Listening: Now that I've seen you stripped to the very core, I know that I need you less than I did before.
What's my problem? I have 1 year to push through.
It's been a while and I can't promise how often I'll post, but I'm posting now at twenty two four in the morning. And it is because it's twenty two four in the morning that I can with some relatively certainty tell you that this post may not be as verbose as my usual ones.
It's been a long seven months. I've been working my arse off at anywhere from fifty to seventy hours a week. People have quit, sometimes without giving notice, and I have been the patch. It's a blessing and a curse to be the man who can do it all in a restaurant. They need a shucker? I'm there. A guy walks off the line? I swing over to fill in his spot. Someone calls in hung over? I call them a fucking pussy and rock out his station.
The last six months have been filled not only with a lot of work, but a lot of drinking, a fair amount of dating and a whole heap of chaos. Here are the bullet points...
--I've gone out on dates with a handful of girls (some more than once), but there's always something wrong (e.g. Contestant #1: cute & age appropriate, but a little too Christian, Contestant #2: cute & smart, but doesn't eat pork and isn't interesting enough, Contestant #3: pretty, smart, but too old - though gravity has not caught up with her)
--There are some pretty girls I incessantly flirt with, but I have a feeling that they're all show, no go. I'll continue one until each one comes to a head (or receiving head), though I fear I may contract the herps from one (Note to self: Always wear a hoodie.).
--Got offered a sous-chef position under a guy I used to work with back at the Chez, but the offer was too low and I wouldn't have enough say in anything, so I turned it down.
--There has been a lot of chaos in moving. I hate moving. I can't wait to get rid of as much stuff as I can once I settle back into my place.
--I have constantly been disappointed with people's lack of foresight and ability to think of anyone other than themselves. Co-workers running their stations dry on the day before their days off. Roommates not thinking about the fact that there are people living in the apartment who pay rent, but aren't on the lease.
Anyhow, I have two more weeks before I'm really moved back in. Once I do, I'm starting a pile of things that I don't want anymore and a pile of things that I want to put somewhere while I'm out of the country. Right now, and I guess I have been for the past six or eight months, I'm taking stock of what I want to keep and what I want to leave, literally, figuratively and personally. I'm taking stock of what and who are helping me, and what and who has been getting in my way.
Part of me is ready to burn the land and salt the earth, but the better part of me is waiting for next year's tax holiday to buy a new mac and a plane ticket, then quietly slip away, leaving breadcrumbs for those who I want to be able to find me.
I know it all sounds extreme, but it could just be the way that I find so many people and situations as of late so irritating. I'm sick of it. I'm over it. I'm done with the bullshit. I'm taking out the trash, packing my bag and disappearing.
One year.... One year....
Half of me doesn't exist anyways, so I don't think it's such a big deal if I set sail. I have chosen a life where my hours are so different that I rarely get to see even my closest friends. I've become a ghost. I float around all by myself on a lot of my hours off, hiding in my coffin of a room or meandering around the streets of Boston. Even at work, I'm kind of a ghost. I'm not THE grill cook. I'm not THE hot apps guy. I'm the cook who is everywhere and nowhere. Granted, it's an important position, but I still feel like I don't exist.
I'm checked out. I'm ready to go. I've got my passport and my smart walking shoes. A year from now can't come fast enough.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Flashback
Listening: Remember that long bus trip when I needed a nap? I used you as a pillow on that Spanish lady's lap. I love you sweeeeatshirt, red hooded sweeeeatshirt.
What's my problem? It's ten past seven in the morning and I'm awake.
October 25, 2005 - It was a warm fall day. Michael Jackson (yes, that was actually his name) and I broke off from Lianne so that Michael Jackson could check out of his hostel and drop his gear at my guest house in Riomaggiore, as my room mate, Diane had left earlier that day. We had plans to meet back up with Lianne in Corniglia, the middle of the five towns that make up Cinque Terre in Italy, after she went back to Monterosso to take pictures at three o'clock.
Two days before I had a brief conversation with Michael Jackson (I have to use his full name, because to this day, it amuses me that his name was actually Michael Jackson) as we got off the train in La Spezia. We parted ways thinking that we'd never run into each other again, even though we were both going to be visiting Cinque Terre over the next few days.
Outside the train station, I met Diane, a middle aged cop from northwestern Australia. We were staying at the same inconveniently located hostel in La Spezia and opted out of waiting an hour for the shuttle and shared a cab. We then, again, opted out of waiting an hour and a half for the shuttle to take us to Cinque Terre, and instead hiked for an hour along a long and winding road to get to the terminal town of Riomaggiore.
That night, as we checked out the town, we bumped into Lianne, a girl that Diane had met on the train. Lianne told us about an old woman who had helped her find a guest house in town. After Diane and I realized how big of a pain in the ass our hostel was, we knew that we needed to move into Cinque Terre. So, we arranged to meet Lianne the next day so that she could introduce us to the man who owned the guest house where she was staying.
When I say guest house, it was more like a villa. It was way up in the mountains, about a ten minute hike down into town, but it looked down over town and over the ocean. In the trellis that shaded the walkways around the villa hung grapes and lemons. The owner made "unh" sounds, as his English was elementary at best, eyebrow and hand motions indicating to us that we were free to pick the lemons and grapes.
We were incredibly lucky that he had a room for Diane and I. We had a room that was around the corner from Lianne and, although it faced away from the ocean and was kind of dark, it was comfortable, convenient, had a kitchen, and did I mention free lemons and grapes?
After dropping our gear, the three of us hiked back down the mountain to the head of the trail, where we bought our tourist passes to walk the trails connecting the five towns of Cinque Terre and to take the trains that connected the towns as well.
It was there that I ran into Michael Jackson again. Michael Jackson is kind of a quiet guy. He was a guy of twenty five years, but he had salt and pepper hair and sideburns that were just short of mutton chops. To be honest, he looked a little lost. Like me, it was his first time as a solo traveler. Whereas I had been on the trail for three weeks already, he had only been on the trail for a few days, and his trip was to last only two weeks.
As strange as this sounds, if you seem like a nice enough person, I'll always ask you to join whatever I'm doing when I'm traveling. So, naturally, I asked Michael Jackson to join Diane, Lianne and I (who knows, maybe Tito or Germaine would show up too... seriously... great name).
The first part of that day, we got to know each other as we made the easy stroll (I wouldn't even call it a hike) from Riomaggiore to Manarola. Once we made it to Manarola, we decided to take the train to the last town, Monterosso, where we got some gelato and checked out the beaches.
It wasn't until we decided to do the hike from Monterosso to Vernazza that we all realized that our lives were in flux.
The hike from Monterosso to Vernazza is not a short or easy one. It was just after lunch time when we started and we didn't get to Vernazza until a half hour before sunset. The long hard hike gave us all time to really expand on our stories.
Michael Jackson was just coming off of a tumultuous relationship with an older woman, unhappiness in his job and a host of other things. Diane, who had always wanted to be an actress, was trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her career in law enforcement, as she wasn't happy seeing the effects of the pedophiles that she had put away. Lianne was on her way from South Africa to the UK to start a new job.
Me, well, I was a wreck at the time. Even though I had just started to cook professionally on nights and weekends, I was thoroughly unhappy. I hated my day job. I hated the people at my day job. Furthermore, my heart had been smashed to smithereens by Stephanie, who at that time I harbored immense amounts of ill feelings for. I harbored so much hate for that girl that whenever I would think about her, my chest would seize up and I would find it hard to breathe.
The next day was when Michael Jackson and I peeled off with the intent of meeting Lianne at three, but we were running late. When we got off the train in Corniglia, there was a long steep stairway running up into the town. Corniglia was the one town that we hadn't been to.
Earlier that day, Diane had taken a train up to Lake Como. Lianne and I had plans to meet her there the next day, whereas Michael Jackson had to make his way to Rome.
It was on this stairway up to the city that I saw a man carving rocks from the sea for necklaces.
Since we were late, we didn't really have much time to stop and admire the work. Aside from a five second stop, we sprinted up the stairs and wildly ran around the town looking for Lianne. When we couldn't find her, we headed back down to the stairway at the train station.
Michael Jackson and I walked halfway back down the stairs, where the man was carving the rocks. Most of his necklaces were very Christian. There were crosses and such, but one caught my eye. It was a small round rock that he carved into a small fish. I liked it instantly. But, as I stood there hemming and hawing, Lianne showed up at the top of the stairs.
"Hey!" she said with a smile on her face. "Where the hell have you guys been? It's been an hour!"
We explained the reasons why we were late and decided it was time to go back to Vernazza for some more bruschetta and beer.
I was about to walk away from the necklace, but Lianne convinced me to buy it. The man put it on a cord with the perfect length and even attached a clasp to the back so that I could take it on and off if I wanted to.
Once the guy put it on me, I instantly knew that it was a good purchase. I loved it. I even named the fish Cornelius in reference to the town Corniglia.
Little did I know that right then and there my life was changing. I had no idea that the people that I had met in Cinque Terre would help me let go and move on from what had happened with Stephanie. I had no idea that they would help me decide to try to quit my day job to cook for a living. My time in Cinque Terre was a special time and place for me, and Cornelius has become a symbol and a reminder for me of when my life really started to change, when I started to find my smile again.
Even though I had the clasp, I never once took off Cornelius in the six years that I have had him. Sometimes, without even realizing it, I'll reach up to my neck and will rub the stone between my thumb and index finger as I daydream about my travels.
I have two pieces of jewelery. One is a ring that I have had since college, that I only take off when I'm doing dough work. The other is Cornelius.
Me, Michael Jackson, Lianne and Diane
Now, I told you that story to tell you this one.
There's a line cook at work, Juan, who is gay. Yeah. Whatever. He laughs and jokes with everyone, but he has taken to poking me in the side and sometimes pulling on my ears. I have taken it all in stride, with a good sense of humor. I am the new guy, so I try my best to have a good sense of humor about everything. A couple of times he has gotten annoying, but never really too bad.
