Papapoopski needs therapy and food

[dan_pdx]

Hey PPPS, don't feel like you need to apologize for anything you've posted. You gave ample warning for people who would prefer to avoid your darker posts, and if this collection of cranky old farts with a jones for snow sports is good for anything, it's for being a sounding board for people to wrestle with their serious shit. People here are typically assholes (it's part of the charm) until the shit gets deep and then they've got your back.

[frorider]

Except that he would bring it in dog food bags. I guess the bags were cheaper but god forbid someone sees that being brought into the kitchen.

Gold.

[idahospud]

People here are typically assholes (it's part of the charm)

Sig-worthy.

Apologies to all for the distraction.

Papapoopski, carry on... your stories are fucking phenomenal and while I was a short-timer in the restaurant world in the Northeast, I wonder if we might know one or two of the same people.

[papapoopski]

Sweet Revenge

He tore me apart. The words seemed to come at me like the ink itself was on some kind of mission. There were a few compliments but the bad stuck out to me like a knife in my face.

But he was right. I was trying to be too many things to too many people. I was getting away from just making good food and getting into trying to impress without having any real meaning. I was also about 24 or so. I had skill in technique but not maturity. I could cook but I let my wants overtake me. The food critic had laid me to waste. Printed in black and white for all to see.

I hopped on my mountain bike and rode as hard as I could to shake it off. My name was trashed. I would kick the shit out of myself. Teach myself a lesson. How could I be so stupid? Get your shit together.

After thoroughly destroying myself physically I was able to change my mental game. Cook what I know, I would tell myself. Refine the plates, enough with the extra bullshit. Be better today than I was yesterday. Never ever rest on my laurels. This was not some overnight change but a change that I established over time.

Years go by and I get an invite to cook with a few chefs and journalists at a private event. I’m not sure if there was a greater purpose to this. We were just going to cook and eat together. Everyone bring a dish. Make it there or not, whatever. They tell me to bring dessert.

I find out that one of the guests will be the reviewer that ripped me up. I think about it and decide to just own it. I would be the youngest at the gathering by far.

In being introduced to others I can tell that they dismiss me because I look like I’m 18 at the time. I ask what I can do to help. I am asked to help cook asparagus on a grill outside. The chef says he doesn't want it charred. I have a dinner fork, an old weber full of raging hot charcoal and it's dark out. I can’t see the grill, only the red glow of the coals below. I charred it. Fuck, not making friends tonight.

The food critic has no idea who I am. I leave it that way until after dinner.
I wanted to hate him but we talk. He publicly wrecked me, why shouldn't I hold a grudge. Deep down I knew he was right. I also knew that his words led me to bettering myself. I fucked up, he let me know. Plain and simple.

I eventually let on that he reviewed me once. He gets pretty uncomfortable, squirms a bit. But he's been a good person the entire night. We end up trading industry stories and laughing. Goddamnit. We drank wine under a chandelier in an old barn. About six of us were left towards the end of the dinner. One of the guests had been friends with Jean Louis Palladin. A legend of a chef. The mood was of respect and new friendship. Fantastic stories were exchanged.

Dessert was served. Holy fucking shit the reviewers wife brought panna cotta, and so did I. I brought a concoction of strawberries, ginger and fennel to go with it. She brought a peach topping. She had infused her panna cotta with lemon. When acid is introduced to gelatin it will continue to firm up the texture over time. Leave it too long and a panna cotta goes from luscious and creamy to rubbery and eventually gets to the texture of a gummy bear. She left hers to set for too long. It was rubbery. Nobody said a word.

None of us ended the night with ill will towards each other. Hugs were given. We all smiled as we walked out of the barn and into the summer night. I left with new friends. I thought I wanted something else when I had first arrived. I guess what happened was sweet revenge.

[papapoopski]

Why does everyone put drugs under the table?

Just because you drive a bentley doesn't mean I can't see the empty pill bottle, coke baggie and weed that you left under the table.

