasn't as cool as Paul McCartney, and it would have been a drag. But I gladly reopened the kitchen for a Beatle. It was perfect timing really. Without having other guests to feed I could focus all of my attention on his meal. The other cooks left and I was alone in the kitchen. I waited for his order to come back. After a short while the waitress sent in the order and then came back to talk with me directly.
"How is he?" I asked.
"He's soooo nice," she replied in her native New Mexican Hispanic accent, "They just want the Portobello plate."
"I'm going to send him out a little vegetarian appetizer too, okay? Be up in a minute."
I'm trying to remember what exactly I made special for them. I recall cinnamon and red chile dusted plantain chips and several salsas. One was the standard pico de gallo, the others were papaya with mango and mint and a rustic chipotle tomato salsa. The waitress took the platter out and I waited for her to fire their entrees. After a short while she returned, said they had loved the salsas and that they were ready for dinner. I plated their Portobello entrees: Grilled Portobello mushrooms served with roasted beets, wilted spinach, sweet potatoes and sauteed squashes.
I lingered in the kitchen while they ate and put away the prep I had used for their dinner. The kitchen was quiet save for the whirring of the dish machine as the dishwasher ran through the last glasses, plates and silverware of the evening. When the waitress returned I asked how they were doing and she said everything was fine.
"I'm going out there," I announced, "He's a Beatle."
Although I'd served lots of celebrities in the past I had never made a big deal of it by going out into the dining room and fawning over them. It seemed in poor taste in my opinion. Also, I reckoned they enjoyed Santa Fe for it's laid back celebrity atmosphere. Everyone here was too low key to get worked up about anything or anybody. Famous people could come and go and not worry about being bothered. I broke my self-imposed protocol this night. I just had to. I took a deep breath, checked my chef's jacket and apron and walked out of the swinging kitchen door into the dining room. The candles on the tables were extinguished save for the one occupied table, Paul's. As I approached the table I scanned their plates to see if they had enjoyed their meal. Their plates were empty and I smiled. They both looked up and smiled.
"Hi Paul. I'm Chef Matt. I just wanted to come out, say hello and see if everything was okay with your meal."
"Hey Chef Matt," Paul said in his distinctive Liverpool accent, "Everything was great, man. This is Heather." He said by way of introduction.
"Hi Heather. Nice to meet you." I said.
She smiled. I wanted to get the hell out of there all of the sudden and said something like, "Well I'm glad you enjoyed your dinner. If there is anything you need during your stay don't hesitate to call on me. It really was an honor to cook for you."
"Pssshhawww." Paul laughed and waved his hands like it was nothing. It put me immediately at ease. Then he started asking me questions. He asked me questions about myself as if he were really interested and then we talked about the American southwest, Santa Fe, Arizona, the climate, geography, the Native American culture and ruins, vegetarianism, veganism (He's not vegan.), local real estate and other things I just can't remember. In all I must have chatted with him and Heather (Mills, his fiancee at the time) for a good twenty or thirty minutes. At an opportune moment I excused myself, saying something like, "Well, here I am hijacking your romantic dinner! I'll leave you two lovebirds alone," which got great laughs and smiles all around, "Seriously though, let me know if you need anything special during your stay." I concluded.
"Cool, man. Good to meet you, Matt." Paul said. I shook hands with him.
"Good to meet you too, Paul."
"Cool." said Paul, smiling and giving me a hip nod of his head.
"Dang! You two really hit it off!" the waitress mentioned in the kitchen afterwards. I was giddy, totally high on the experience. Star-struck. But I had totally handled myself well. I hadn't been all gooey and fawning. It occurred to me that he had spent his life dealing with such encounters, he was a pro. I couldn't believe how unbelievably cool he was. Although dressed nicely in designer jeans, button down shirt and blazer the rock and roller in him came through in his speech and mannerisms. He may have been knighted but at heart he was all rock and roll, a musician, an artist, open to the world and still digging life after all these years.
I shut down the kitchen, killed the lights and walked out into the star-struck New Mexican night. Drove home to the wife I'd soon be leaving and woke her from her sleep.
Still giddy I showed her my hand and said I had shook hands with a Beatle. Things fell apart soon after that (sooner for me than for Paul) but it was a high point in a crazy summer that changed my life forever.]
"Hey dude. Paul is in the bar."
"Who?"
"Paul," he said again, then "Famous Paul."
"Paul McCartney?" I asked.
"Yeah, that Paul."
