Tag: restaurant

Their, There, They’re, Just Right About You’re Write to Right

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better

Tears Of An Abstract Artist

“You have to suffer for your art” I’ve heard that so many times before so maybe its worth considering. But what kind of suffering? Public ridicule, self mutilation, a good old fashioned ass kicking, exactly how should I suffer for my art? Some artists cut off their ears although I‘ve grown attached to my attachments, others go mad listening to the passengers in their heads (was that me that aid that?), some turn to drugs, and many go the route of heavy alcohol abuse. Maybe I’ll start at the drugs and alcohol and work my way up. Okay, that bullshit, that brushstroke dried on the canvass a long time ago, so if abusing drugs and alcohol are all that’s needed to suffer I’ve already suffered for years. But those aren’t acts of suffering they’re consequences of attempting to avoid the suffering. The suffering we bring on ourselves by being our own worst critics. Why? I believe its rooted in the fact that we tend to live our lives in the abstract and not in the conventional world that most “normal” people live in.
Artists think see and feel in the abstract. Even “normal” people experience abstract thought everything they sleep because our dreams are the inherently abstract. The brain functions for us when we’re awake but once REM sets in it’s the brain has free reign and great god almighty can it do abstract. That’s why our dreams can be unreal, surreal, or too real. Its like the brain likes to fuck with us while we’re lying defenseless in bed. It needs to keep itself occupied while we’re snoozing and its like “what the hell, might as well throw some weird ass shit out there that makes no sense” just to amuse its superior self and to keep us wondering. Sometimes I wake up and my first thought is WTF was that all about? Sometimes I wake up and think holy crap that was awesome, Ima try to get back to sleep and see some more. Other times I don’t even remember my dreams at all. More than likely a defense mechanism using selective recollection so I don‘t actually blow my own mind. But while our bodies are at rest our brains goes into an abstract state. That’s why dreams can seem so strange yet so real. Abstract is the normal state for an artist. Not much of a reach to label us “dreamers!”
At any rate I’m awake now and debatably lucid so allow me to define my concept of what an artist is. An artist is one who uses any or all of their senses to express their abstract manifestations in some form of expressive medium. We are familiar with the painters and sculptors because we can see their works Rodin, Michelangelo, Picasso, Van Gough, all the great works of the world expressed through colors and shapes and textures and committing their visions or images to canvas or marble. The same is done with a musician who hears sounds and then recreates those sounds using instruments, or anything that makes the sound they hear. Jimi Hendrix is the best example, using his guitar to express sounds we would never have been able to experience had he not been able to summon the abstract. The writer who puts random thoughts into words forming a recognizable pattern that expresses emotions. All of those abstract thinkers are artists but an artist is not limited to those more familiar mediums. I first began to understand this when I became a chef and learned to cook in the abstract.
I have always had the soul of an artist and it made me feel like I was just a tad different from others when I was young. I wanted to be some sort of an artist but it was frustrating. My best drawing are my stick figures o that was out. I loved and still do love music but I could never read it. I could read the note on paper but my mind and my hands failed to form the synergy necessary. I erroneously assumed without being able to read music I would never learn to play. I would have loved to get into acting but I suffered from chronic stage fright and rejection anxiety. I always wrote but never learned how to structure properly so only wrote for my self and my friends and even that was done sparingly due to that rejection anxiety. To make matters even worse I wrote a love poem for my first girlfriend and she laughed, effectively destroying both my elf sesteem and my self confidence while smiling. I suffered!