One of our guests asked the waitstaff to help them find his bag of coke that fell in the bushes. Those waitstaff jumped into the bushes like they were diving into a fox hole, escaping enemy fire. They never did find it. Well not until after the guy left. How convenient.

I know the woman you are with is not your wife. I don't care what you do. I've met your wife and I've seen pictures of your family trips. But goddamnit, don't leave your fucking drug bags under the table. And yes it's very nice that you were helping your friend in the bathroom. I'm sure her rectum is fine now.

Ok the drugs are not that bad, more annoying than anything. But women's underwear under the table? Comeon!

[papapoopski]

What love feels like

We started out as friends, A. and I. I’d known her since I was a child.

I’d known her mom. She was strong, full of life, funny as hell, sweet and giving. Her mom passed away from pancreatic cancer a few years before we rediscovered each other. We recognized loss within each other. Our known past and close families established an easy trust between us. Our hearts began to lean more and more on each other.

One day it just clicked. We found each other. Or she found me first and let me into her life. We both carried anger and frustration and we knew when to be there for the other.

She used to joke that the moon would recharge her inner batteries but only through her boobs, so she would take her shirt off and run through a field at night, to act out, to feel the freedom on her skin. In her random acts that some may see as reckless I think she was reaching out for something beyond to hear her. I made sure to be there for her in those moments. And she was there for mine when my past came back for me.

It sure felt like love. We trusted each other, we gave to each other fully of ourselves. We never once fought, we didn’t have enough time together for that. It was a beautiful moment in time.

We built a flamethower together. She put flowers on it. We swam naked in a river in a forest. We took the doors off of the dodge onmi and drove through a field just to sit on a rock that we both agreed looked perfect. We sat in silence on the roof of the restaurant, soaking up the stars. If the moon was out she would recharge her boob batteries. She let me chase after her heart. Both of us knowing full well that we belonged to each other. So young. So free. A bit reckless but we lived hand in hand.

This all sounds like whimsical nonsense. But how else should we exist?

We are born human to be human - Rumi

I will forever chase after those moments in life. Maybe because I missed out on being a child in some ways. But really what else is there to do with our time? I should buckle down and be responsible? Of course, pay the cell phone bill. Be active within society. But alongside that, within that. Can I exist in a better way?

I have told you of my darkest moments. From that I have learned to see the absurdity of life. I see what is important and what is frivolous to me. I carry strong emotions and they have taught me so much. I have experienced the height of anger, the depths of fear. I have also seen the other side of that. Love that took me outside of my own body. I’ve been given gifts by the mentors in my life that allow me to step back and observe what life could be. Through struggle, search, introspection, release. I am learning to fly free. In that freedom, I hope to find others. So far that’s what love feels like.

[stealurface831]

ah, the joys of restaurants.

i once found a small child under a table after a quinceanera. mom and dad were still in the parking lot as the party continued out there after we cut the power on them since they refused to leave after 3. lots of diapers under tables, too.

[Meadow Skipper]

Fuuuuuck. If you cook half, half as well as you write, all I want now is to sit down to one of your meals someday.

[Danno]

One of our guests asked the waitstaff to help them find his bag of coke that fell in the bushes. Those waitstaff jumped into the bushes like they were diving into a fox hole, escaping enemy fire. They never did find it. Well not until after the guy left. How convenient.

lol

Fuuuuuck. If you cook half, half as well as you write, all I want now is to sit down to one of your meals someday.

no doubt.

[papapoopski]

The double wedding condom mountain

I had booked back to back weddings. Wedding number one was a young couple looking to party. Wedding number two was an older couple, second wedding, looking for a quiet, unique experience for their close family and friends.

Wedding one (W1) began with many pickups driving into the lot. One had a pirate flag in the bed. Cases of Busch beer were opened before entering the building. You assholes. They were mostly nice but the booze took hold and the werewolves came out. Someone ripped the doors off of an outdoor gazebo. There was vomit sprayed on the side of my building. The next day under the light of the morning sun, the previous nights horrors were revealed. Many pairs of underwear. I really hope that's mud. Broken glass everywhere. And a little mountain of condoms. There are not enough glove layers for this job. Only a shovel will suffice. That shovel will be destroyed with fire. I don't pay myself enough for this shit.