Yesterday, he started tugging on Cornelius and *snap!* He broke the cord.
I was FURIOUS.
"Relax, Chinito. You can get another string."
That's when I tore into him.
"Are you FUCKING kidding me?"
"What? It's just the string. You can get another."
"I have had that necklace for five years and I have never taken it off in those five years. No, asshole. You fucking broke it."
"What's the big deal?"
"Get the fuck away from me right now."
"Relax, Chinito. It's not a big deal."
"I'm telling you right now, you need to get away from me."
"Chinito...."
"Get. the. fuck. away. from. me... now."
I was able to get Cornelius back on the string, but now it looks all ghetto with the knot in the middle tying it together. Today, I might try to find a proper cord to thread Cornelius back on, and I may try to save the hardware so I still have a clasp, but really, I'm still angry. It's a good thing that Juan is going on vacation for the next ten days starting with the day I get back from my two days off. No more games with that kid. Next I see him, he gets the warning to keep his hands to himself, or I'll make him keep his hands to himself.
Anyone around good with cheap cord jewelery? I suck at this kind of stuff.
What's my problem? It's ten past seven in the morning and I'm awake.
October 25, 2005 - It was a warm fall day. Michael Jackson (yes, that was actually his name) and I broke off from Lianne so that Michael Jackson could check out of his hostel and drop his gear at my guest house in Riomaggiore, as my room mate, Diane had left earlier that day. We had plans to meet back up with Lianne in Corniglia, the middle of the five towns that make up Cinque Terre in Italy, after she went back to Monterosso to take pictures at three o'clock.
Two days before I had a brief conversation with Michael Jackson (I have to use his full name, because to this day, it amuses me that his name was actually Michael Jackson) as we got off the train in La Spezia. We parted ways thinking that we'd never run into each other again, even though we were both going to be visiting Cinque Terre over the next few days.
Outside the train station, I met Diane, a middle aged cop from northwestern Australia. We were staying at the same inconveniently located hostel in La Spezia and opted out of waiting an hour for the shuttle and shared a cab. We then, again, opted out of waiting an hour and a half for the shuttle to take us to Cinque Terre, and instead hiked for an hour along a long and winding road to get to the terminal town of Riomaggiore.
That night, as we checked out the town, we bumped into Lianne, a girl that Diane had met on the train. Lianne told us about an old woman who had helped her find a guest house in town. After Diane and I realized how big of a pain in the ass our hostel was, we knew that we needed to move into Cinque Terre. So, we arranged to meet Lianne the next day so that she could introduce us to the man who owned the guest house where she was staying.
When I say guest house, it was more like a villa. It was way up in the mountains, about a ten minute hike down into town, but it looked down over town and over the ocean. In the trellis that shaded the walkways around the villa hung grapes and lemons. The owner made "unh" sounds, as his English was elementary at best, eyebrow and hand motions indicating to us that we were free to pick the lemons and grapes.
We were incredibly lucky that he had a room for Diane and I. We had a room that was around the corner from Lianne and, although it faced away from the ocean and was kind of dark, it was comfortable, convenient, had a kitchen, and did I mention free lemons and grapes?
After dropping our gear, the three of us hiked back down the mountain to the head of the trail, where we bought our tourist passes to walk the trails connecting the five towns of Cinque Terre and to take the trains that connected the towns as well.
It was there that I ran into Michael Jackson again. Michael Jackson is kind of a quiet guy. He was a guy of twenty five years, but he had salt and pepper hair and sideburns that were just short of mutton chops. To be honest, he looked a little lost. Like me, it was his first time as a solo traveler. Whereas I had been on the trail for three weeks already, he had only been on the trail for a few days, and his trip was to last only two weeks.
As strange as this sounds, if you seem like a nice enough person, I'll always ask you to join whatever I'm doing when I'm traveling. So, naturally, I asked Michael Jackson to join Diane, Lianne and I (who knows, maybe Tito or Germaine would show up too... seriously... great name).
The first part of that day, we got to know each other as we made the easy stroll (I wouldn't even call it a hike) from Riomaggiore to Manarola. Once we made it to Manarola, we decided to take the train to the last town, Monterosso, where we got some gelato and checked out the beaches.
It wasn't until we decided to do the hike from Monterosso to Vernazza that we all realized that our lives were in flux.
The hike from Monterosso to Vernazza is not a short or easy one. It was just after lunch time when we started and we didn't get to Vernazza until a half hour before sunset. The long hard hike gave us all time to really expand on our stories.
Michael Jackson was just coming off of a tumultuous relationship with an older woman, unhappiness in his job and a host of other things. Diane, who had always wanted to be an actress, was trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her career in law enforcement, as she wasn't happy seeing the effects of the pedophiles that she had put away. Lianne was on her way from South Africa to the UK to start a new job.
Me, well, I was a wreck at the time. Even though I had just started to cook professionally on nights and weekends, I was thoroughly unhappy. I hated my day job. I hated the people at my day job. Furthermore, my heart had been smashed to smithereens by Stephanie, who at that time I harbored immense amounts of ill feelings for. I harbored so much hate for that girl that whenever I would think about her, my chest would seize up and I would find it hard to breathe.
The next day was when Michael Jackson and I peeled off with the intent of meeting Lianne at three, but we were running late. When we got off the train in Corniglia, there was a long steep stairway running up into the town. Corniglia was the one town that we hadn't been to.
Earlier that day, Diane had taken a train up to Lake Como. Lianne and I had plans to meet her there the next day, whereas Michael Jackson had to make his way to Rome.
It was on this stairway up to the city that I saw a man carving rocks from the sea for necklaces.
Since we were late, we didn't really have much time to stop and admire the work. Aside from a five second stop, we sprinted up the stairs and wildly ran around the town looking for Lianne. When we couldn't find her, we headed back down to the stairway at the train station.
Michael Jackson and I walked halfway back down the stairs, where the man was carving the rocks. Most of his necklaces were very Christian. There were crosses and such, but one caught my eye. It was a small round rock that he carved into a small fish. I liked it instantly. But, as I stood there hemming and hawing, Lianne showed up at the top of the stairs.
"Hey!" she said with a smile on her face. "Where the hell have you guys been? It's been an hour!"
We explained the reasons why we were late and decided it was time to go back to Vernazza for some more bruschetta and beer.
I was about to walk away from the necklace, but Lianne convinced me to buy it. The man put it on a cord with the perfect length and even attached a clasp to the back so that I could take it on and off if I wanted to.
Once the guy put it on me, I instantly knew that it was a good purchase. I loved it. I even named the fish Cornelius in reference to the town Corniglia.
Little did I know that right then and there my life was changing. I had no idea that the people that I had met in Cinque Terre would help me let go and move on from what had happened with Stephanie. I had no idea that they would help me decide to try to quit my day job to cook for a living. My time in Cinque Terre was a special time and place for me, and Cornelius has become a symbol and a reminder for me of when my life really started to change, when I started to find my smile again.
Even though I had the clasp, I never once took off Cornelius in the six years that I have had him. Sometimes, without even realizing it, I'll reach up to my neck and will rub the stone between my thumb and index finger as I daydream about my travels.
I have two pieces of jewelery. One is a ring that I have had since college, that I only take off when I'm doing dough work. The other is Cornelius.
Me, Michael Jackson, Lianne and Diane
Now, I told you that story to tell you this one.
There's a line cook at work, Juan, who is gay. Yeah. Whatever. He laughs and jokes with everyone, but he has taken to poking me in the side and sometimes pulling on my ears. I have taken it all in stride, with a good sense of humor. I am the new guy, so I try my best to have a good sense of humor about everything. A couple of times he has gotten annoying, but never really too bad.
Yesterday, he started tugging on Cornelius and *snap!* He broke the cord.
I was FURIOUS.
"Relax, Chinito. You can get another string."
That's when I tore into him.
"Are you FUCKING kidding me?"
"What? It's just the string. You can get another."
"I have had that necklace for five years and I have never taken it off in those five years. No, asshole. You fucking broke it."
"What's the big deal?"
"Get the fuck away from me right now."
"Relax, Chinito. It's not a big deal."
"I'm telling you right now, you need to get away from me."
"Chinito...."
"Get. the. fuck. away. from. me... now."
I was able to get Cornelius back on the string, but now it looks all ghetto with the knot in the middle tying it together. Today, I might try to find a proper cord to thread Cornelius back on, and I may try to save the hardware so I still have a clasp, but really, I'm still angry. It's a good thing that Juan is going on vacation for the next ten days starting with the day I get back from my two days off. No more games with that kid. Next I see him, he gets the warning to keep his hands to himself, or I'll make him keep his hands to himself.
Anyone around good with cheap cord jewelery? I suck at this kind of stuff.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Insomnia
Listening: In between the moon and you, the angels get a better view of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
What's my problem? I can never seem to get to sleep.
It's a quarter to five in the morning and I'm still awake. This is nothing new. Since I started this new job, I've been working later than I have in any of my past restaurants. That's also compounded by the fact that it's at least a forty minute commute each way.
On average, I get back home at a quarter past one. By the time I shower it's a quarter to two. If I decide to eat something, which is usually the case because I tend not to eat when I'm working (tasting doesn't count), It's not ready til just after two. I spend another half hour eating and watching shows that I have downloaded. I'm lucky if I'm unencumbered by tasks by three. But even at three, though I may be tired, I can't sleep.
This hasn't been a rare thing for me to be awake at five in the morning. It actually seems to be more routine than rare. Sometimes I turn off the light and try to sleep. Sometimes I put on music and try to sleep. Sometimes I just wait, like tonight, and cruise the internet.
Tonight, I discovered that google translate can translate the proper names of fish such as Halibut, Salmon, Cod, and Bass into Mandarin. It gives me great hope to know that when I get back to China, I may be able to successfully call in or e-mail in an order. That is, if I can order by the pound or kilo... If I have to order by the jin, I'm going to have to learn another conversion.