But working in restaurants is where I learned about artistry. I began washing pot and pans and quickly learned how to make salads, then simple deserts. I learned about food prep and eventually worked my way up to lead cook. But it was just a J-O-B, a way to make money for weed. A I got older I discovered I could make a living cooking so I worked hard and got pretty good at it, ultimately went to school for it. Once while I was working in a restaurant in midtown Manhattan as a line cook the chef took an interest in me. He is a talented chef from France and he saw something in me so he began to instruct me on his style of cooking. As time went by I spent many of my days off and after work hours working with him and he taught me so much. I quickly became not just a line cook but the best line cook, then the sous chef. My benefactor began teaching me how to not only cook, but how to give my dishes personality. I began to form my own style and every dish I created had a bit of my culinary DNA in it. That’s when I put it together. I wasn’t merely a cook, I was a culinary poet.
Cooking creatively is art. Performance art using a biodegradable edible format that is in the moment. It’s a fierce and fast paced performance balancing the demands of a hungry public and their discriminating taste buds. But the chef is responsible to reach every one of the senses with his creation. First it has too be appealing to the eye, it has to have a fresh and enticing aroma, it needs to feel good in the mouth and be at the proper temperature, It needs to incite a number of sounds from the diner (MMM, ahhhh), and most importantly, all the flavors have to come together in a harmonious taste sensation. During many of the performances I either cut or burned myself. I suffered!
But I had to man up because the show must go on and I was a culinary performer. An artist armed with an array of foods bearing different colors, shapes, textures, and tastes at my fingertips and they all required individual attention. Vegetables that need peeling or cutting, with different cooking times, meats and seafood’s that needed fabrication and storage, some in marinades, and also with varied cooking times. I also had to make decisions as to which methods of cooking would achieve the beat results. After that I take into consideration the variety of flavors of those components and arrange them using the various shapes, sizes, textures, and present them in a way that is appealing to the eye. And that’s done over and over with different dishes in rapid succession, each dish going out perfect. That’s Art!
I still think and breath in abstract and my life is one big improvisation which may be my strongest trait. I don’t have a structured life plan I approach just about everything in an abstract manner. If an inspiration hits me its only a seed, and what develops s from that seed is often totally different from what I originally had in mind. That’s how I roll. I’ve reached my pinnacle in restaurants and have refocused my creative efforts to baking and now that I’ve reached as far as I desire in the culinary world I continue to create desserts but I put more focus than ever on my first abstract love, writing. I’m not reaching for the stars with my words but there is much that I want to share to any open minds that enter the arena. I found my writing voice which not surprisingly sounds sarcastic, slightly cynical and its woven in a loom of dry humor that quite often no one gets but me. That’s okay, at least I’ll get the last laugh and besides I believe I have been steadily improving and I constantly pushing my boundaries to expand my parameters and write things I’m not comfortable with. Well not comfortable at first, but I adapt quickly. I’m happier with my words than ever before and it is incredibly self rewarding. I’ve even attempted to delve back into poetry a bit, still adding my trademark dry and sarcastic humor, and I’m digging the hell out of it. It has allowed to me further explore my philosophy of existentialism. Not suffering!
So my advice to any who have the fortune, or misfortune if you’re a sufferer, to read my ramblings, especially if you’re young, is never believe your thinking in the abstract makes you different in a bad way, but unique in a glorious way. If you need to make a living while honing your art do it, your family and personal life come before everything. Life spins by at lightning quick speed and while were are on this tiny twirling orb we need to take care of each other and save our abstract guilty pleasures for those moments when we need therapeutic assistance but can’t afford a shrink. Just never quit, and never give it up. You’ve got something to say and it should be heard….PEACE