I would have to erase these sins from the earth for the next wedding. I don't know any priests.

Well it gets cleaned up. Next...

The next wedding (W2) are mostly doctors. Most of the conversations involve a boat off the coast of Africa for their work with doctors without borders. They have a wonderful violinist. The bride and groom brought a briefcase holding the most expensive tequila I have ever seen, about 7k in booze in that suitcase. How could they not smell the earth rotting beneath them from last night? I don't think the marriage is legal due to the cursed soil beneath their feet. The land has shaken off the promises made by the bride and groom. I am so sorry.

Wedding guests are a different breed. Most are great. For some there is no law, no limits. For one night they are free to explore their wildest thoughts while absorbing more alcohol than air. Fuck. Glad you had fun guys.

[papapoopski]

Wine Cellar

My brother and I spent an entire summer digging out the wine cellar by hand. Before work, after work, days off. We used shovels and a pick axe to fill 55 gallon barrels with dirt which we would drag across the ground, then up a flight of stairs out of the basement, load onto a trailer, then dump in the woods. The boulders would be pulled with a hand winch, pulleys and tractor chain, across the floor, up the steps and into the trailer, then dumped in the woods behind the restaurant. We played Slayer as loud as it would go. The muscles in our backs, arms and shoulders would become taut as steel wire from the constant work. We would sit at the bar in the restaurant, shirtless, covered head to toe in brown dirt at 2am, silently drinking the work away and leaving a trail of dirt wherever we went. There was probably an easier way to dig out that room. We never thought about it. It was just “there’s the dirt and rock, let’s get to it.”

I have an acquaintance that did demolition with explosives in the army. He offered to blast the larger rocks for me. Pretty sure that was just drunk talk. Either way even I have my limits. I like blowing things up but not underneath my dining room. I let him blow up an old tree in the woods. You want to keep a guy like that on your good side.

We wore through countless work gloves, barrels broke apart, shovel handles broke.

Guests see the finished product, not the bloody knuckles, broken blisters, and the dirt filled wounds that made it happen. Everything here is a labor of love, cursing, sweat and most likely doing things the hard way because the money isn’t always there to rent big machines.

Years later my brother and I would pull a bottle from that cellar. I have a few bins with random names that are either singles left from a case, bottles received as gifts, and bottles that came with the restaurant which are just old as dirt.

I grabbed something French. We opened the bottle and poured a glass, knowing that it needed to breath but we took a sip anyway.

We talk about the old days and the wild shit. The wine as we opened it was not ready and tannic and acidic. It’s fucking terrible to drink.

We talk about growing up. We are sitting in front of a fire. Our conversation shifts to the harder times. The wine begins to open, the flavors deepen.

We talk of our children, our hopes for them. The wine was transforming in front of us with each sip. As we near the end of the bottle it has bloomed into a beautiful display of time and place. It is so distinct. If we could have rung out that bottle we would have. As the night went on the wine, along with our conversation, changed and grew in parallel to each other. From young and dumb to the depth that comes with age and experience. It was just one of those moments that was just right, just my brother and I.

Oxygen is a vital component in the creation and destruction of flavors in not just wine but even sauces, fresh meat and other once living things. The intangibles of being in good company can make or break the experience of that same wine. We drank a 1986 Mouton Rothchild that night. It was the middle of the week. We weren’t celebrating anything. Could have been manischewitz. I don’t know that it would have mattered what we drank in shaping that memory. But fuck that wine was good.

[papapoopski]

Chef Tools

Not every chef will need these but this is what gets me by.

The all mighty Sharpie. The do list is long. A hard permanent line through my vanquished foes...the chores, keeps my day moving along. The clicker sharpie, greatest invention since the sharpie itself is always by my side. If you take my sharpie I will bring hellfire down upon you.