I had grown somewhat accustomed to celebrities frequenting the restaurants where I worked but their presence and patronage still excited me. For some reason it made me feel like I was in the right place, that I was doing the right things. Even if, at the time, my life was unraveling on a personal level. Even if, the fragile thread that was holding my marriage together was beginning to split and fray.
I followed Devan out to the host stand and non-chalantly peered into the bar. Sure enough, standing at the bar smiling and talking to the bartender was the Walrus himself. I went back to the kitchen to share the news with my staff, all of whom were Mexican.
"Hey! Pablo es en la cantina! Tu saba Pablo? La Beatles?"
"Ohh Si Si..." they answered, unimpressed.
I got the heads up from the restaurant manager that Paul and his date would like to have dinner. The kitchen had just closed and the staff were just finishing mopping the kitchen floor. Anyone else, a non-famous person, or even a famous person who wasn't as cool as Paul McCartney, and it would have been a drag. But I gladly reopened the kitchen for a Beatle. It was perfect timing really. Without having other guests to feed I could focus all of my attention on his meal. The other cooks left and I was alone in the kitchen. I waited for his order to come back. After a short while the waitress sent in the order and then came back to talk with me directly.
"How is he?" I asked.
"He's soooo nice," she replied in her native New Mexican Hispanic accent, "They just want the Portobello plate."
"I'm going to send him out a little vegetarian appetizer too, okay? Be up in a minute."
I'm trying to remember what exactly I made special for them. I recall cinnamon and red chile dusted plantain chips and several salsas. One was the standard pico de gallo, the others were papaya with mango and mint and a rustic chipotle tomato salsa. The waitress took the platter out and I waited for her to fire their entrees. After a short while she returned, said they had loved the salsas and that they were ready for dinner. I plated their Portobello entrees: Grilled Portobello mushrooms served with roasted beets, wilted spinach, sweet potatoes and sauteed squashes.
I lingered in the kitchen while they ate and put away the prep I had used for their dinner. The kitchen was quiet save for the whirring of the dish machine as the dishwasher ran through the last glasses, plates and silverware of the evening. When the waitress returned I asked how they were doing and she said everything was fine.
"I'm going out there," I announced, "He's a Beatle."
Although I'd served lots of celebrities in the past I had never made a big deal of it by going out into the dining room and fawning over them. It seemed in poor taste in my opinion. Also, I reckoned they enjoyed Santa Fe for it's laid back celebrity atmosphere. Everyone here was too low key to get worked up about anything or anybody. Famous people could come and go and not worry about being bothered. I broke my self-imposed protocol this night. I just had to. I took a deep breath, checked my chef's jacket and apron and walked out of the swinging kitchen door into the dining room. The candles on the tables were extinguished save for the one occupied table, Paul's. As I approached the table I scanned their plates to see if they had enjoyed their meal. Their plates were empty and I smiled. They both looked up and smiled.
"Hi Paul. I'm Chef Matt. I just wanted to come out, say hello and see if everything was okay with your meal."
"Hey Chef Matt," Paul said in his distinctive Liverpool accent, "Everything was great, man. This is Heather." He said by way of introduction.
"Hi Heather. Nice to meet you." I said.
She smiled. I wanted to get the hell out of there all of the sudden and said something like, "Well I'm glad you enjoyed your dinner. If there is anything you need during your stay don't hesitate to call on me. It really was an honor to cook for you."
"Pssshhawww." Paul laughed and waved his hands like it was nothing. It put me immediately at ease. Then he started asking me questions. He asked me questions about myself as if he were really interested and then we talked about the American southwest, Santa Fe, Arizona, the climate, geography, the Native American culture and ruins, vegetarianism, veganism (He's not vegan.), local real estate and other things I just can't remember. In all I must have chatted with him and Heather (Mills, his fiancee at the time) for a good twenty or thirty minutes. At an opportune moment I excused myself, saying something like, "Well, here I am hijacking your romantic dinner! I'll leave you two lovebirds alone," which got great laughs and smiles all around, "Seriously though, let me know if you need anything special during your stay." I concluded.
"Cool, man. Good to meet you, Matt." Paul said. I shook hands with him.
"Good to meet you too, Paul."
"Cool." said Paul, smiling and giving me a hip nod of his head.
"Dang! You two really hit it off!" the waitress mentioned in the kitchen afterwards. I was giddy, totally high on the experience. Star-struck. But I had totally handled myself well. I hadn't been all gooey and fawning. It occurred to me that he had spent his life dealing with such encounters, he was a pro. I couldn't believe how unbelievably cool he was. Although dressed nicely in designer jeans, button down shirt and blazer the rock and roller in him came through in his speech and mannerisms. He may have been knighted but at heart he was all rock and roll, a musician, an artist, open to the world and still digging life after all these years.