Is That A Rabid Rat On The Sidewalk Or Are You Just Ready To Attack Me

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GiantRatLG

The Answer My Friend, Is Blowin’ In The Wind

I was living and working in New York City as a line cook at a Midtown restaurant. It was a hot summer night an after busting my ass all night I was ready to get fired up at a happening club on the lower east side around the corner from CGBG’s. All night long I had been slicing, dicing, chopping, sautéing and frying while engaging in screaming matches with the expeditor who being French had the advantage of cursing me out with words I didn’t understand. I was some sort of “petty rast decayed-a-rrrrayso contingawn de merrrda” or some weird shit with cool “R” tongue rolls which a co-worker tells me means I am a sort of gay syphilis encrusted piece of shit. Those French, so descriptive, gotta love em for making insults sound so nice.. To be honest his French words flowed so sweetly to me like he was yelling “you sweet American hunk of a man your chopped onions could make a French women cry,” but it is what it is. Anyway, I was tired and ready to get amped up and find a lover that won’t drive me crazy. Unless of course that lover drives me crazy in bed.
At any rate, I left the 43rd street restaurant and since I didn’t make a ton of money slinging sauté pans for a living I chose to travel by foot. Besides, it was a nice summer night and I had some time to kill with not much happening in the city till around midnight. I walked the way most New Yorkers do, transverseing the streets. That is to say we walk in the path of least resistance negotiating the traffic. When cars prevent me from continuing south I head east a block or two until its clear again. This oddly normal way of walking led me directly into the path of Herald Square, a tiny little park where 6thAve and Broadway converge around 34th street. Herald Square is more of a triangle (an obtuse one for you math nerds) and I was prepared to go through this small triangular park when something caught me eye. Underneath the unoccupied benches played a bastion of rats all running and jumping right out there in the open, not afraid of a thing. At first the hippie in me thought “How cute, little rodents playing red rover or something” until a jolt of restaurant reality hit me. Rats are mortal enemies of both mice and men, especially when they choose to dine in the restaurant you work in.
That said, I decided I would ignore their usual enemy combatant status and indulge in a little herbal enhancement. This way I could amuse myself by watching them play for a little while. They just seemed like they were having so much fun and like I said, time to kill. Looking around like I was casing the street for a robbery attempt I carefully scanned the area for any blue suited “peoples friend” law enforcement officers who for whatever reason believed catching someone committing the heinous crime of getting high was keeping the rest of the world safe. The last thing the world should fear is a mellow stoned hippie and this weed was so good I would be stoned and mellow just lighting up. Not seeing any cops around I fired up a joint and enjoyed the Big Apple Rat Circus for a few minutes. They were quite agile, jumping over each other in games of leap-rat, or tag, or whatever rat games they play. I thought I may have even seen a few of them smiling, but like I said, it was primo weed. After I had taken three hits my memory bank played a rather unnecessary trick on me and withdrew the memory of the movie “Willard” which caused a shiver to reverberate from my prized Frye boots up to my red, white, and blue bandana. Suddenly the playful little rats once again became the ruthless menaces attempting to take over Manhattan one sewer at a time that I knew they were. Freaked out a tad and effected with PTSD (Pot Tokers Stress Disorder) I chose to walk the long way around Herald Square.
Around the park and on to the far side of 6th avenue I ventured avoiding those nasty disease carrying bastards. Now the memory of their game playing freaked me out, but what a gorgeous evening it was. Perfect summer weather, people out and about everywhere, and with the ratscapades now forgotten I put a big smile on my face as I continued on my journey to the hip new club. Up ahead about a city block away I saw something moving in the center of the sidewalk but couldn’t make out exactly what it was. As I got closer it became apparent that it was a sick animal and it may even be a rat. My stoned memory bank was still open so I made another withdrawal this time from much further back. Many years ago when I lived with my parents on Long Island I came home drunk one night only to find a rabid raccoon hissing and threatening me as I tried to sneak in the back door. Frightened and high I was not about to engage in battle with this masked bandit of a rodent that was foaming at the mouth. Begrudgingly I had to knock on the front door and wake my parents up because, well because the fucking thing was rabid! So I was busted for coming home not only late, but three, maybe even four or five sheets to the wind whatever the hell that means.
I digress, suffice is to say the memory of a very sick and dangerous Rocky Raccoon hissing and trying to scratch my eyes out or kill me weighed heavy on my mind as I sized up the sick animal ahead. I was convinced now that directly in my path ahead it was a rabid rat looking for something to attack. The moment of truth was approaching.
Time to summon up some composure. I looked around quick and there were a number of people on the East side of 6th avenue strolling casually totally unaware I was about to be confronted by this sick menace. I reckon I could have just crossed the street and warn people of the dangerous vermin but I didn’t want to look like a wuss. I’m not a whiney suburban boy anymore, I’m living and working in the big city. I am a New Yorker now God dammit and we fear nothing! I took a deep breath and headed straight towards the viscous killer preparing to kick that little fucker all the way across the sidewalk . I was fully aware of the other people around milling about and I was certain most of them could see me. Not willing to have them think I am anything less a fearless New Yorker I forged ahead ready willing and able to defend myself from King Rabid Rat. The very second he was at my feet a slight wind picked up as I reached my right foot back ready to put the full weight of my Frye boot into this sick rodents body it lunged at me. With full force I unleashed a Bruce Lee style kick and made a direct hit. Unfortunately as I looked down to watch the rat fly across the pavement I realized I had just kicked the shit out of a plastic bag that was blowing in an updraft from the subway grate. Oh yea, I put everything I had into kicking that bag and it made an obscenely loud whoosh which I was certain had caught the ear eye and attention of everyone within a three or four block radius.
Being a New Yorker now of course I had to save face. I had nearly lost my balance so I used that to my advantage and spun around, jumped up and did a two and a half spin, came down snapping my finger giving two arm twirls, did an about face move right into a strut/walk the rest of the way down the block repeating “We bad, we bad” like Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder.
I had done my best to save myself from a potentially embarrassing situation yet I heard some chuckles in the distance. When I think back I gotta admit it must have looked funny as Hell. Thing is, I’m not sure if they were laughing at the ridiculous attempt at a dance move from a stoned hippie, a stoned hippie freak on his way to Bellevue for a psychiatric assessment, or the fact that some stoned hippie just got busted for kicking the shit out of a defenseless plastic bag.

Experienced Waitress wanted (hopefully and up and comer!)

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“Is That A Rolling Pin Under Your Apron or are You Just Happy To See Me?”