Chef knife. Japanese steel, stoned and honed. From filleting a trout just after rigor mortis to a brunoise for a plate to cutting through the spine of a pig. I like a bit of real estate so 10" minimum works for the bigger projects. This is the prep knife that does just about all of my work. I have a quiver but I use this for just about everything. This knife is an extension of my own arm. It gets put away when service begins. Then out comes the bitch knife.

Bitch knife. Keep it cheap. Mine was $6. It's a santuko, hollow ground, about 6" blade. I keep this on the line with me or nearby when there are lots of people in the kitchen. I can tuck it in next to the cutting board. I like the blunted tip. It has a point to it but it's much harder to get stabbed with. Short, cheap, light, just gets the job done. At off site events, go ahead and steal it. I can pick up another one with pocket change at the 24 hour supermarket on my way home at 1am. There is much better metal out there but it makes a great fuck it knife. I've used the heel to bash open a can of tomato paste in a pinch. I've used the butt to hammer in a nail. Delivery guy knocks it off the counter? No big deal. No tears are shed. The metal is soft so it sharpens fast and easy.

Bag of knives. Filet knife, multiple slicing knives, serrated blade, boning knife, paring, blah blah. They all do the same thing. Some better than others. Just keep it sharp.

Cordless screwgun. To tighten and retighten what seemingly holds the building together. Duct work, oven parts, shelving on and on. If I could fit it in my knife bag it might go in there.

The nail gun. Oh sweetness. Where have you been. I shall forever regret the years without you. My love and respect for you know no bounds. You have brought peace to my fingers. When the siding is pulled away by masked marauders of the night, the raccoons, you are there to shore up my walls to keep those foul night demons at bay.

40 year old slicing knife. Makes a great stand in for a machete to hack back the wisteria bush that grows like it's on crack. The bush looks beautiful but it grabs at my eyeglasses like a fucking clawed octopus.

Two ton hand winch, tree strap, pulleys and tractor chains. When the garbage truck doesn't put the dumpster back all the way so I can’t close the fence I have to pull it back. If the crew starts putting trash in it before I get to it that fucker gets heavy. Hurricane Sandy took down a lot of trees on the property, some of them got hung up pretty bad. I tried to yank some down with the winch instead of doing a risky chainsaw job. My brother and I dug out our wine cellar by hand, having to move boulders up a flight of stairs from out under the building, need to pull those big fuckers out with the hand winch. You get the idea.

Utility trailer. From carrying the new to me oven for the kitchen to a downed tree to hauling the chairs that fell apart to gravel to landscaping supplies.

The side towel. Perhaps the most stolen item in the kitchen. The lowly side towel protects our beaten and burned hands from further damage. Twist them up and whip someone in the leg. Soak in ice water and wear on the head as a bandana. Fold into a few layers to place a hot pot on top of to protect the 50 year old butcher block. Stolen side towels have started many a war of words.

Video security. There are three sides to a story, her side, his side and then the video. Fuck both of you. The vids don’t lie. Ok who started the fight, let's see. I have some pretty unbelievable footage from over the years. The very same day that I put up the cameras a guest fell down a flight of stairs. He was looking behind him and just walked down the stairs. No negligence on my part, completely his fault, so says my insurance company. He sends me a letter once a year demanding various sums of money 20k here, 35k there. My insurance company just tells me to ignore him. That was about 10 years ago.

Crowbar. When I can't retighten any longer and have to replace. It's time to pry that shit apart. For levering an oven up with one hand while I slide a new caster into place.

BFH. Short handle, about 3# head. So you're not going to budge huh? (Me yelling at whatever stupid fucking project I have foolishly undertaken) Fuck. You. Don't make me get the sledgehammer

Tweezers. Fingers need to stay clean while working. We keep fresh greens on the line that are snipped w scissors as needed. Grabbing a few tiny stems with fingers looks like king Kong trying to turn the page of a newspaper. They work, they're handy.