So, here I am at five minutes to five with a million things going through my head from Chinese weight measurements, to what I'll be doing at work tomorrow since I'm essentially the "extra" man, to a girl I'm crushed out on, to the fact that I can't sleep, to the Counting Crows' amazing VH1 Storytellers album that came out in 1998 and is playing on my iTunes in attempt to lull me off to an easiness that never seems to want to come over me. Too many things haunt my mind that I can't seem to let go of even for a few hours of sleep, that is, unless the sleep is from six in the morning until two in the afternoon.
So, sing it, Adam. Mr. Jones and me, stumbling through the barrio, yeah, we stare at the beautiful women. "She's perfect for you, Man, there's got to be someone for me."
What's my problem? I can never seem to get to sleep.
It's a quarter to five in the morning and I'm still awake. This is nothing new. Since I started this new job, I've been working later than I have in any of my past restaurants. That's also compounded by the fact that it's at least a forty minute commute each way.
On average, I get back home at a quarter past one. By the time I shower it's a quarter to two. If I decide to eat something, which is usually the case because I tend not to eat when I'm working (tasting doesn't count), It's not ready til just after two. I spend another half hour eating and watching shows that I have downloaded. I'm lucky if I'm unencumbered by tasks by three. But even at three, though I may be tired, I can't sleep.
This hasn't been a rare thing for me to be awake at five in the morning. It actually seems to be more routine than rare. Sometimes I turn off the light and try to sleep. Sometimes I put on music and try to sleep. Sometimes I just wait, like tonight, and cruise the internet.
Tonight, I discovered that google translate can translate the proper names of fish such as Halibut, Salmon, Cod, and Bass into Mandarin. It gives me great hope to know that when I get back to China, I may be able to successfully call in or e-mail in an order. That is, if I can order by the pound or kilo... If I have to order by the jin, I'm going to have to learn another conversion.
So, here I am at five minutes to five with a million things going through my head from Chinese weight measurements, to what I'll be doing at work tomorrow since I'm essentially the "extra" man, to a girl I'm crushed out on, to the fact that I can't sleep, to the Counting Crows' amazing VH1 Storytellers album that came out in 1998 and is playing on my iTunes in attempt to lull me off to an easiness that never seems to want to come over me. Too many things haunt my mind that I can't seem to let go of even for a few hours of sleep, that is, unless the sleep is from six in the morning until two in the afternoon.
So, sing it, Adam. Mr. Jones and me, stumbling through the barrio, yeah, we stare at the beautiful women. "She's perfect for you, Man, there's got to be someone for me."
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Out for Tiger Mother Blood: In Defense of Chinese Kids
Listening: I face the storms at the tides from the lighthouse and I want that. Unleash the storm and the night.
What's my problem? Some parents don't realize that sometimes their kids know better.
I have just finished reading Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. To be honest, It only took me a few days to read over the commute times back and forth to work and a couple of hours here at the coffee shop, where I, yet again, have no free wifi. At least it's close to my house.
Anyhow, as I have read this book, all I have wanted to do for the entire book was punch Amy Chua in the face. Seriously. It dredged up a lot of specific feelings that I still harbor from my childhood. The book brings up memories I have of wanting to stab my parents in the face with a pencil, smash my violin against the wall and climb out the window either to escape or face plant on the pavement.
The parenting model that Amy Chua used on her daughters isn't too far from that which my parents used, and her two daughters aren't too far off from my brother and I. I can all too well imagine what Chua's youngest (a number two as well) felt and was thinking. It seriously puts a lump in my chest and fury in my arms. (I am completely serious about the book making me want to punch someone.)
I think that the parenting model used by both Chua and my parents, though they claim that it's all for the children, is not one of altruism, but one of narcissism. Who can have "the best" child? Of course, it will be them. While they claim to have faith in their child to be "the best," they don't realize that, of course, they can be "the best," but it may not be in the way that they deem valuable.
Something that I have realized over the past ten years is that prestige in youth means dick. I'll take my brother as an example. He was a top ten chess champion under the age of eighteen. He was a national mathlete. He went to MIT for undergrad and Cornell for a Ph.D.. Even though he only played piano up until sixth or seventh grade (if I remember correctly), he did play piano... until chess took over his life. He made straight As in high school. He had plenty of extra-curricular activities. He was a parent's (any parent's) wet dream. Now, he's a statistics professor at a small college in Boston, and he hates his job.
You would figure that someone with that much success would find a job to love, or at least he would have his choice of jobs, one of which he would love. Not so much. I see that he loves game theory and things like that, but I don't see him moving towards it at all. I think that it may be partially due to the fact that jobs in that field are few and far between. I also think that it might because my parents would be clearly disappointed in him if he started working in gaming. Then they would have two failure children.
This brings me to the self-endulgent part of the blog where I hold a pity party for myself. Well, it won't be too big of a party, maybe just a small gathering of pity friends.
Growing up, I was carted around the country as my brother played chess. We would go on amazing road trips. To be honest, I enjoyed seeing different cities, even if it was from the hotels or the hotel ballrooms where the chess tournaments took place. I ate Steak & Shake and McDonald's at rest stops on the road and met kids from New York, Massachusetts, California, New Mexico and Indiana. At the time, I lived in either St. Louis or Chicago, so those places were far away to me. And although I played in some of the tournaments (my rating never broke 1100, which is pretty damn low), I never cared about the game. I was just dragged around like a sock monkey, second fiddle to the golden boy.
Much like Chua's second daughter, I was given a choice of piano or violin, and I chose violin just to be different from my brother, but it wasn't really much of a choice. It was EITHER piano OR violin. There was no guitar. There wasn't even a trumpet. And it wasn't even fiddle or jazz violin. It was strictly classical. I'm not saying that I don't like classical music, because I do. I just didn't want to be playing it, much like the fact that I love sushi, but I don't want to be rolling it as a career. I think that I would have stuck with the violin a little longer if I hadn't been forced into taking orchestra class, and maybe if I was shown the different dimensions of the violin. That's one of the major flaws of Chua's "Chinese parenting" model is that it's one dimensional. If it does work, those children look good on paper.
My brother looks fantastic on paper, but sometimes I look at him and I see a train wreck. Sometimes my parents ask me to help him dress a little better, take him traveling and get his life together a little bit, but the problems are too big and they don't present themselves in a conventional sense. It's not something that one can teach either. It's something someone has to realize about themselves, much like the way a lot of Americans need to realize that America isn't the end-all/be-all of the world. So, in a sad commentary, I have chosen to distance myself and focus on the train wreck that is my own life.
I am a cook. It's not a career that any Chinese parent would want for their kid. I'm not the next Ming Tsai (without the douchey hair), and although at one point I wanted to be, I have no desire to be that any more. The unequivocal truth is also, that I'm not a shoemaker. I've cooked for the Governor and Branford Marsalis in just the last week. Over the course of my career, the list of people who have eaten off of plates that I have composed is both long and distinguished. I may or may not be great, but I'm certainly good. I don't cook at the Cheesecake Factory. But, I am also at least five years behind my peers.
When I talk about what a waste of thirty thousand dollars a year college was, my parents always say, "Well, if you didn't go to college, you wouldn't have started cooking for yourself and you wouldn't be cooking now." True. Indisputable. However, I first discovered food one night with two of my pals at the California Grill in Disney's Contemporary Resort. What would have happened if I had been given the option of having a more active role in family dinners growing up instead of strictly the awful task of doing dishes (something I abhor to this day unless I have a restaurant dishwasher, and I'm not talking about Miguel, Fredo or Ramiro). Would I have gone to culinary school instead of college? What would have happened if I took the year off that I wanted to take off after high school? Would I have gotten a job in a kitchen and started my career earlier?
What would have happened if I was raised with more of an ability to explore? Maybe I could have been a good musician. I constantly wonder how my life would have turned out if I had been given the option of having my own opinion about things. I wonder if I would actually have more confidence than I do if I hadn't been mentally lambasted throughout childhood. There's a fine line between pushing and making someone feel like shit. It's a line that Amy Chua may or may not have learned by the end of the book, and it's one that I'm not sure that my parents ever got.
I've spent the majority of my life feeling like I was shit. Granted it wasn't ALL my parents' fault. There were a vast array of women in there that also contributed to that. But up until I took my life into my own hands and stop listening to the crowd (which included my parents and random women who wouldn't even engage in small talk at a bar), that I started feeling better about myself. Chua's "Chinese parenting" model had nothing to do with my new found inner strength. It had everything to do with telling everyone to fuck off and bootstrapping it. I'm sure that my parents want to take credit for my work ethic, but it had nothing to do with them. It had everything to do with being tired of my life and living up to everyone else's standards. It had everything to do with me wanting something for myself.
It is because of this transformation that didn't happen overnight that I don't want to be the next Ming Tsai (with or without douchey hair). I want to do what I love. I want to assign value on my life and what I produce. I don't care if my name is out there or not (although I would prefer it not to be big). I just want to do what I do and hope that some small demographic appreciates it. I don't want approval from Michelin, Zagat, Yelp or Chowhound when I open my own joint. I just want the accolades of people "mmm"-ing, chewing loudly and being boisterous about their own lives.
Chua's story isn't over, though. Her daughters are eighteen and fifteen right now. One is about to go off to college (I'm assuming Ivy League), the other one is in the midst of, for me, one of the most awful parts of my life. Their and Chua's success doesn't mistakenly come from an Ivy League education. The answer of success or not comes from whether Chua's daughters excel at what they love, if they can even figure out what they love.
That's one thing that Chua's "Chinese parenting" model doesn't allow, even more so than the "Western" parenting model. How to find your passion. How to find what you dig. How to find what will get your rocks off every day you wake up in the morning. It upsets me that when I ask so many of my friends what they dig, what they want to do with their lives, even as far behind as I am, they have no idea. But they're entrenched in this nine to five grind, happy to give their forty plus hours a week for the two days of weekend and two weeks of paid vacation.