My very first restaurant experience was enlightening in many ways. I was hired to ensure the sanitation of the entire establishment be maintained throughout the dining experience. I proudly bore an exalted title than made me the envy of my school. “Potwasher,” a title that’s far more demeaning than the inoccent name would imply. But fuck it man, I didn’t care. Other friends had jobs in deli’s, gas stations, or retail stores and shit. They had easier jobs, but I had something they didn’t. Easily accessible alcohol, fun loving dudes to joke around with, and HOT waitresses.
So there I was, at the suds busting helm of a sink full of soapy water smiling away at all the hotties. My raging sixteen year old hormones were smiling too. Even the older waitresses were HOT. I quickly learned of the extra advantage of apron wearing which could conceal my budding enthusiasm. Cuz the waitresses were HOT! I used the traditional three compartment sink method, wash, rinse, and cold water to cool my jets in. It wasn’t just that though, I was accepted.
Most people who are “Quirky” out on the fringe of society at age 16 get made fun of a lot. That or run off to the circus or carnival to blend in with other “freaks” But not this young lad, I headed straight for the restaurant life. Working at a restaurant was a religious experience for me. I was like holy shit man, there’s people here even weirder than me. A good restaurant is filled with artists. Struggling actors, singers, comediennes, and writers. That was mostly in the front of the house but I was back of the house. Apparently they don’t get along in many establishments. I can understand the old fuckers in the back of the house but the young chefs? Don’t they see how HOT the wait staff is? Some of the staff were gay, but if guy on guy sex was up my alley I would have bent over backwards for those hunky servers. Dressed just as revealingly as the female counterparts the gay waiters were HOT too. Some so hot I may have considered switching sides from time to time, but the sea of sizzling sexy waitresses was way too plentiful. And HOT.
I loved the way the older waitresses flirted with me and I think I looked good in crimson red when they made me blush and laughed about it. The unflattering white cook shirt really complimented my reddened face. I didn’t care because I was in a kitchen and I could handle the heat and my perseverance paid off one particular evening. It was a tediously slow Monday night and the manager decided to let Kat, the thirty something head waitress close the restaurant. Kat was a divorced women with long blond hair in a shag cut that made her look younger. Deep blue eyes were highlighted by thick mascara and her eye shadow bore an even deeper shade of blue. I used to wonder if she was a model when she was younger, but I was a pup myself and somewhat naïve. She had the perfect face for a young boy to fantasize about, wearing more make up than she needed and pouting oversized lips painted gleaming hot red. Fantastic legs with bulging muscles even in her ankles. I spent many a break following those legs around the kitchen dreaming while trying not to get caught looking.
The chef and cooks broke down and left even before then, so it was just me and Kat in the restaurant. Kat was one of the women who loved to flirt with me to get me mumbling and flustered and goddamn was she good at it!. This Monday night she walked into the kitchen with her skirt higher than usual and asked me if I wanted a drink. I replied indeed I would and she told me to come on out to the bar and She’ll “give it to me.” I watched as she left the kitchen not able to take my eyes off her legs. Had to check the apron to make sure it didn’t reveal my own tightened muscle that had formed below. All clear so out to the bar.
Kat was behind the bar with her back to me. She turned around and caught me staring at her ass and smiled, “See something you like Hon?” I smiled weakly and thought to myself “Oh yea, I see something I really like.” As if she read my mind she grabbed two rocks glasses and walked over to me. “How bout this Hon?” She handed me one of the glasses. I drank half of it straight down in one fast gulp. “Easy Hon, you don’t want to go too fast.“ There was a throaty tease to her voice, but more obvious was the tease as she gently rubbed that muscle I was talking about. The blood shot up to my face so hard and so fast I thought someone hit me. With her other hand she reached up and unbuttoned three of the buttons of her blouse revealing three quarters of her smooth breasts barely covered with a thin flower print bra. She had my undivided attention. My apron muscle stood at attention as well. I pulled the apron string and let it drop to the floor. I launched a near attack on her breasts but she grabbed my hands, “Easy Tiger, no need to rush.” She skillfully undid my shirt and pulled it off an began sucking on my nipples, “This is how you do it Honey, nice and easy.”
The adrenalin that shot through my body was electric shock therapy. I never even thought women sucked on guys nipples but I was a fast learner. I returned the sensual gesture and paid total attention to her breasts, lovingly applying my tongue on her nipples. I could tell she liked it because she was making soft moaning noises of approval. I was so focused I barely even noticed that she had undone my pants. I pounded down whatever was left in the rocks glass for a little bravado. It went down easy yet burned all the way. I struggled out of my pants an underpants and Kat led me to the lounge and laid me on a cushioned bench. She remove her stockings and panties but not her dress. She just hiked it up an straddled me. Her skilled hand directed my heat seeking misle inside her and pumped away furiously. It felt so unbelievably good my inner self was ablaze and transcending rapidly. My entire circulatory system sang, danced, then gathered in my penis and threatened to make it explode violently. Kat slowed her pace as she moved up and down with artful slow rhythm and now it was me making sounds. I moaned and groaned and claimed my allegiance to god over and over as Kat just kept moaning simply “Yes, yes, Yes, oh yea.” Suddenly she got very loud and screamed “Oh god, here it is, I‘m coming, I‘m coming!” and then a AHHHhhhhh, that began really loud and got softer and slower by the second. Hearing her orgasm brought me to the breaking point. I exclaimed loudly “I think I’m gonna come,” but the warning was too late as I exploded my hormonal syrup, every last drop of it deep into her. The two of us lay there panting and moaning and panting some more. Like needles and pins blood pumped through my face and I fell in love for the very first time that very second!
Of course it wasn’t real love, Kat had zero interest in love especially with me, but I could feel it. I knew I was in love. We had sex a few more times after that night, mostly in her apartment. Kat never once made it feel awkward at work, I never bragged to anyone so no one knew what we did. One day something came up and she had to go back home to Kansas. I would never see her again, but neither would I ever forget her.
Kat schooled me in so many things, but nothing so expertly as pleasure, both how to please and how to be pleased. To this day looking at a waitress makes me horny and reminds me of my carnal adventures with Kat. I know she never loved me, that I merely served a purpose for her for a while but that’s okay. I would fall in and out love a hundred times more and have plenty of sexual adventures. Kat did way more for me than I ever could for her and she may be the true reason I fell in love with restaurants to begin with. I’ve had a great career as a chef and have my share of excurions so intense they would make Kitchen Confidential seem lame. I’ve been loved and been in love. But nothing will ever compare to the love I got from Kat the waitress. Thanks Kat, wherever you are!