Booze. It's a tool. Offering a drink to someone that is celebrating or hurting can change their day. I had a young prep cook who's girlfriend miscarried the day before. He didn't say anything but he was not himself that day. I offered him a drink after work and I listened to him. He was under 21 and he knows I have strict policies on drinking but it felt more right than the law. He needed something in that time.
Watching a young bride and groom clink their glasses for a toast as they begin their life together.
Booze can be a tool. Sometimes you need the right tool for the job.

Weed. Once or twice a month I like to sit with pad and pen and get creative. With either thoughts on food, life, etc. Running after a smoke is fucking great too. I find that details come to the foreground that I have pushed away. It's like re-filing my thoughts.

Sawzall. This is the fuck you saw. Wood, metal, pvc, copper pipe. All at once in layers? No fucking problem. Cut the roof off a car? Done.

Spoons. There is just the right spoon for each thing. Some sauces get a deeper bowl, a wider area. Some spoons spread just the right amount of sauce out. The handle needs to be shaped just the right way. It's just one of those things.

I'm not much of a gadget guy. I look at all this stuff in a utilitarian manner, just helping me to get the job done. When every tool is there in its place, it'll be a good day.

[Meadow Skipper]

I wasn’t there to try that wine, but this writing has to be a perfect match for that exquisite bottle. Publish, dude.

[riser4]

Tweezers man. I wish I'd had those at my station way back when. King Kong is fucking apt. Of course the misfits I knew back then would have stolen every last one of them to use as a roach clip. I would have at least stolen them from someone else's kit, not my own.

[steff]

What type of shoes do you wear in the kitchen?

[papapoopski]

Welcome to my shithole.

I wear pink bunny slippers midweek.

On weekends I slip into the old war shoes. They are fashioned from the skins of raccoons that try to break into the restaurant. I leave the heads on and put LED lights in the eyes to act like headlights when I'm walking through the woods in search of clues as to why genetics didn't allow me six fingers instead of the usual five.

They're made by Dansko and run true to size. Some say the instep feels uncomfortable at first but they break in great. Good arch support. The tread wears like iron and are as non slip as it gets.

Here's some more shit to read while you're all drunk on the shitter tomorrow, taking a few moments for yourself.

[papapoopski]

The dance of Billy One Nut and D Boy

Billy One Nut was the name we gave him. He was young and worked on the line. Another young man alongside him was his friend that we called D Boy. They worked beautifully together. They backed each other up, never had friction between them.

Except when Billy One Nut would bend down to get something out of the oven. D Boy would grab his head and thrust his groin into the side of Billy One Nuts face. Billy One Nut would of course become enraged and punch D Boy in the balls. D Boy would fall to the ground or just crouch down and moan. The kitchen apron would make for a vague target so accuracy to the nuts was sometimes off.

D Boy would go to parties and steal kitchen equipment for me. I never asked him to do this. He would bring me this shit like a cat brings its owner a dead animal as a sign of affection. I would tell him to stop. When he brought me a kitchen aid stand mixer from someone's house I told him that it was way too much, bring it back. Plus I already had one. He says he brought it back and left on the front porch in the night.

Billy One Nut had an insane girlfriend that would barge in from the kitchen door in her daisy dukes and start verbal fights with him, usually during service. The poor guy is just trying to cook one night while an enraged young woman is breaking his CD's and throwing them at him while he's on the line. Jesus fuck, strain the sauces, toss the prep that wasn't covered and One Nut, get this crazy bitch out of the kitchen. On second thought get the female staff to escort her out so One Nut doesn't have any charges brought against him.

These things happen while you're drinking your champagne and letting a silky foie gras torchon melt on your tongue.

This dance goes on several times a night. The boys always got their work done. The food was always temp'd correctly. It never affected friendships. I never say a word about it. Dance away boys.

[papapoopski]

Like Oil & Water

An unwritten rule of the kitchen, don’t ever tell anyone about the things that you dislike. That will be used against you until you die.

"Milt" was a bit conservative. "Lon" was as wild as they come.