Today, I was catching up with a friend of mine in Germany. She's about to finish school and she's already resigned to being enslaved by corporate Germany. I'm sure that there are people out there who are perfectly happy being a cube-dweller. But, if you know that you're not going to be, why would you do it? Why would you resign yourself to it? It's like my friend in Germany can't see the possibilities in the world, something that I couldn't do for the longest time, because I was brought up to believe in the mainstream ideal of success and security. Ugh. It's just so infuriating.
I'm not saying that childhood should be easy and that children should be allowed to do whatever they want to. I do, however, believe that children should be encouraged to think outside the box. I believe that children should be encouraged to try things that they want to try, but that they shouldn't be allowed to butterfly about. By this, I mean that children should be allowed to try whatever they want to try, but they should commit to it for a decent amount of time.
Anyhow, as you can see, this book has kind of riled me up. It makes me so angry to look at some of the parenting going on, not just by Chinese parents, but by Western parents as well. Too strict and iron handed, too free and uncontrolled. Each side is a slippery slope. I know it's easy to make criticisms from the cheap seats, being that I am not a parent myself (at least not that I know of), but I can speak on my experiences being a child who felt like he was the subject of mental warfare. Part of me really wanted to re-read the book, underline, highlight and put notes in the margin and send the book to my parents. The notes would read things like, "When you did things like this, I wanted to stab you" and "I feel like I should still be in therapy for times when you talked like this to me," but what would that do now?
I realize that the book was not a how-to guide of parenting, but I wonder sometimes if she, through all of the time raising her daughters thought that her way was the right and only way. I wonder if at any time from her youngest daughter was born until she finally cut down on violin at age thirteen, did Chua ever think that she didn't know better than her daughter. She talks about giving her daughters credit to be able to take the criticism, and yet she didn't give her daughters the credit of knowing themselves, knowing what they dig and what they don't. Taking out the garbage, no one digs. It's something that has to be done though. Practicing the violin for X hours a day, when you didn't even choose the instrument that you wanted to play, no one digs. That's just bullshit. That's just parents projecting their own displeasure in their own lives on their kids. You fucking take violin lessons and practice X hours a day. Don't drag your kids/me into your personal dream. Your dreams for your kids are not the same as your kids' dreams.
I'm lucky. I'm lucky I bootstrapped my ass out of the hole I was put in. I'm lucky I made the friends that I made who supported me in my career change, who even encouraged it before I even knew that it was what I wanted to do with my life. I'm lucky that I've found mentors and brothers and sisters in the kitchen brigades that I have been lucky enough to have been a part of. It is because of that luck that I now try to help my friends and my fellow cooks to follow their dreams, to help them bootstrap it, to help them to make a fearless leap of faith to become who they want to become. I don't know how to get everywhere or anywhere for that matter. I do know how to take a leap though. I have leaped over the tiger gorge, but I still have some climbing to do before I'm out of the ravine completely.
Well, this blog has turned into a bit of a tirade or book report gone bad. I had meant to tell you all about the fact that I have been kind of clutch in the kitchen these days filling in wherever needed whether it be raw bar, pastry, grill or private dining. I'm all over the place. I'm working around forty eight or forty nine hours a week with time and a half for everything over forty, so I'm making decent money. When baseball season hits, I'm sure I'll be making sixty hours at least. For now, I'm bored on my days off and work is work. I can't wait for it to get warm.
What's my problem? Some parents don't realize that sometimes their kids know better.
I have just finished reading Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. To be honest, It only took me a few days to read over the commute times back and forth to work and a couple of hours here at the coffee shop, where I, yet again, have no free wifi. At least it's close to my house.
Anyhow, as I have read this book, all I have wanted to do for the entire book was punch Amy Chua in the face. Seriously. It dredged up a lot of specific feelings that I still harbor from my childhood. The book brings up memories I have of wanting to stab my parents in the face with a pencil, smash my violin against the wall and climb out the window either to escape or face plant on the pavement.
The parenting model that Amy Chua used on her daughters isn't too far from that which my parents used, and her two daughters aren't too far off from my brother and I. I can all too well imagine what Chua's youngest (a number two as well) felt and was thinking. It seriously puts a lump in my chest and fury in my arms. (I am completely serious about the book making me want to punch someone.)
I think that the parenting model used by both Chua and my parents, though they claim that it's all for the children, is not one of altruism, but one of narcissism. Who can have "the best" child? Of course, it will be them. While they claim to have faith in their child to be "the best," they don't realize that, of course, they can be "the best," but it may not be in the way that they deem valuable.
Something that I have realized over the past ten years is that prestige in youth means dick. I'll take my brother as an example. He was a top ten chess champion under the age of eighteen. He was a national mathlete. He went to MIT for undergrad and Cornell for a Ph.D.. Even though he only played piano up until sixth or seventh grade (if I remember correctly), he did play piano... until chess took over his life. He made straight As in high school. He had plenty of extra-curricular activities. He was a parent's (any parent's) wet dream. Now, he's a statistics professor at a small college in Boston, and he hates his job.
You would figure that someone with that much success would find a job to love, or at least he would have his choice of jobs, one of which he would love. Not so much. I see that he loves game theory and things like that, but I don't see him moving towards it at all. I think that it may be partially due to the fact that jobs in that field are few and far between. I also think that it might because my parents would be clearly disappointed in him if he started working in gaming. Then they would have two failure children.
This brings me to the self-endulgent part of the blog where I hold a pity party for myself. Well, it won't be too big of a party, maybe just a small gathering of pity friends.
Growing up, I was carted around the country as my brother played chess. We would go on amazing road trips. To be honest, I enjoyed seeing different cities, even if it was from the hotels or the hotel ballrooms where the chess tournaments took place. I ate Steak & Shake and McDonald's at rest stops on the road and met kids from New York, Massachusetts, California, New Mexico and Indiana. At the time, I lived in either St. Louis or Chicago, so those places were far away to me. And although I played in some of the tournaments (my rating never broke 1100, which is pretty damn low), I never cared about the game. I was just dragged around like a sock monkey, second fiddle to the golden boy.
Much like Chua's second daughter, I was given a choice of piano or violin, and I chose violin just to be different from my brother, but it wasn't really much of a choice. It was EITHER piano OR violin. There was no guitar. There wasn't even a trumpet. And it wasn't even fiddle or jazz violin. It was strictly classical. I'm not saying that I don't like classical music, because I do. I just didn't want to be playing it, much like the fact that I love sushi, but I don't want to be rolling it as a career. I think that I would have stuck with the violin a little longer if I hadn't been forced into taking orchestra class, and maybe if I was shown the different dimensions of the violin. That's one of the major flaws of Chua's "Chinese parenting" model is that it's one dimensional. If it does work, those children look good on paper.
My brother looks fantastic on paper, but sometimes I look at him and I see a train wreck. Sometimes my parents ask me to help him dress a little better, take him traveling and get his life together a little bit, but the problems are too big and they don't present themselves in a conventional sense. It's not something that one can teach either. It's something someone has to realize about themselves, much like the way a lot of Americans need to realize that America isn't the end-all/be-all of the world. So, in a sad commentary, I have chosen to distance myself and focus on the train wreck that is my own life.
I am a cook. It's not a career that any Chinese parent would want for their kid. I'm not the next Ming Tsai (without the douchey hair), and although at one point I wanted to be, I have no desire to be that any more. The unequivocal truth is also, that I'm not a shoemaker. I've cooked for the Governor and Branford Marsalis in just the last week. Over the course of my career, the list of people who have eaten off of plates that I have composed is both long and distinguished. I may or may not be great, but I'm certainly good. I don't cook at the Cheesecake Factory. But, I am also at least five years behind my peers.
When I talk about what a waste of thirty thousand dollars a year college was, my parents always say, "Well, if you didn't go to college, you wouldn't have started cooking for yourself and you wouldn't be cooking now." True. Indisputable. However, I first discovered food one night with two of my pals at the California Grill in Disney's Contemporary Resort. What would have happened if I had been given the option of having a more active role in family dinners growing up instead of strictly the awful task of doing dishes (something I abhor to this day unless I have a restaurant dishwasher, and I'm not talking about Miguel, Fredo or Ramiro). Would I have gone to culinary school instead of college? What would have happened if I took the year off that I wanted to take off after high school? Would I have gotten a job in a kitchen and started my career earlier?
What would have happened if I was raised with more of an ability to explore? Maybe I could have been a good musician. I constantly wonder how my life would have turned out if I had been given the option of having my own opinion about things. I wonder if I would actually have more confidence than I do if I hadn't been mentally lambasted throughout childhood. There's a fine line between pushing and making someone feel like shit. It's a line that Amy Chua may or may not have learned by the end of the book, and it's one that I'm not sure that my parents ever got.
I've spent the majority of my life feeling like I was shit. Granted it wasn't ALL my parents' fault. There were a vast array of women in there that also contributed to that. But up until I took my life into my own hands and stop listening to the crowd (which included my parents and random women who wouldn't even engage in small talk at a bar), that I started feeling better about myself. Chua's "Chinese parenting" model had nothing to do with my new found inner strength. It had everything to do with telling everyone to fuck off and bootstrapping it. I'm sure that my parents want to take credit for my work ethic, but it had nothing to do with them. It had everything to do with being tired of my life and living up to everyone else's standards. It had everything to do with me wanting something for myself.
It is because of this transformation that didn't happen overnight that I don't want to be the next Ming Tsai (with or without douchey hair). I want to do what I love. I want to assign value on my life and what I produce. I don't care if my name is out there or not (although I would prefer it not to be big). I just want to do what I do and hope that some small demographic appreciates it. I don't want approval from Michelin, Zagat, Yelp or Chowhound when I open my own joint. I just want the accolades of people "mmm"-ing, chewing loudly and being boisterous about their own lives.