Potsink Diaries

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If You Can’t Stand A Dead Rat Get Out Of The Kitchen
My gastronomic voyage had officially begun. I dove in with a work ethic beyond reproach. I scrubbed and cleaned pots and pans until my fingers acquired the same status Mother Nature gives to prunes and raisins. I happily mopped the floors and cleaned ovens. I was willing to do any thankless job they sent my way. I then learned about one of the mysterious job tasks held by any great chef. A great Chef has the keen acumen into the driving desire of a young pot washer’s eagerness to please. Jimmy picked up on this rather quickly, and informed me of a special “time” in restaurants, when things were quiet. He called it “downtime”. Downtime sounded harmless when I first heard it escape from Jimmy’s lips, and I thought it might be cool. JT my boy” intoned my illustrious leader, “Ees a little slow tonight. Looksa like we have some downtime.”
Well I could barely contain myself. An opportunity has arisen for me to show everyone how gracefully I would be able to handle this newfound downtime. It never occurred to me that the word itself could enlighten me as to what may be in store. The Chef planned to put me “down” and keep me “down”, by assigning me an assortment of unmemorable chores that will get me “down” in the dumps. As for the “time” portion of my endeavor, it actually meant time consuming. Flagrantly left out of the phrase was tedious. It should be called tedious downtime. This inspirational portion of the evening I get to perform seemingly insignificant time consuming tasks. Did I mention tedious? There are various levels of joy associated with downtime tasks. It could range from the somewhat joyless job of peeling 50 – 100 pounds of potatoes, to the absolute joy depleting role of shrimp peeler. How many shrimp can people eat anyway. Don’t they know you are what you eat? Inclusive of all these food related tasks, are a mysterious set of thankless jobs given the official name of maintenance. I say mysterious, because I could never figure out how washing the Chef’s car in any way contributed to the dining experience. But wash it I did, along with every piece of kitchen equipment, and every floor within a 5 mile radius. On this particular evening, I was mopping the downstairs. A serene and peaceful place where all foods and food products meditate. They remain at the Storage Inn, a kind of bread and breakfast for the grocery set, until they are summoned upstairs to become part of something monumental. In a back room, seldom used, was where I was sent. Upon arrival, my keen observation noted two non-moving members of the family rodentia lying on the floor. Damn they looked gross. Summoning all my energy to keep my dinner where it belonged, I walked into the next room and informed Edwin, the Chefs nephew or “senior potwasher” whose true job and intellect were yet to be determined. He was however, assisting me, and his having been here so long gave him a queer aura of authority. “Hey Edwin man, there are two dead rats in the extra room.” Edwin’s English was worse even than Jimmies, and he just repeated what what what and stared at me puzzled. So of course I motioned with my hands as I said very slowly, for some reason believing that would help and I said. “Next room….dead rats…” This is too fucking tedious, and I needed a cigarette so I lit up and walked out of the room until I heard the blood curdling scream followed by a pounding of wood to wood. I ran to Edwin and there he was still screaming and beating those two already dead rats as if they were zombie rodents rising from the dead. Hard as I tried, the sight of Edwin clutching a broom and beating the shit out of two dead rats took over every rational bone in my body and I broke out in a laugh so fucking hard if Jimmy and Didier had seen me upstairs they would have felt like rank chuckle amateurs. Tears forced their way across my cheeks like rivulets of saline. I had to hold my stomach and fall to the floor in an epileptic fit of uncontrollable laughter. To date this may have been the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. This is restaurant life. Now my mood was great. Hope it lasts.
Just when I thought Edwin couldn’t make me laugh any harder he moved into action. At first I was repulsed and grossed out to the max. With his bare fucking hands he grabbed one dead rat in each hand, looked at me with a dopey smile that had me wondering if he smoked my hash and said, “Come witta me JT. We godda bigga sue-prize forra da cheff.” With the rats dangling at his sides he climbed up the stairs like happy from the seven dwarfs. When he reached the top he made room for me to stand next to him and he held these dead god damn rodents as high as his arm would allow and yelled loud enough so the entire kitchen could hear. “Hey Cheff…..Lookit a what we gotta for you soup!” As the chef and company began laughing wildly I looked on in horror. “Jesu shit Ed, you can’t bring thee disease ridden mother fuckers in a kitchen!” Mortified I looked around and everyone was laughing except Laura. Oh Jesus I thought, she’s the only other one grossed out besides me. Jimmy yelled back, “getta Jense inna here, we gotta special entrée tonight.” The laughter continued and Edwin took the rats back downstairs’ and no sooner did he get to the bottom when he tripped and fell allowing the lifeless rats to go airborne.. I ran down to see if he was okay and he was frozen on the ground looking up in horror. Across the room was our illustrious asshole manager with a face so red I thought the beets would turn green with envy. Over one shoulder hung one of the dead rats, the other at his feet. His eyes were exploding volcanoes and if had found the capacity to speak it would have flowed a molten lava of pissed off. I had to leave because my head was about to pop from not laughing at the sight and air was forcing its way through my nostrils. I knew if I let my tears of joy flow I would have have lost my job, and I was thinking Edwin may have already lost his. I will never ever forget the look on Didier’s dead rat slapped face. This too shall pass.
Damn that was a rough night I thought as I stopped at the corner of my block that had once served as my bus top. I reached to the bottom of my front pocket and pulled out the tiny piece of aluminum foil Ken had left me, then pulled my trusty hash pipe from my other pocket and unraveled the leftover piece of black hash. “One or two more hits before heading home.” As I lit the hash I thought about how funny it was that I was talking to no one, yet it felt like it needed to be said. I held the smoke from this sweet relief in my lungs and smiled at my ritualistic behavior. As I exhaled I let out a chuckle, remembering Didier, the dead rats, and Ernie ineffectively beating the shit out of them with that broom. Can’t wait to tell Ken all about it tomorrow. “But for now, one last hit before going home.”