I shut down the kitchen, killed the lights and walked out into the star-struck New Mexican night. Drove home to the wife I'd soon be leaving and woke her from her sleep.
Still giddy I showed her my hand and said I had shook hands with a Beatle. Things fell apart soon after that (sooner for me than for Paul) but it was a high point in a crazy summer that changed my life forever.]
A Fable of the Reconstruction
Rolling across the fragile plain towards home.
The curvature of the earth, the silent mystery.
Tree tops haloed in fractured light.
Farmhouses quiet and still.
Moments ago...
I was in a hotel room with monogrammed pillows, marble fixtures.
The western Atlantic Ocean yawning
its deep pool across the hemisphere.
A banquet room with band,
smirking middle-aged men with bottles of beer,
young women in cocktail dresses and come fuck me boots.
The younger man would,
an eight ball in his room and a bottle,
come to in the morning all awkward and hurting.
The wiser man checked out and vanished down the darkened highway
where abandoned filling stations stand sentinel bathed in glittering moonlight.
Wind blowing in the window,
softness on the edge of town.
The black evening closes her arms in a sensual embrace.
April 29, 2008
The curvature of the earth, the silent mystery.
Tree tops haloed in fractured light.
Farmhouses quiet and still.
Moments ago...
I was in a hotel room with monogrammed pillows, marble fixtures.
The western Atlantic Ocean yawning
its deep pool across the hemisphere.
A banquet room with band,
smirking middle-aged men with bottles of beer,
young women in cocktail dresses and come fuck me boots.
The younger man would,
an eight ball in his room and a bottle,
come to in the morning all awkward and hurting.
The wiser man checked out and vanished down the darkened highway
where abandoned filling stations stand sentinel bathed in glittering moonlight.
Wind blowing in the window,
softness on the edge of town.
The black evening closes her arms in a sensual embrace.
April 29, 2008
Monday, February 1, 2010
Heartache
Why I'm writing this I don't even know. I should really write a book about the whole thing to be honest. It feels like this. Every single night I think of her as I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep. It's typically around 3am and I'm snuggled under the covers (right now it's winter and I have about 200 lbs. of comforters on top me.) I've read for about an hour and a half and the words have begun running together and my eyesight has started to fade. Sleep is upon me. I turn out the bedside lamp, sink into my little womb and embrace my big teddy bear. And I think of her. Every single night I think of her. I wish she were lying next to me. I imagine the way it felt, the way SHE felt. She would have already fallen asleep. She lay there motionless, her angel eyes closed, lips together and creased into the subtlest of smiles. I would sink down beside her, wiggle in, work one arm beneath her neck and the other around her chest. I'd gather her beautiful warm breasts in one hand and pull myself in, my chest against her back, my legs entwined with hers, my cock resting beneath the small of her back, beneath the firm pillows of her gorgeous ass. She'd waken slightly, mumble something unintelligible. I'd sink further in, my bearded face now buried in the softness of her golden hair. She smelled of lilacs. She had the most amazing smell, so seductive and intoxicating. The warmth of our bodies would melt into one. I'd release her breasts with the one hand and run my fingers softly against her skin, up and down her legs and back, all the while breathing in her scent. My cock would begin to grow against her, pressing into the folds of her ass. My hands would study her body, caress every curve, every delicate fold of muscle and skin. Her skin was the smoothest I'd ever touched, as if she were clothed in a thin sheet of silk. She would nuzzle up against me, her mouth opened now, her breath deepening. Still enraptured beneath warm blankets I'd work my way around her body, gently spread her legs. She'd acquiesce to my advances, turn quietly on her back, run her lady-like fingers against my flesh. I'd shift my body down and begin kissing her belly, soft wet kisses with just a lingering hint of tongue. I would have liked to work my way down but she never let me. I always wondered about that fact because we had talked openly about our sexual likes and dislikes and she had shared with me that she loved to be pleased in that way. She had told me that she wanted to "wait" for that. So I wouldn't go down. I'd move my kisses up, tracing a path up her torso, my hands around her sides lifting each breast. I'd run my tongue around the crease beneath each, up the Goddess curves, find the center, the stiff peaks. I'd work my tongue around them. Gently encircle them with my teeth and feel them tighten and stiffen further. Her mouth still in that subtle smile but more open now, her breath deeper and more pronounced. I'd work the shaft of my cock between her quivering folds, feel the moisture against my pulsing