Chua's story isn't over, though. Her daughters are eighteen and fifteen right now. One is about to go off to college (I'm assuming Ivy League), the other one is in the midst of, for me, one of the most awful parts of my life. Their and Chua's success doesn't mistakenly come from an Ivy League education. The answer of success or not comes from whether Chua's daughters excel at what they love, if they can even figure out what they love.
That's one thing that Chua's "Chinese parenting" model doesn't allow, even more so than the "Western" parenting model. How to find your passion. How to find what you dig. How to find what will get your rocks off every day you wake up in the morning. It upsets me that when I ask so many of my friends what they dig, what they want to do with their lives, even as far behind as I am, they have no idea. But they're entrenched in this nine to five grind, happy to give their forty plus hours a week for the two days of weekend and two weeks of paid vacation.
Today, I was catching up with a friend of mine in Germany. She's about to finish school and she's already resigned to being enslaved by corporate Germany. I'm sure that there are people out there who are perfectly happy being a cube-dweller. But, if you know that you're not going to be, why would you do it? Why would you resign yourself to it? It's like my friend in Germany can't see the possibilities in the world, something that I couldn't do for the longest time, because I was brought up to believe in the mainstream ideal of success and security. Ugh. It's just so infuriating.
I'm not saying that childhood should be easy and that children should be allowed to do whatever they want to. I do, however, believe that children should be encouraged to think outside the box. I believe that children should be encouraged to try things that they want to try, but that they shouldn't be allowed to butterfly about. By this, I mean that children should be allowed to try whatever they want to try, but they should commit to it for a decent amount of time.
Anyhow, as you can see, this book has kind of riled me up. It makes me so angry to look at some of the parenting going on, not just by Chinese parents, but by Western parents as well. Too strict and iron handed, too free and uncontrolled. Each side is a slippery slope. I know it's easy to make criticisms from the cheap seats, being that I am not a parent myself (at least not that I know of), but I can speak on my experiences being a child who felt like he was the subject of mental warfare. Part of me really wanted to re-read the book, underline, highlight and put notes in the margin and send the book to my parents. The notes would read things like, "When you did things like this, I wanted to stab you" and "I feel like I should still be in therapy for times when you talked like this to me," but what would that do now?
I realize that the book was not a how-to guide of parenting, but I wonder sometimes if she, through all of the time raising her daughters thought that her way was the right and only way. I wonder if at any time from her youngest daughter was born until she finally cut down on violin at age thirteen, did Chua ever think that she didn't know better than her daughter. She talks about giving her daughters credit to be able to take the criticism, and yet she didn't give her daughters the credit of knowing themselves, knowing what they dig and what they don't. Taking out the garbage, no one digs. It's something that has to be done though. Practicing the violin for X hours a day, when you didn't even choose the instrument that you wanted to play, no one digs. That's just bullshit. That's just parents projecting their own displeasure in their own lives on their kids. You fucking take violin lessons and practice X hours a day. Don't drag your kids/me into your personal dream. Your dreams for your kids are not the same as your kids' dreams.
I'm lucky. I'm lucky I bootstrapped my ass out of the hole I was put in. I'm lucky I made the friends that I made who supported me in my career change, who even encouraged it before I even knew that it was what I wanted to do with my life. I'm lucky that I've found mentors and brothers and sisters in the kitchen brigades that I have been lucky enough to have been a part of. It is because of that luck that I now try to help my friends and my fellow cooks to follow their dreams, to help them bootstrap it, to help them to make a fearless leap of faith to become who they want to become. I don't know how to get everywhere or anywhere for that matter. I do know how to take a leap though. I have leaped over the tiger gorge, but I still have some climbing to do before I'm out of the ravine completely.
Well, this blog has turned into a bit of a tirade or book report gone bad. I had meant to tell you all about the fact that I have been kind of clutch in the kitchen these days filling in wherever needed whether it be raw bar, pastry, grill or private dining. I'm all over the place. I'm working around forty eight or forty nine hours a week with time and a half for everything over forty, so I'm making decent money. When baseball season hits, I'm sure I'll be making sixty hours at least. For now, I'm bored on my days off and work is work. I can't wait for it to get warm.
Monday, February 21, 2011
I'm The Normal One.
Listening: With the strength, we have to together. But for now, emotional ties they stay severed. When there’s trust there’ll be treats and when we funk we'll hear beats.
What's my problem? Clearly the world has changed polarity.
So, I'm having brunch with a friend of mine this afternoon (Me? Morning? Psha! As if...), when she was talking about some of her other friends, and I ask her, "Are all of your friends bat-shit crazy? Am I the normal one of your friends?" To that, she sat for a second and thought about it and figured out that I was, in fact, probably her most normal friend. She even tweeted, "j-z could be my most normal friend."
How fucked up is it that I'm ANYONE'S most normal friend?
I think that out of the core group of my friends, I am the least normal. I don't work 9-5, 5 day work weeks. I don't have benefits included in my job. I don't have a big-boy bed (yes, I still have a futon). I live in a room with no windows. I see nothing wrong with occasionally being... deviant. And I know for a fact that my knives are sharper than any of yours (with the exception of possibly one reader). How on earth am I the normal one? Do you hear the shit that comes out of my mouth when I'm on a roll? I'm surprised more people don't think I'm chemically imbalanced.
Then, on the T going home, I realized that I may be a little more normal than I thought. It all started with my own personal bat-shit insanity. See, some moron got hit/jumped into/got hit by the metro at around 5PM this evening. I'm trying to get into the Kendall Square T stop and am told that service has been suspended.
From the station, we're told to wait outside in Kendall Square in the cold for shuttle buses to take us down to Harvard. The MBTA guy told us it would be ten minutes. We see bus after bus come for the people across the street going inbound. After twenty minutes in the cold, the score is eight to zero. Not a single bus for us. That's when I start getting belligerent. I start comically referring to the MBTA guy as the ten minute man. I talk about wanting to kick him in the balls. I talk about hijacking one of the buses coming the opposite direction, asking if anyone has my back. I'm having fun, because I'm freezing my gonads off, and if I don't have fun, I'm going to be thinking about said gonads retracting into my abdomen. That, and I'm trying to get some attention from a cute Indian chick standing five feet away from me.
Finally, we're told to wait in a different spot where busses pull up. I get on the bus. I'm one of the last two people on the bus (cute Indian chick got on before me... not that I was stalking... that would be creepy... or cool... no, creepy). So, I have a bag of ramen with me. Well, two grocery bags. I'm holding it down to my side. Apparently it's swinging and hitting a guy next to me in the knee. I have no clue. All of a sudden, he gets all up in my face. Tells me to stop hitting him with my bag because his knee hurts, like I'm doing it on purpose. I apologize and he keeps shouting at me. I mean this guy was ALL up in my grill. I'm just short of telling him to fuck off, but I'm trying to be the bigger man. So, I let it go, despite him telling me to stop smiling like an idiot. Maybe if he smiled like an idiot more, he would be less of a douche. Everyone around me, including the bus driver was like, "What the hell is going on right now?" as the man is shouting at me. I actually was just short of swinging my bag at him just for kicks too. Luckily he got off at Central and couldn't get back on. When the bus reorganized after the stop, I told the people around me to politely let me know if my bag was hitting them and I would do my best to stop it. They all got a chuckle out of it, even the cute Indian chick (I SWEAR... NOT stalking).
Sometimes, people take life too seriously. I know I can take it too seriously now and then. I try my hardest, though, to try to enjoy myself. I try to make myself and those around me laugh, sometimes at me, sometimes at themselves, and sometimes at a third party. I think that if I was really not taking myself seriously, I would have asked the aforementioned cute Indian chick out for a drink. She does live in Davis and is, as my buddy Manni would say, "geographically desirable."
I have been thinking a lot about dating since I got back from China. This will be the first time in a while that I will be somewhere for more than a year straight. I mean, on the island, you know it's either going to be a fling or one or both of you are gonna be too hammered to remember anything happening. And what happens traveling stays on the trail. But here I am, now, at a home base for more than just a few months, but for no more than a year and a half. Should I start trying to date?
I was telling a friend of mine today that I really just want to hang out with cool chicks with a possibility of nakedness. If I just wanted to hang out with cool chicks, I would hang out with my friends. It's really the possibility of nakedness that sells it for me.
But I know that I don't want anything to come of anything I start right now. My ass is moving to Shanghai in a year and a half. I don't care how good the sex is. I don't care how cool she is. I don't care if she wakes me up wafting the sweet smell of pork products to my nose... or oral sex (now found to promote cancer)... and? oral sex? My ass is moving to Shanghai. I am standing my ground. If I don't have a plane ticket or firm plans to make an exodus by June of 2012, I want all of my readers to collectively kick my ass to death and send me to China in a body bag. But I digress....
Dating... Should I do it? How should I go about doing it? How do I go about doing it now that I'm not actually in motion? It's all a jumble in my head.
Also, living in my hole has gotten to me a little bit. For some reason the dark hole that I have lived in off and on for five or six years is kind of making me unhappy. I kind of want a window now. I think that it might regulate my sleeping habits a bit more. I know that both of my room mates will be moving out at the end of the lease here, so I might try to move back into my old apartment where my brother is now. It makes a lot of sense to me in a lot of ways. I could consolidate a lot of my possessions, figure out what I want to get rid of, what I want to keep. My brother could take as much of the furniture as he wants with him to wherever he moves. I could start taking apart my life. It would be a great prelude to moving to Shanghai. Sure, the rent would be more than double what I'm paying now, but at least I would have all of my shit together. I would have a window for a few months.
So, that's what I'm thinking about for right now. It's getting late and I have to work tomorrow. Hopefully they will have mopped up the poor moron who jumped in front of the red line.
What's my problem? Clearly the world has changed polarity.