Memoirs of a Hippie Chef..(Leave the shit spreading to the landscapers and get you ass back in the kitchen!)

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Put Down That Rake And Get Back In The Kitchen

The clanging of pots and pans as they jockeyed for position on the stove, plates being pulled and stacked from the dishwasher. The air was full with the smells of a variety of vegetables and wafts of a large pot of chicken infused liquid hoping to one day soon become a soup. And the sounds were the familiar frantic sounds that I remembered before service began at the old restaurant. It was crunch time in the kitchen of this nursing home and I was so taken by the memories of being a cook. I just blurted out to the Nurse trying to run the kitchen “Can I help? I know a bit about food.” Without even a smile a very attractive Jamaican woman in a nurses uniform yelled “I need zeese onions peeled and cut, tink you could a’handle dat?” Nary a word needed to be spoken as I rushed over to the table with the onions, grabbed a familiar feeling knife and pulled out a cutting board. In a matter of minutes I had peeled, cored, and diced the onions. “What else do you need?” The Nurse stopped in mid stride and asked “You gotta all dem onions done?” I could tell she was doubting it so I held them up and said “Yup, where do you want them?” She smiled at me with a huge open mouth and I noticed a small gap in her front teeth. Suddenly something seemed almost sexy about her. She was in her late twenties or early thirties but very pretty. Her skin was smooth and silky and had a dark glow to it. Her dark brown eyes looked at me approvingly and she asked if I could put it in the pot on the stove. When I asked her if it was for the mirepoix I thought she was gonna run over and kiss me full on the lips. Again she flashed me that huge smile. “You do know your way around de Kitchen. My name is Maggie and yes, I need carrots and celery too. Can you hanel dat?” “That’s childs play Maggie, I’ll have it ready in no time. My name is JT.” “Zhay Tee? What kina name is dot? Ita sown like jus letter to me.” “My real name is Justin, but my friends call me JT. It seems we are friends now.” “Yes indeed it do Mr. zhay T.” I assisted Maggie in the kitchen and together we got lunch together quickly and efficiently while the rain continued to pound on the back door just begging to come in to visit the drain. Fred had left half an hour ago and said he would be back to pick me up at four. Damn it felt good to be back in a kitchen again. We ate lunch like they always do only this time apparently, Maggie joined the table instead of eating in the dining room as she normally did.
After lunch I helped clean up and then went outside as the rain had ended as abruptly as it had started. As I was surveying the yard and deciding what I should do Maggie called me from the front door of the mansion. When I got there she had another big smile and said to me “I got some good news for you Zhay. I jus talk ‘a Misser Viero an him say you cana work here wit us inside inna de kitchen and aroun’ de home alla da times.” There it was. Right there fate dangled its fickle tickle of a decision in front of me with ominous repercussions. If I say yes Fred will be mad, but if I say no I will be saying no to old man Viero. On the other hand if I say yes I have a full time job all year round and I am back in a kitchen. It really had felt awesome being in a kitchen and I could definitely see myself working with Maggie. Not to mention all the young ladies I would be working with. Okay, go ahead and mention it. I know, I know I have a girlfriend and all, but like my Mom says, “You can look at the menu as long as you remember you already ordered your entrée.” Give her credit for trying to speak restaurantese. Decision made and fate be fucked! “I would really like that Maggie.” She seemed very excited and told me I would finish out the week out in the yard with Fred and start in the nursing home next Monday. If it works out we will set up a schedule for when I was back in school. All in all, it seemed like it was nothing but gold. I didn’t remind myself that things were not always what they seemed. But that’s okay, I would find out in good time what new tricks fate had in store for me to tickle its devious funny bone.
When I got home that afternoon I called Carrie to tell her the news. She didn’t seem very excited, and I wasn’t sure if it was all the chicks I would be with or the fact that I was back in a kitchen. A few ludes and some weed after dinner would change all that bullshit. Tonight we would get fucked up, have sex, and the balance of the universe will be restored.
