Love, Chef
to all those who...
To those who love us,
It’ll be early morning or late afternoon when you read this. You'll smell the garlic, raw fish and all the jetsam of service on the paper. You’ll probably be reading this with a toddler in tow as you toss my dirty whites into the hamper I missed; I didn’t want to turn the lights on and wake anyone. There’s a half eaten bowl of pasta on the counter. You texted me to tell me it was under seasoned and wasn’t any good but that bowl was actually my second helping and it didn’t taste at all like reduced stocks, truffles and vinegar pearls.
Service was rough. The new manager, the one I’ve been complaining about, did not in fact have some Aristotelian moment of clarity and does in fact still suck completely. I had a cook walk out so I’ll be a mess all week while I fill the gaps in the schedule; might as well cancel the staycation we had planned, sorry. I stabbed myself with that new knife you got me, it healed fast and not a lot of blood so at least it’s a good knife.
I just wanted to say that I love you. I love the little guy too even if he is a little asshole sometimes, call it karma. I love that you’re still here, even if all we see of each other is detritus. Empty bowls of food, dirty clothes, sticky-notes, text messages and missed calls. I love you even if the last time I remember seeing your face was in a picture my mom sent me of you picking up the boy after work. Like ghosts inhabiting the same space.
It takes a lot to love someone who has to, in a sense, love his job, his craft more than or at the same level as you. There’s cutthroats out there who would step over my body if it wasn’t tied to the stove and take what little comfort we have if I am not ready for my post twenty four seven. I wouldn’t want to be with someone like that, but, here you stayed.
You stayed with me even though sometimes I get lost in thought about a new recipe mid dinner. You stayed with me when days off turned into half days and half days turned into doubles and five days became seven. You stayed with me through failure, firings, layoffs, the end of the world. You stayed when I almost threw it all away because the late nights and the never seeing you turned you into the enemy and me into a monster. You stayed.
For whatever reason you’ve found peace in the lonely nights, the good in the bad and the joy in the infrequent moments together as a family. You’ve pulled every ounce of joy you could, in a good way, out of take out meals and leftovers. You’ve shown care and grace in my moments of dread and self doubt and you refuse to let me forget that I love what I do. When I am in my moments of imposter laden doubt you tell me, “head down, cook” and it all makes sense again.
I don’t envy you. Or anyone that chooses to love us, cooks. Our bones hurt, we probably won't be able to walk by fifty, we curse, forget how to behave in public and we’ll drive an hour for a good meal. We’ll always have to take that phone call, when an employee calls, a sous chef calls, or the produce doesn’t get delivered. If I could write it in the sky I would remind you you’re number one in my life but my actions will never show you that. You’re in a polyamorous relationship with me and my restaurant. Yet, here you are.
You put away my clogs, toss my invoices under my keys at night, and kiss me on the forehead on the way out the door as I snore away what ails me. You send me pictures of our child out of the blue and you remind me I am a good dad. You console him when he cries out for me not to go to the “asternaut” but I still have to let his small hands go, and I know you’ll support him one day when he asks dad for a job.
This world I live in. Cooking. Is hard, hot, filled with fire, desperation and even death and through it all there’s a rock. And it is you, you and all the people strong enough, loving enough to commit to loving us. That you don't leave when the work gets to us. That you don’t explode with anger when your friends ask “where’s your husband” on a Saturday. That you don’t seek normalcy when everything you do goes unnoticed.
I think about it a lot on the rides home. How hard it must be to love us, love me, love a cook. But here we are. You make us feel proud, that what we do is honest. I’ve seen many cooks with partners who don’t get it, won’t get it, won’t take the time to get it and for some reason you decided to not be one of them. Like a biker and his chick, you bought in and that makes me smile.
I’m not sure how to end this, my mind is reminding me that the meat cut-off is at 330pm. So, just know that we love you, I love you. That this letter is to you and all the other’s like you. Who likes us, cooks, loves how hard it is, the grind, the honesty of it all, that if it was easier we would almost think less of it; and we love you too. We see you. You’re what we come home to, why we come home.
Love, Chef