So, I'm having brunch with a friend of mine this afternoon (Me? Morning? Psha! As if...), when she was talking about some of her other friends, and I ask her, "Are all of your friends bat-shit crazy? Am I the normal one of your friends?" To that, she sat for a second and thought about it and figured out that I was, in fact, probably her most normal friend. She even tweeted, "j-z could be my most normal friend."
How fucked up is it that I'm ANYONE'S most normal friend?
I think that out of the core group of my friends, I am the least normal. I don't work 9-5, 5 day work weeks. I don't have benefits included in my job. I don't have a big-boy bed (yes, I still have a futon). I live in a room with no windows. I see nothing wrong with occasionally being... deviant. And I know for a fact that my knives are sharper than any of yours (with the exception of possibly one reader). How on earth am I the normal one? Do you hear the shit that comes out of my mouth when I'm on a roll? I'm surprised more people don't think I'm chemically imbalanced.
Then, on the T going home, I realized that I may be a little more normal than I thought. It all started with my own personal bat-shit insanity. See, some moron got hit/jumped into/got hit by the metro at around 5PM this evening. I'm trying to get into the Kendall Square T stop and am told that service has been suspended.
From the station, we're told to wait outside in Kendall Square in the cold for shuttle buses to take us down to Harvard. The MBTA guy told us it would be ten minutes. We see bus after bus come for the people across the street going inbound. After twenty minutes in the cold, the score is eight to zero. Not a single bus for us. That's when I start getting belligerent. I start comically referring to the MBTA guy as the ten minute man. I talk about wanting to kick him in the balls. I talk about hijacking one of the buses coming the opposite direction, asking if anyone has my back. I'm having fun, because I'm freezing my gonads off, and if I don't have fun, I'm going to be thinking about said gonads retracting into my abdomen. That, and I'm trying to get some attention from a cute Indian chick standing five feet away from me.
Finally, we're told to wait in a different spot where busses pull up. I get on the bus. I'm one of the last two people on the bus (cute Indian chick got on before me... not that I was stalking... that would be creepy... or cool... no, creepy). So, I have a bag of ramen with me. Well, two grocery bags. I'm holding it down to my side. Apparently it's swinging and hitting a guy next to me in the knee. I have no clue. All of a sudden, he gets all up in my face. Tells me to stop hitting him with my bag because his knee hurts, like I'm doing it on purpose. I apologize and he keeps shouting at me. I mean this guy was ALL up in my grill. I'm just short of telling him to fuck off, but I'm trying to be the bigger man. So, I let it go, despite him telling me to stop smiling like an idiot. Maybe if he smiled like an idiot more, he would be less of a douche. Everyone around me, including the bus driver was like, "What the hell is going on right now?" as the man is shouting at me. I actually was just short of swinging my bag at him just for kicks too. Luckily he got off at Central and couldn't get back on. When the bus reorganized after the stop, I told the people around me to politely let me know if my bag was hitting them and I would do my best to stop it. They all got a chuckle out of it, even the cute Indian chick (I SWEAR... NOT stalking).
Sometimes, people take life too seriously. I know I can take it too seriously now and then. I try my hardest, though, to try to enjoy myself. I try to make myself and those around me laugh, sometimes at me, sometimes at themselves, and sometimes at a third party. I think that if I was really not taking myself seriously, I would have asked the aforementioned cute Indian chick out for a drink. She does live in Davis and is, as my buddy Manni would say, "geographically desirable."
I have been thinking a lot about dating since I got back from China. This will be the first time in a while that I will be somewhere for more than a year straight. I mean, on the island, you know it's either going to be a fling or one or both of you are gonna be too hammered to remember anything happening. And what happens traveling stays on the trail. But here I am, now, at a home base for more than just a few months, but for no more than a year and a half. Should I start trying to date?
I was telling a friend of mine today that I really just want to hang out with cool chicks with a possibility of nakedness. If I just wanted to hang out with cool chicks, I would hang out with my friends. It's really the possibility of nakedness that sells it for me.
But I know that I don't want anything to come of anything I start right now. My ass is moving to Shanghai in a year and a half. I don't care how good the sex is. I don't care how cool she is. I don't care if she wakes me up wafting the sweet smell of pork products to my nose... or oral sex (now found to promote cancer)... and? oral sex? My ass is moving to Shanghai. I am standing my ground. If I don't have a plane ticket or firm plans to make an exodus by June of 2012, I want all of my readers to collectively kick my ass to death and send me to China in a body bag. But I digress....
Dating... Should I do it? How should I go about doing it? How do I go about doing it now that I'm not actually in motion? It's all a jumble in my head.
Also, living in my hole has gotten to me a little bit. For some reason the dark hole that I have lived in off and on for five or six years is kind of making me unhappy. I kind of want a window now. I think that it might regulate my sleeping habits a bit more. I know that both of my room mates will be moving out at the end of the lease here, so I might try to move back into my old apartment where my brother is now. It makes a lot of sense to me in a lot of ways. I could consolidate a lot of my possessions, figure out what I want to get rid of, what I want to keep. My brother could take as much of the furniture as he wants with him to wherever he moves. I could start taking apart my life. It would be a great prelude to moving to Shanghai. Sure, the rent would be more than double what I'm paying now, but at least I would have all of my shit together. I would have a window for a few months.
So, that's what I'm thinking about for right now. It's getting late and I have to work tomorrow. Hopefully they will have mopped up the poor moron who jumped in front of the red line.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
A Day of Rest and Weeks of Finding Groove
Listening: These dreams have let you down. Take it don't break it just turn it around. These dreams won't let you down.
What's my problem? Split days off
I walked all of the way from my place to Central Square in the hopes of a nice, free wifi connection and a cup of coffee. A Vietnamese ordered and a password acquired, and I'm still sans wifi. I don't know what the deal is. Everyone else seems to be able to get on, but for some reason I can't connect. Bastards. Even worse, the Vietnamese is sub par. This place had a bunch of good reviews online, but the only bonus that I see thus far is the emo-ish girl behind the counter with the hoody and skinny jeans. In my humble opinion... not. good. enough.
Maybe I'm just cranky today. I woke up wikkid early without the inclination to do anything of substance. I watched a couple of TV shows that I downloaded last night after I got back from some post-work drinks with Jon at Green Street. (Yes, Frenet was had along with copious amounts of gin, absinthe and chartreuse mixed in appropriate proportions). I also watched the movie Let Me In which wasn't nearly as horror driven or as awful as I expected it to be. After the movie, I dozed off again and woke up again around noon. It was time to get out of bed.
Since I started working a kitchen schedule, five plus years ago, I've had the hardest time trying to figure out what to do on my weekly bits of time off. I really don't know what to do with myself. Most of the time, everyone I know is working. There's no one to go out and play with. It just sort of leads me to stay at home and do nothing, go out to run errands, or go out to spend money. Staying at home sometimes tires me out and makes my brain go numb. Once your errands are done, well, they're done. And going out to spend money is not exactly the best thing for someone who hasn't gotten his first paycheck or who is planning on moving across the world in less than a year and a half.
Today, I ran errands. I brought a package to the post office to send one of my coworkers from this past summer who left some of her shit with me. I did some grocery shopping, paid some bills.
By the time three o'clock ran around, I hadn't eaten anything yet. I have a habit of that. For a cook, I sometimes forget to eat. It happens a lot when I'm working (tasting doesn't count as eating) as well as when I don't know what I want to eat. I'll continue not eating until I figure it all out. I also tend not to eat (as observed by my pal Linh) when I get back from a trip abroad as a somewhat product of depression. Today, I packed my computer because I planned on finding the wifi and maybe some food with it. That's when the indecision started....
Walking from Porter Square into Harvard... Nah. I didn't feel like having a sub from Harvard House of Pizza. Maybe a sandwich at Darwin's? Nah. It's too far. How about the new burger place, Flat Patties? Their fries look like ass. Clover food Labs? Their fries were ass when I had them.
After an hour and a half of indecision, I ended up at Charlie's Kitchen for a Chef's Favorite and a cider. It filled me up physically, but it didn't do much for the soul. I need to get back to Shanghai and the sheng jian bao. There's not a single place in Boston that serves them, and like an addict that needs a fix, I get the shakes just thinking about them.
From Charlie's, I went to the Globe Corner Bookstore, one of my favorite bookstores in the entire world. I remember back when the store was on Church Street, but a few years ago, they moved to a much nicer space. They always have everything that I could ever want when it comes to travel books and sometimes even has what I'm looking for in food literature. From time to time, there is a dog roaming around the store.
As I was in there, I started talking to a woman who will be going to Italy for her honeymoon. She will be going to Venice, Rome and Florence. She had been to Milan and to Como, but had never been anywhere else. I strongly urged her to go to Cinque Terre and to check out a restaurant in Florence.
Also, while I was there, I found out that the store is currently up for sale. Right now, the owner is in serious negotiations with a buyer. The idea of this scares me. I don't want my bookstore to change. The stock of books that they keep is so amazing that I just don't know if someone who isn't experienced can keep up. The world is a big place. Cities change on a daily basis. Somehow this bookstore has been able to keep up with travel guides, travel writing, and maps regarding every which part of the world from the most traveled parts of Europe to the the most random places in South America and Africa.
Now I'm here at the Atomic Bean Cafe, drinking a mediocre-at-best Vietnamese coffee, listening to my iTunes and typing on my textedit program. Now there's a skinny girl with librarian glasses setting up a projector and a mic. It looks like there's going to be a poetry reading. This makes me dislike this place even more. I just want to listen to my music and type right now. Hopefully, she won't start soon.
So, onto the information that most of you want to know about, work. So, I started at Island Creek Oyster Bar a couple of weeks ago. My first week was kind of a mess. I started off on hot apps and the swing between hot apps and grill. Truth be told, I was kind of a mess. There were no tickets in front of me or even close to me. Prep was hectic. I had no clue what was my responsibility and what fell on the AM prep crew. I had at least twelve dishes coming off the hot apps station, plus when I was the swinger, I would help the grill pick up any of their seven dishes.