The week passed much quicker than I had anticipated and before I knew it I was at my new job, back in a familiar setting. I was a cook, dishwasher, server, and when not busy with food I vacuumed the carpets throughout the nursing home. I kinda dug doing that because I got to hang with the nurses aides and joke around with the patients. Even the nurses had begun to like hanging around me. Jesus shit I felt like I was fucking king shit here. The head nurse was in her forties but still something about her seemed hot and intriguing. And Maggie, well that was another story itself. It became clear very quickly that she was the one in control. Everyone feared her. Not so much feared her as it was a fear of pissing her off. She was Mr. Vireos favorite person and messing with her was like messing with the old man himself. She took a very special interest in me and it didn’t bother me in the least. As a matter of fact the closer I got to Maggie the better off I was. Maggie was the right one to have on your side and since we worked together much of the time we became fast friends. I got my kitchen responsibilities done faster and faster so I could have more time on the floor. It just never dawned on me that nurses could be such practical jokers.
One day as I was flirting with one of the aides Maggie snuck up from behind and said to me “Jhay, you afinish so faust today dot we got spayshal job for a you.” A shot of adrenalin started coursing through my central nervous system because the sound of that had an eerie similarity to “downtime.” In a sheepish voice I inquired if it was in fact downtime but Maggie assured me it was just that they needed help with an SSE. I started to feel a little relief, an SSE did not sound like it was all that horrible. But an uneasy feeling came over me when I saw the dastardly dog smiles on the nurses. “Meet us up inna Miss Lemcows room upstair. We meet you dare Jhay.”
As I walked in I began to get concerned. After all, this place was loaded with some of the most extremely senile people to ever observe the Civil War. Maybe not that old, but old enough. I was directed into the bathroom where they had poor Mrs. Lemkaugh sitting naked on the toilet. It was an embarrassing sight for me but the patient was not in control of her faculties. Not in control of other things either as I would soon find out. I tries to look away but its like a car accident, the harder I tried the more I looked. I was depresses at how depressed the old woman’s body was. Any muscles or tendons in her breasts had long ago lost any of its substance and hung like deflated balloons. Her whole body just seemed so frail and I felt very uncomfortable, a if I were violating her privacy. I guess I was but she was completely unaware of my prescience. I has to look away so I chose to focus on the alluring Jamaican woman I wa beginning to develop a crush on. In Maggie’s hand was a metal can much like a flour sifter with a red rubber hose attached to it. “Here Jhay, I need a you hole dis can up over da heyd ofa Miss Lemcow. Totally confused and wondering what the fuck was happening I must have given off the aura of wonder. The sexy forty something nurse leaned up to my ear and whispered “This your first Soap Suds Enema JT?” It took a minute for the words to sink in. I had heard all three words before, but not in the same sentence. I was holding a can of soapy water, so there’s the soap suds, but enema? I looked down at Maggie grabbing the other end of the rubber hose and in an instant it hit me. Oh my fucking god in heaven she is sticking that hose in….in..oh my fucking god in heaven she stuck the end of the hose in Mrs. Lemkaugh ass!! “Okay Flo let off de valve.” Flo, the not so sexy anymore forty something nurse, shot me a smile usually reserved for Karmic retribution. She reached up and released the valve. In an instant the can emptied its contents of soapy water and went directly to Lemkaughs ass, which in turn let go of everything it owned and was holding on so dearly to. It made the stink carousel of decayed horseshit from my old landscaping days seem like jasmine incense. I gagged as I tried desperately not to breath. At least not through my nose although inhaling that stench in my mouth did not seem an acceptable alternative. I could tell Maggie was enjoying my pain and Flo let out a chuckle. They had gotten me good on this one. “Am I done here?” After I managed to utter my request, I held my breath and very quietly offered a “Jesus shit” mantra “Of course Jayh, you canna go backs de kitchen.” With that I put down my soap suds enema can and left the room. I feared it wouldn’t be my last SSE, and my job around the nursing home was evolving a