Milt let on that he thought of mustard as the most disgusting thing ever created. This led to a discussion about tasting things that we didn’t care for. The conversation went on for a bit until Lon asked “hey you guys ever taste your own semen, just to see what it’s like?” It was said in a very sincere manner. No one spoke. After a long awkward silence Milt throws down his knife and just leaves the kitchen cursing to himself for a bit.

Lon and Milt were like oil and water. They needed something to keep them together. Usually that was me as they had no common ground whatsoever.

On Milt's last day Lon slathered a cold raw chicken breast with mustard and slapped it across the back of Milt's neck. Milt stopped what he was doing, slowly took off his glasses and just left. I didn’t see him for a while.

Lon showed up years later wearing a sundress with a chicken bone through his septum. He had set up a makeshift camp kitchen in my parking lot out of the back of his rusty minivan. Complete with pots and pans and laundry hanging from a clothes line tied from the van to a tree.

[papapoopski]

The Waitress's's

They were like a gang. If you were in with them, life at the restaurant was great. If they didn't like you, your work life was doomed.

When I first started at the restaurant I was the young quiet kid that they took under their wing. They'd make jello shots at home and bring them into work. They would feed me these jello shots all night. As a young teenager, it was pretty awesome. I came to see that a girl my age was similar to me in that she didn't know what the fuck was going on in life. A 20 or 30 year old waitress on the other hand seemed to have her shit figured out.

I was fifteen when they began to take me out to the bars with them, sometimes on a school night. They watched over me like hawks. If some drunk floozy attempted to talk to me, they would swoop in and reclaim me as their own little bird. If some drunk dude tried getting in my face for no reason they would either distract him or give him a verbal lashing, or a combination of the two. To this day I have never been in a physical fight. I've never been hit or have hit another person. Why would I with the might of a pack of waitress' at my back. I always felt two stories high when I was with them. They traveled in a pack of no less than three, sometimes up to eight. They were like an all female mob with cummerbunds.

My boss had a pull-up bar in the kitchen. We had to do pull ups when arriving to work and then when leaving. Of course when the waitress' were there I was pulling on that bar with all my might. They had to do pull-ups too. That was a pretty strong restaurant staff. I matured in the kitchen with them around me.

At sixteen I began to take on more responsibility in the kitchen. I wasn't really sure what direction cooking would take me in but up to then it was fun as hell. By seventeen I was all in. I didn't want to do anything else in life. I was hooked on food, the creation of it and the adrenaline rush of restaurant life.

When I turned eighteen the green light turned on for the waitress'. The cummerbund mafia took me out and got me wasted for my birthday. I lost my virginity in the dodge omni while listening to Slayer. From that day on I was an after work toy for the waitress'. I guess I was a late bloomer but I made up for lost time pretty quick. My work days would consist of pull-ups upon entering the building, get the fuck to work, drink some booze, clean up, do something stupid, go to a bar, maybe a waitress takes me home. I didn't know how to initiate anything with them because I didn't have to. They just made it happen. I was certainly not unwilling at the time. I sure as fuck never said no. Looking back maybe it wasn't the healthiest of choices but at the time I didn't consider it. Two of the waitress' were married. That didn't seem to matter to anybody.

The restaurant now is very different in some ways and very much the same in others. I don't drink much at all. I treat everyone the way I would want to be treated. The waitstaff and kitchen crew can fuck each other all they want. As long as it's not at work it's none of my business. Shit still gets pretty weird here.

I like to think that the spirits of the waitress mafia fly with me to this day, feeding me imaginary jello shots and watching over me with their protective eye.

[papapoopski]

The farmer's wife

She was the first person I met when I began washing dishes here. I was in eighth grade. She stood about six foot two and was mean and imposing. Our introduction was me seeing her lay into another dishwasher while gripping a fifty pound sack of potatoes in one hand with another fifty pound sack of onions on her shoulder.

Ok then, just do the job, shut my mouth.

I later learned that she dealt with domestic violence at home. Work for her at the restaurant must have given her a purpose and a reason to leave the house. What psychopath of a man that would raise a hand to this beast of a woman I do not know.