Now, the most covers that I have ever done at any of the restaurants that I have worked at has been two hundred and thirty-ish. Two hundred is a slow night at Island Creek Oyster Bar. The fish station regularly does twelve to fifteen plate pickups. At American Seasons, the most number of plates that would fit on the pass was thirteen, and that was split between the saute and the grill stations. Fifteen plates were coming from the fish station alone which was responsible for at least eight dishes.
On my fourth day in the kitchen, I was working entremet for the fish station. I would be cooking and plating all of the veg and starch for the fish station. I had worked that position on my first stage, where I got completely destroyed, but in a crazy turn of events, we got slammed. The sous-chef went downstairs to help the raw bar, and the lead line cook who was on grill moved up to the pass to expedite, and they moved me over to grill. That's when things went downhill. Grill got hit. It got hit hard. I went down in flames like I've never gone down before. There were no tickets for me to look at to figure out the difference between my ass and my elbow. The communication from the expediter to me and back was spotty at best. Every two minutes, I was asking, "What's my pickup?" "What's my all day?" "Can I PLEASE get an all day?" "What the fuck do you need RIGHT NOW?" "You want it on the plate in HOW LONG? It hasn't even been fired. I'm going to need at least seven!" "Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?"
(The poetry reading has begun. It makes me want to suck on a shotgun.)
It was a rough night. The only comparable situation that I have ever been in was when I was at American Seasons, we were doing a fourteen plate pickup that was all me, which included four duck breasts at varying temperatures, striped bass, flukes, tunas. It was a mess. As we're plating up, I've got veg and sauce everywhere, and Andy, who was working the middle/plating station, asked me, "Can we add on another duck and another fluke?" My response was, "I don't give a FUCK!" I threw my cutting board onto my mise en place to make room for more plates, threw the plates down, and as we're pushing finished plates to Chef, Andy asks me, "Which one of the flukes was the well done?" I lost my shit and said, "You didn't tell me that you needed a well done!" as I grabbed a fluke off of a plate, threw it on a sizzle platter and chucked it into the salamander.
Yeah, I almost lost my shit again that night, on my fourth day of work.
Since then, I've gotten a hell of a lot more composed, and I have gotten used to the pace and the style of the kitchen. When I'm working the fish station, I'm having no trouble plating up fifteen plates, and I have been killing it on hot apps. They put me on hot apps on the Saturday before Valentine's Day without a swinger. It was one grill cook and one hot apps cook (which was me). We fed three hundred and ninety diners that night, not including the people who ate at the bar. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that we fed at least four hundred and ten people. I have NEVER fed that many people. To make it all more interesting, I had a seared gnocci special that night in addition to the littleneck app that takes a lot of time and sometime attention. But, I did it. I never got flustered or crushed. I had a good rapport with the sous-chef, Peter, who was working the pass. I was also helping out the grill cook a lot too.
The past three days, I have been doing entremet for the fish station. Given that Island Creek Oyster Bar is a seafood restaurant, even on "slow" nights, it's still a hopping station that blows through a lot of product. What also makes that station difficult is that every day, the menu changes. There are two things that stay constant, which are the baked stuffed lobster, and the seafood casserole, but everything else can change at the drop of a dime. If you're working the fish station, the first thing that you have to do when you get in is find a sous or find the chef and ask them what's changing. Sometimes it's nice and you're just trying to run a dish out, but other times, the prep for a fish will change, there will be a whole new dish or things will get flipped around.
Prep is a challenge every day. It has been a challenge everywhere that I have worked, but the difference at Island Creek is that they do such high volume that not only do you have a lot of dishes to prep, but you also have a lot of volume to prep as well. It takes some serious time to turn ten pounds of jumbo lump crab meat into four ounce crab cakes that aren't too wet or too dry that they'll fall apart in the pan.
Also, since the restaurant is so big, I must be running at least four miles a day at work. Dish pit is forty paces. Dry storage is a three minute brisk walk. The walk-in is halfway to dry storage. If you're in the walk-in looking for dijon mustard, but someone already has it on the line, you just wasted a minute and a half walking to the walk-in, five minutes looking around for it, another minute and a half walking to dry storage to look for it there for five minutes only to see that there's none there, three minutes back to the line to ask the sous-chef if he's seen the dijon, and then another two minutes going over to the fry station where the cook there had it. That's a good fifteen minutes. So, there are all sorts of time sucks in this kitchen.
On the really good side of things, I've got a compadre on the line. The grill cook, Jade, has a killer attitude and a good idea of what the right way to do things is. We have similar senses of humor and she's just loud and egotistical in a funny way. But we get along like gangbusters.
I also find that I'm getting along well with the lead line cook. She's a deadpan kind of a girl. We have similar ideas on how things should get done as well. We're both fans of super-clean stations and nightly prep lists. Last night, she was psyched that I was closing the fish station. I cleaned out all of the drawers, put all of the veg in two drawers, emptied the raw proteins into new bins, brought them to the walk-in, and put all of the cooked proteins in a drawer separate from the veg. Yeah, that's an example of my kitchen OCD, which is probably not as bad as my friend Katherine's.
I have split days off this week due to the sous-chef, Matty's, oversight. I almost had three days off this week, but I opened my mouth saying I wanted the hours. So I have today off and I have Sunday off as well. Hopefully I'll be more fun on Sunday. I'm thinking brunch may be in order. I think I'm going to go home now so I can actually get on the internet to post this. I think I'll stop by the new Thai place in Porter Square for dinner. Rod Dee used to be at a different location, and supposedly had really authentic Thai food. I'm hoping it does.
**Add on** The som tam is really not as spicy as it should be. The pad kra pao is spicy, but it could have more. I'll try the pad see you after I get home from work tomorrow.
What's my problem? Split days off
I walked all of the way from my place to Central Square in the hopes of a nice, free wifi connection and a cup of coffee. A Vietnamese ordered and a password acquired, and I'm still sans wifi. I don't know what the deal is. Everyone else seems to be able to get on, but for some reason I can't connect. Bastards. Even worse, the Vietnamese is sub par. This place had a bunch of good reviews online, but the only bonus that I see thus far is the emo-ish girl behind the counter with the hoody and skinny jeans. In my humble opinion... not. good. enough.
Maybe I'm just cranky today. I woke up wikkid early without the inclination to do anything of substance. I watched a couple of TV shows that I downloaded last night after I got back from some post-work drinks with Jon at Green Street. (Yes, Frenet was had along with copious amounts of gin, absinthe and chartreuse mixed in appropriate proportions). I also watched the movie Let Me In which wasn't nearly as horror driven or as awful as I expected it to be. After the movie, I dozed off again and woke up again around noon. It was time to get out of bed.
Since I started working a kitchen schedule, five plus years ago, I've had the hardest time trying to figure out what to do on my weekly bits of time off. I really don't know what to do with myself. Most of the time, everyone I know is working. There's no one to go out and play with. It just sort of leads me to stay at home and do nothing, go out to run errands, or go out to spend money. Staying at home sometimes tires me out and makes my brain go numb. Once your errands are done, well, they're done. And going out to spend money is not exactly the best thing for someone who hasn't gotten his first paycheck or who is planning on moving across the world in less than a year and a half.
Today, I ran errands. I brought a package to the post office to send one of my coworkers from this past summer who left some of her shit with me. I did some grocery shopping, paid some bills.
By the time three o'clock ran around, I hadn't eaten anything yet. I have a habit of that. For a cook, I sometimes forget to eat. It happens a lot when I'm working (tasting doesn't count as eating) as well as when I don't know what I want to eat. I'll continue not eating until I figure it all out. I also tend not to eat (as observed by my pal Linh) when I get back from a trip abroad as a somewhat product of depression. Today, I packed my computer because I planned on finding the wifi and maybe some food with it. That's when the indecision started....
Walking from Porter Square into Harvard... Nah. I didn't feel like having a sub from Harvard House of Pizza. Maybe a sandwich at Darwin's? Nah. It's too far. How about the new burger place, Flat Patties? Their fries look like ass. Clover food Labs? Their fries were ass when I had them.
After an hour and a half of indecision, I ended up at Charlie's Kitchen for a Chef's Favorite and a cider. It filled me up physically, but it didn't do much for the soul. I need to get back to Shanghai and the sheng jian bao. There's not a single place in Boston that serves them, and like an addict that needs a fix, I get the shakes just thinking about them.
From Charlie's, I went to the Globe Corner Bookstore, one of my favorite bookstores in the entire world. I remember back when the store was on Church Street, but a few years ago, they moved to a much nicer space. They always have everything that I could ever want when it comes to travel books and sometimes even has what I'm looking for in food literature. From time to time, there is a dog roaming around the store.
As I was in there, I started talking to a woman who will be going to Italy for her honeymoon. She will be going to Venice, Rome and Florence. She had been to Milan and to Como, but had never been anywhere else. I strongly urged her to go to Cinque Terre and to check out a restaurant in Florence.
Also, while I was there, I found out that the store is currently up for sale. Right now, the owner is in serious negotiations with a buyer. The idea of this scares me. I don't want my bookstore to change. The stock of books that they keep is so amazing that I just don't know if someone who isn't experienced can keep up. The world is a big place. Cities change on a daily basis. Somehow this bookstore has been able to keep up with travel guides, travel writing, and maps regarding every which part of the world from the most traveled parts of Europe to the the most random places in South America and Africa.
Now I'm here at the Atomic Bean Cafe, drinking a mediocre-at-best Vietnamese coffee, listening to my iTunes and typing on my textedit program. Now there's a skinny girl with librarian glasses setting up a projector and a mic. It looks like there's going to be a poetry reading. This makes me dislike this place even more. I just want to listen to my music and type right now. Hopefully, she won't start soon.