Memoirs of a Hippie Chef (an excerpt)

On By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

If You Can’t Stand The Heat
It wasn’t as if I wasn’t used to the fecal matter hitting the rotary oscillator, but Cavalieri’s closing was a lot to deal with and the furthest thing from my mind. No longer was I an apostle to a culinary madman, no more waitresses to flirt with, no more free beers. I was now saturated with disappointment and disillusionment. I knew I needed to seek another avenue of employment. I needed to shed the dry snakeskin of the restaurant industry and turn out to something else. I needed to get far away from any kitchen or Chef or waitress. I need a sacrificial rack of lamb. I should do what James did back in his time and work the fields. As fate would have it and timing being everything my brother’s ex boss owned a landscaping company, and needed a laborer. So it came to pass that I had became the new landscaper for Mundies Field and Dreams. More accurately put, I had become the new lawn mowing leaf raking topsoil carrying shit spreader. I had chosen to become a hard working laborer and have my skin scorched everyday by burning threats the sun makes good on, while enjoying the hearty aroma of freshly decayed organic manure. Enough abut the perks though; let me tell you about the downside. Everyday ended the same, my arm and back muscles pound out a rebellious beat building to a painful crescendo. As I reach to cool my aches and pains with a cold beer it seem as though all my muscles tightened up into ball of overworked subdermal tissues and tendons screaming at every movement. My skin radiates a pinkish aura from hours spent unprotected by those relentless threats of the harsh sun. It left my neck and shoulders feeling rug burnt adding to my misery. As if that weren’t enough, the omnipresent stench of decaying crap had implanted its neverending stink carousel deep into my nasal cavity. Out on the field, one of my less enviable jobs was to take compost, Mundies name for decayed animal shit, and spread it across a field. First the smell of evaporating morning dew so earthy and rich comes up off the ground like a wisp of warm steam in a tease just waiting for its replacement. Breathe deep and enjoy nature while it lasts because within seconds comes the dank aroma of compost. Its a blend of some of the most offensive smells I could ever imagined. Once dumped on the ground, the aromas of a horse stable had a meeting with a quarantined bathroom, and then joined forces with spoiled milk to create a cacophony of disgust that slowly crept up my nose and made an all out assault on my entire being.. There it would stay for hours even after my day was done. A rank reminder of my newly acquired hopelessness that was eased, but not eradicated by the beer.
Partying had come to a new intersection as well. Turn right and head up the morphine highway that was one step away from the dreaded H. Heroin, horse, dope. A dangerous path to be sure but as long as we kept just to the pills it seemed okay. To the left was an array of uppers and downers that had become much too routine for us. From the ritual of lighting up to the ritual of popping pills. Ken was in big demand and was spending way way too much time with Artie. As for me, I was required to wake up early 6 mornings a week. But I had every night free to do whatever I chose. I had begun spending more and more money on drugs, supplying not only my head but Carries as well. And many evenings I took care of Sue as well because Ken was always out copping drugs. I had begun doing diet pills every morning to keep me awake and give me the energy to bust my ass out in the shit fields. On days that it rained I would be sent home and not make any money for the day. I quickly went through my savings after a week of solid rain. The summer was coming to an end, I was making less money, and soon it would be too cold to do landscaping. I couldn’t remember how the fuck I got here, but what I did know wad that I needed to get the fuck out soon.