She fell off a ladder while painting one of the dining rooms one day. She knocked herself out and was found bleeding on the floor. She felt horrible, cleaned the blood and went back to work, refusing to leave. Probably out of pride and fear of going home.

We bonded over the years. She loved classic rock. She was an excellent baker. She used terms and names for some desserts that to this day I have not been able to find a mention of in any book. I made sure to write them down.

She began here in 1958 and had been doing the same job for over 50 years. When her husband died she didn't seem upset at all. She seemed to soften. Her step daughter looked after her. When I took over the restaurant I would communicate with her step daughter about her health and well being. As her accidents became more frequent it was decided that we would tell her that the business was slow and we had to cut back her hours. I would schedule the rest of the crew around her to keep the story going.

Then she started having more accidents. She cut herself pretty badly a few times. Cleaning up old lady diarrhea became part of my day.

It was a really hard decision to tell her that she couldn't work here anymore. Her family came in and helped me tell her. I had to take away a sense of purpose in her life.

I keep her memories alive in the food. I still cook some of the things that I watched her make.

[papapoopski]

The meaning of things

In the beginning of me there was God. So I was told. Supposedly he would protect me and show me the way. As a little boy the nuns made sure I knew through stricter and stricter measures that I understood that this is the way. The Only Way. As their teachings became more strict, mankind showed me the face of evil. I was supposed to just go along with all of this. Don't speak out of line boy.

As adolescence began for me I started to see another way. I met people that lived differently than I knew how. I discovered music that had a different message. I thank my father for this. For all the heartache I've had with him, he provided a different perspective for me. He is not a religious man. Someone damaged him long ago. He carries his anger on to his children. As much as I wished for him to die at times, I forgave him over and over. He's still my dad.

I tell myself that I am the wall that will stop carrying on the stupidity of anger, fear, sadness. A wall that is cracked and ugly and riddled with holes. As imperfect as it gets. But fuck you I will not let it break, let the things done to me pass to others. It's exhausting at times, empowering at others.

I met a man once that showed me how to truly let go through just sitting silently. He taught me how to step outside of myself. Strange in that this was how I survived as a boy, stepping outside of myself. This way was forced through violence and fear. I was shown later that I could let go peacefully. The result was the same either way. I could just leave.

Careful friend. Time to come back.

The sun rays beam across my 50 year old wooden butcher block. The light has pushed its way into the kitchen window. The old wood surface is several feet wide. The space on the board where I work has been slowly eroded by my time here. I don't really want to fix it. It has created an imperfect surface. It's harder to cut on. I could sand it down but I want to see my time here carved out before me in the wood. It is so simple and so beautiful. In the beams of sunlight I can see what look like little floating souls made of flour dust. They drift in slow motion. I move them with my breath. I roll out bread dough. It is warm and soft. I push and pull against it. It seems like it came from nothing. It will rise with time. How in the fuck did this moment of insanity come about. Birth and destruction of my self. Creating moments out of nothing.

[papapoopski]

Motorcycle Days

I worked at a well known place in Brooklyn for a bit as a side job with a friend. It was a long ride south. To get there would require me to go through Manhattan. Traffic can be a bitch so I would take the bike. I learned to love riding there.

I had no front shocks for a while. I remember thinking that this thing corners like shit. I decided to poke around with the front suspension and found that something was completely bound up, allowing no movement of the tubes. What a revelation to fix that.

That night air felt so damn good after sweating in the kitchen. I would take the long way home on hot nights, blasting around NYC before I hit the Palisades Parkway. The speedo went up to 85mph, not sure what came after that. Riding that bike was a beautiful thing. Both hands and both feet had a job to do. It felt like piloting rather than driving. No radio to fuck with, just motor, brakes, throttle. It was yet another escape for me. I found myself taking joy rides into NYC traffic on days off, just to go for a ride and increase the input of info coming into my face. I would have people intentionally try to run me down, to block me from passing. It became a high stakes game. My butcher steel came in handy to remind the hood of a car that intentionally running me over is frowned upon.