flesh. Stroking her in this manner I'd move my attention up to her neck, I'd trace thin lines up her jugular with the moistened tip of my tongue. I'd nibble gently on her ear lobes where hours earlier large silver loops had swung as she laughed. I'd lift myself up onto my arms, my muscles tense and flexing. I'd hold myself up with one arm and lift her head slightly with my free hand. Our mouths would meet and our tongues would softly dance. I'd maneuver the head of my cock so that it rested at the gate, rock hard and pulsing wildly. With the tip I'd fondle her clitoris, push back the folds and wiggle so that I would now be just inside. Wiggling my hips I'd work it slowly in and out of her entrance. Her breath deepening, her fingers clenching my flesh, her head tilted back, her neck long and exposed before me. I'd take the back of her neck in my hand, run my fingers up the back of her scalp, wiggle my hips and plunge headlong into her. She'd gasp and her folds would clench around me, warm as blood, moist, golden, ecstatically inviting. At the bottom of the first descent I'd take her mouth against mine and the dance of our tongues would quicken. I'd feel her thighs against my sides, the silkiness of her legs embracing all of me. My cock would quiver and pulse inside her, her pussy would quiver and pulse around every nerve. We'd rock our bodies back in forth in unison, building up rhythm, keeping time with one another, the heat rising off our bodies now, our skin moistening. The blankets would be pushed aside, her eyes would open and look into mine. We'd become animals. I'd lift myself up on my arms grasping her wrists in each hand, her hair splayed out on the sheets beneath, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. We'd stare into each others eyes, her long lashes would wink and her mouth still creased in that knowing smile. She'd push against me, inching her back on the sheets, begging my cock deeper and deeper as if she wanted me at the very center of her being. Her lips and folds would squeeze deliciously around my cock, juice leaking out, her breath quickening, her eyes taking on the look of ecstatic fear. I'd release her hands, grab her hips, manhandle her. I'd lift her from the sheets, her entire body, my rag doll lover. Staying buried deep inside her I'd turn her onto her stomach, lifting her ass into the air, her back glistening beneath me, her breasts buried in the twisted sheets. I'd order her to toss her hair back. She'd obey, tossing her golden locks onto the arched symmetry of her shoulders and back. I'd gather them in one hand, roll her tresses around my thick fingers. Adeptly I'd tug playfully at the improvised ponytail, lifting her head, arching her neck. I'd order her to work her ass against me. On her hands and knees she'd obey, her sex dripping, the backs of her thighs against mine, her fingers gripping the sheets, her breaths escalating into moans. With my free hand I'd smack the cherry sweet spot of her ass cheeks. We'd talk dirty to one another. The world outside was lost. It never existed. We were the only two people on the earth and we were one. Happy with the bright burning red I'd created on her supple ass I'd work one hand up her side, fondle her swinging tits, all the while swaying in time with the rocking of her body against mine. Her nipples were hard as intricately cut diamonds. I'd pinch them between my fingers, smashing them cruelly. Then I'd take her hips in my hands, my thick fingers wrapping around the artful sculpture of her hip bones. I'd use them as handles, driving the force of my body, my entire being into her sex, into her spirit, into her soul. Her pussy would be dripping, the nectar running down our pressed up thighs. I'd make her beg to come. She'd beg. She'd say anything. I'd tell her to come for me and within a few moments her body would begin to tremble, her breaths and moans exploding into screams. Violently she'd shake, her pussy clenched desperately around my cock. My essence running like sap through my veins. Her fingers would claw the sheets manically as she exploded, coating my cock with heavenly juice. I'd release my juice moments after, groaning and gulping for air. My rod buried deep in her mystery, drenched in her, soaked in her, my large hands still powerfully gripping her hips. Staying inside her I'd acquiesce to the tugging of her arms. I'd sink down beside her, resuming the position we earlier held, the blankets now gone, the cool breeze of the night drifting across our naked and steaming bodies. Our sexes would continue to quiver, continue to run freely with juice. The scent of our sex filled the room with a loving aroma. This and the ever-present lilac of her hair, soft against my skin, each strand tickling the nerve endings of my flesh. In a pool of come we'd fall sleep, our breaths rising and falling together. Her angel eyes closed again in sleep, the curious smile curving sweetly her now unparted lips. My breath against the back of her neck, her tiny fingers grasping mine. We'd sleep.
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