So, onto the information that most of you want to know about, work. So, I started at Island Creek Oyster Bar a couple of weeks ago. My first week was kind of a mess. I started off on hot apps and the swing between hot apps and grill. Truth be told, I was kind of a mess. There were no tickets in front of me or even close to me. Prep was hectic. I had no clue what was my responsibility and what fell on the AM prep crew. I had at least twelve dishes coming off the hot apps station, plus when I was the swinger, I would help the grill pick up any of their seven dishes.
Now, the most covers that I have ever done at any of the restaurants that I have worked at has been two hundred and thirty-ish. Two hundred is a slow night at Island Creek Oyster Bar. The fish station regularly does twelve to fifteen plate pickups. At American Seasons, the most number of plates that would fit on the pass was thirteen, and that was split between the saute and the grill stations. Fifteen plates were coming from the fish station alone which was responsible for at least eight dishes.
On my fourth day in the kitchen, I was working entremet for the fish station. I would be cooking and plating all of the veg and starch for the fish station. I had worked that position on my first stage, where I got completely destroyed, but in a crazy turn of events, we got slammed. The sous-chef went downstairs to help the raw bar, and the lead line cook who was on grill moved up to the pass to expedite, and they moved me over to grill. That's when things went downhill. Grill got hit. It got hit hard. I went down in flames like I've never gone down before. There were no tickets for me to look at to figure out the difference between my ass and my elbow. The communication from the expediter to me and back was spotty at best. Every two minutes, I was asking, "What's my pickup?" "What's my all day?" "Can I PLEASE get an all day?" "What the fuck do you need RIGHT NOW?" "You want it on the plate in HOW LONG? It hasn't even been fired. I'm going to need at least seven!" "Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?"
(The poetry reading has begun. It makes me want to suck on a shotgun.)
It was a rough night. The only comparable situation that I have ever been in was when I was at American Seasons, we were doing a fourteen plate pickup that was all me, which included four duck breasts at varying temperatures, striped bass, flukes, tunas. It was a mess. As we're plating up, I've got veg and sauce everywhere, and Andy, who was working the middle/plating station, asked me, "Can we add on another duck and another fluke?" My response was, "I don't give a FUCK!" I threw my cutting board onto my mise en place to make room for more plates, threw the plates down, and as we're pushing finished plates to Chef, Andy asks me, "Which one of the flukes was the well done?" I lost my shit and said, "You didn't tell me that you needed a well done!" as I grabbed a fluke off of a plate, threw it on a sizzle platter and chucked it into the salamander.
Yeah, I almost lost my shit again that night, on my fourth day of work.
Since then, I've gotten a hell of a lot more composed, and I have gotten used to the pace and the style of the kitchen. When I'm working the fish station, I'm having no trouble plating up fifteen plates, and I have been killing it on hot apps. They put me on hot apps on the Saturday before Valentine's Day without a swinger. It was one grill cook and one hot apps cook (which was me). We fed three hundred and ninety diners that night, not including the people who ate at the bar. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that we fed at least four hundred and ten people. I have NEVER fed that many people. To make it all more interesting, I had a seared gnocci special that night in addition to the littleneck app that takes a lot of time and sometime attention. But, I did it. I never got flustered or crushed. I had a good rapport with the sous-chef, Peter, who was working the pass. I was also helping out the grill cook a lot too.
The past three days, I have been doing entremet for the fish station. Given that Island Creek Oyster Bar is a seafood restaurant, even on "slow" nights, it's still a hopping station that blows through a lot of product. What also makes that station difficult is that every day, the menu changes. There are two things that stay constant, which are the baked stuffed lobster, and the seafood casserole, but everything else can change at the drop of a dime. If you're working the fish station, the first thing that you have to do when you get in is find a sous or find the chef and ask them what's changing. Sometimes it's nice and you're just trying to run a dish out, but other times, the prep for a fish will change, there will be a whole new dish or things will get flipped around.
Prep is a challenge every day. It has been a challenge everywhere that I have worked, but the difference at Island Creek is that they do such high volume that not only do you have a lot of dishes to prep, but you also have a lot of volume to prep as well. It takes some serious time to turn ten pounds of jumbo lump crab meat into four ounce crab cakes that aren't too wet or too dry that they'll fall apart in the pan.
Also, since the restaurant is so big, I must be running at least four miles a day at work. Dish pit is forty paces. Dry storage is a three minute brisk walk. The walk-in is halfway to dry storage. If you're in the walk-in looking for dijon mustard, but someone already has it on the line, you just wasted a minute and a half walking to the walk-in, five minutes looking around for it, another minute and a half walking to dry storage to look for it there for five minutes only to see that there's none there, three minutes back to the line to ask the sous-chef if he's seen the dijon, and then another two minutes going over to the fry station where the cook there had it. That's a good fifteen minutes. So, there are all sorts of time sucks in this kitchen.
On the really good side of things, I've got a compadre on the line. The grill cook, Jade, has a killer attitude and a good idea of what the right way to do things is. We have similar senses of humor and she's just loud and egotistical in a funny way. But we get along like gangbusters.
I also find that I'm getting along well with the lead line cook. She's a deadpan kind of a girl. We have similar ideas on how things should get done as well. We're both fans of super-clean stations and nightly prep lists. Last night, she was psyched that I was closing the fish station. I cleaned out all of the drawers, put all of the veg in two drawers, emptied the raw proteins into new bins, brought them to the walk-in, and put all of the cooked proteins in a drawer separate from the veg. Yeah, that's an example of my kitchen OCD, which is probably not as bad as my friend Katherine's.
I have split days off this week due to the sous-chef, Matty's, oversight. I almost had three days off this week, but I opened my mouth saying I wanted the hours. So I have today off and I have Sunday off as well. Hopefully I'll be more fun on Sunday. I'm thinking brunch may be in order. I think I'm going to go home now so I can actually get on the internet to post this. I think I'll stop by the new Thai place in Porter Square for dinner. Rod Dee used to be at a different location, and supposedly had really authentic Thai food. I'm hoping it does.
**Add on** The som tam is really not as spicy as it should be. The pad kra pao is spicy, but it could have more. I'll try the pad see you after I get home from work tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Employed
Listening: I was dreamin' when I wrote this. Forgive me if it goes astray. But when I woke up there this mornin', could've sworn it was Judgment Day.
What's my problem? Snow... and its bastard son slush.
Last night and the greater part of yesterday was spent waiting for a phone call. The chef there who was self-admittedly ADD told me that he would call me and would let me know about the job yesterday. Apparently, he forgot.
Originally, I was planning on waiting until nine in the evening yesterday to call if he didn't call. That got pushed back until after service, and, again, got pushed back to this morning.
I woke up this morning at nine in the morning. I was surprisingly well-rested. I left the lights off and relished in the perfect temperature that it was under my covers with only my head poking out. I felt like I was in a sensory deprivation tank. It was nice. It was one of the nicest wake-ups that I've had since being back in America, and strangely, there was no daylight involved.
At ten in the morning, I got a text from a friend asking what had happened about the job. At eleven o'clock, I called and left a message for the chef. At a quarter past eleven, I got a skype from my friend in Russia. At noon, I got a call back from the chef saying that he flaked and that he gave the job to the friend of one of the cooks. And at three past noon, I e-mailed the chef at Island Creek Oyster Bar saying that I would take the position. A quarter past noon, I had my first shift lined up.
So, there it is. Thursday, I start at Island Creek Oyster Bar. This isn't without interesting twists. See, the reason that they were hiring at Ten Tables, is because the sous-chef there will be leaving to open up the Ten Tables in Provincetown. From what the chef at Ten Tables says, he's interested in maybe having me go down there to help open up the new joint as well, possibly as a sous. Who know what'll happen. It's a good three months away, I think. Never know though.
Anyways, here I am. Employed now. I'm at Mr. Crepe in Davis Square, trying to survive off of two bars of free wifi, because I'm too damn cheap to pay the eight dollars for a day of service.
Not much more to say other than that. I'm wondering how long I'm going to stay here. I should probably buy some groceries on the walk home too. I wish there was something to do today that was exciting and productive. Shoveling snow doesn't count. That's the beauty of renting in an apartment building with a management company. You never have to do it.
What's my problem? Snow... and its bastard son slush.
Last night and the greater part of yesterday was spent waiting for a phone call. The chef there who was self-admittedly ADD told me that he would call me and would let me know about the job yesterday. Apparently, he forgot.
Originally, I was planning on waiting until nine in the evening yesterday to call if he didn't call. That got pushed back until after service, and, again, got pushed back to this morning.
I woke up this morning at nine in the morning. I was surprisingly well-rested. I left the lights off and relished in the perfect temperature that it was under my covers with only my head poking out. I felt like I was in a sensory deprivation tank. It was nice. It was one of the nicest wake-ups that I've had since being back in America, and strangely, there was no daylight involved.
At ten in the morning, I got a text from a friend asking what had happened about the job. At eleven o'clock, I called and left a message for the chef. At a quarter past eleven, I got a skype from my friend in Russia. At noon, I got a call back from the chef saying that he flaked and that he gave the job to the friend of one of the cooks. And at three past noon, I e-mailed the chef at Island Creek Oyster Bar saying that I would take the position. A quarter past noon, I had my first shift lined up.
So, there it is. Thursday, I start at Island Creek Oyster Bar. This isn't without interesting twists. See, the reason that they were hiring at Ten Tables, is because the sous-chef there will be leaving to open up the Ten Tables in Provincetown. From what the chef at Ten Tables says, he's interested in maybe having me go down there to help open up the new joint as well, possibly as a sous. Who know what'll happen. It's a good three months away, I think. Never know though.
Anyways, here I am. Employed now. I'm at Mr. Crepe in Davis Square, trying to survive off of two bars of free wifi, because I'm too damn cheap to pay the eight dollars for a day of service.
Not much more to say other than that. I'm wondering how long I'm going to stay here. I should probably buy some groceries on the walk home too. I wish there was something to do today that was exciting and productive. Shoveling snow doesn't count. That's the beauty of renting in an apartment building with a management company. You never have to do it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