I duct taped a "my little pony" sippy cup to my handle bars to keep change in for the tolls. It worked surprisingly well.

Riding my motorcycle into my own restaurant kitchen was a really bad idea. I don't know what the end goal was. It was a haze of alcohol, exhaust and then me becoming trapped between the oven and my bike.

And fuck the stupid biker wave. The meaner and tougher you try to look on a bike the bigger and dumber my wave to you gets. I go full "welcome to walmart" when I see leather tassles coming my way. Luckily that never got me beaten up.

I had to get rid of that thing. I still yearn for it but I should not have a bike.

[papapoopski]

Cooking at the Beard House

James Beard was an important figure in bringing American food up to a respectable level. His old brownstone in NYC serves as a place for chefs from all over the country to cook. I have volunteered there many times. I learn a lot. It keeps me sharp.

The kitchen there is tiny. When guests enter they walk through the kitchen to the dining room. What a fucking pain in the ass. Guests just love to chat away and ask what's for dinner, have I ever had blah blah blah. The kitchen is here to serve you and work hard for you and put forth it's best but get the fuck out of my face.

In order for a guest chef to make the dinner work, the food is either flown in from their own restaurant, the crew makes it on site or there is a combination of these scenarios. A foreign kitchen, tight quarters and unfamiliar vendors can lead to some big fuck ups.

There was an Italian chef from RI that was mostly likely on some sort of pills. He kept calling me Danny. That's not my name but he seemed to insist that it was. Whatever, I'm Danny now. He made it his mission to give me all the shit work and find ways to degrade me throughout the night. Fine. I guess he just needed a target. His own crew was sensing the chef degrade in mental ability as we get towards dinner. The crew is doing their best to take up the slack but they are falling behind. One of them forgot about a tray of 70 portions of seared foie gras that was melting into nothing in the oven. When they pulled it out it was nothing but little black pucks swimming in golden melted fat. Don't look at me, your chef wanted me to wash all the veg. That was a rough dinner. The mood was of impending doom. I on the other hand am just volunteering. I work until my agreed upon time and then leave. I hop on my old Honda 750 and go rip through the city with not a care in the world.

I have reconnected with old friends at two of the dinners. As big as the industry is, it's not hard to find some Kevin Bacon somewhere.

At another dinner one of the guests chefs was a woman from CA. She had an all female staff, making me the only male there. Sounds good in theory. They went full fucking Epstein on me. Ass slappin, dick jokes, they made me their bitch. It was kind of fun but jesus fuck I'm trying to slice the smoked sturgeon, get your hand off my ass.

It's always fascinating to me to see the different kitchen cultures at work. Most times the crew is a direct result of whatever attitude the chef brings with him or her. If the chef is silent, focused and driven, most often his or her crew will follow suit in varying degrees. If the chef is ego driven and boisterous, the crew will be a bit rough around the edges. That perspective alone was worth my time there.

One particular chef that is well known in NYC spent most of his time at the Beard dinner shmoozing with guests outside of the kitchen. His crew was one of the worst, most disrespectful group of douchebags that I have worked with. Stealing anything that wasn't nailed down, sexually harassing the waitstaff, slugging liquor from the pantry. It was like they were picked up right at the prison gates. That head chef ruled by way of fear. He knew he could break their career path should he choose to. They were all a bunch of caged animals.

I did see a lot of great food there. That's what I went for. I'm always chasing after a new perspective on how to look at food. I tell young cooks to not just read a recipe but look at the person that made it. What's their story? Ask why, how, when, where.

Most everyone was great and were eager to share knowledge, especially when they were from out of town and I became their tour guide to the bars. That's a whole nother story.

[papapoopski]

I go to work in the morning tomorrow but for the first time since I was in high school I will be home for dinner on Thanksgiving.

From my shithole to yours, I wish all of you the best.

Happy Thanksgiving

[Buster Highmen]

thanks and likewise