Race in the Kitchen. Negro, please!

This is the second in my trinity of politically incorrect things to talk about (if you want to see the first, scroll down to my blog about the gays). The last one will be about women, but let's put that off for another day.

Race in a professional kitchen. You know there are some racist motherfuckers up in many of these kitchens. We all are racist motherfuckers up in these kitchens. Yeah, I said it. And it's true.

The funny thing is that, until 20-something years ago, white people hired black people to work in their kitchens. Until they found Latins to work cheaper. Yes, it used to be that black people who wanted a job could always get one in a kitchen. It may have sucked, and the white managers may have acted like they were Overseers from the mini-series "Roots" ("Your name is TOBY!"), but it was an honest living.

No more. Because the economy ended all that.

Now they hire the Latins. And just not any Latins, but the illegals. The ones that the Republicans whine about now, after those same Latins raised their white kids and cut their lawns. Why? Because they are cheap. One restaurant owner I worked for shifted his kitchen from all Americans to all Salvadorian in less than two years. And then had the nerve to say he paid a "livable" wage. I was standing right next to him, and I was the sous chef getting only 10-dollars an hour (and knowing that some of his line cooks were getting around 7-dollars an hour). So I looked at him, and said: "Livable where? In Nicaragua?" The owner eventually made me head chef, but he hated me. Because I acted too much like the head chef who hired me and I worshiped, then left to open his own restaurant.

Still, the face of kitchens is always changing, as the Latins are now no longer the go-to guys. Because white people are trying to get kitchen jobs as more Latins are getting pissed off at being screwed every which way but Sunday. Remember the big Latin walk-outs three years ago (was it three years?). Angry Latinos (who are almost as bad as angry black people) stayed home from work in cities from L.A. to Atlanta. Shut down more restaurants than a can't-bribe health inspector. In response to this, white restaurant owners started hiring more poor white people from the ghetto cooking schools you see advertised during “The Jerry Springer Show.”

But this blog isn't about the Latins. It's about race in the kitchen. And though the Latins I worked with had a complete arrogance about them, the funny thing was it seemed all normal in a kitchen. In other words, all the racist shit was out in the open, and everybody was cool about it.

The Latins I worked with had no problem thinking they were better than me. And I had no problem proving them wrong. Once I had to make a sauce on the fly after we opened for service (the head chef forgot to make it earlier). The Salvadoran who worked the station I was making the sauce at started to complain that I was in her way. I looked at her and quietly said: "If you can make a fucking lemon bechamel as well as I can, feel free to make it now." And I held out the spoon. She just looked at me, and backed off. Because she knew the head chef was training me to be a chef, not just some mindless line cook that pumped out food like a worker on an assembly line.

Thus was the weird...hum, what's the word...”synergy” that made up most of the kitchens I have worked in. We all were racists to some point, but we all got along with it. The Latins thought I was a criminal and barely American (one asked me when my parents came over from Africa, and I responded by telling him that Africa is not a country, it's a continent And that my family had been in America for at least 6 generations. Longer than our Irish bred head chef. And he still didn't get it). I treated them like they were illegal and stupid (with ID cards that looked like the Disney Corporation made them as a joke). And the white people didn't care, as long as the food got out and the customers were happy. The white people treated me better than the Latins because they knew I knew how to actually MAKE the food. Yet somehow, in all this open racism, we worked well together.

Then there are...the Asians.

I LOVE the Asians. They don't pull any shit. And, even though they seem quiet all the time, they will tell you what they think at the drop of a dime. They hate the Latins even more than the black people, and they really hate the white people. Yet they love to be more like the black people, who they don't like either (unless they know you. Like my past head chef who once asked the black people in his kitchen how to do the "Stanky Leg" dance. Or the Korean line cook who gave me a whole lecture of why he hated "Dirty South" rap music versus "West Coast" rap)

Why? Because they understand. They understand the complex duality of America.

They understand that here -- in the land of the free and home of the brave -- white people ignore them, black people don't like them, and Latin people aren't worth their time. So they have to do for themselves to make them happy.

Which is why they will pick and choose what to take from other cultures to assimilate (mainly African American culture) while they really don't want to assimilate. So they still rabidly hold on to their own culture (and good for them), while hating on the cultures they pick and chose from. I know, it doesn't make sense. But it's true. For example:

I worked with a Korean guy, I'll call "D." He used the N-word one day to refer to his friend, and another co-worker, who I will call "Little Thug" -- a Filipino woman --got mad (her boyfriend was black). So I go to the fry station and he says:

D: "Little Thug got pissed because I referred to my friend as 'my nigga.'"

Me: "He's your friend?"

D: "Yeah. my nigga from (previous restaurant). I didn't mean anything by it. I call him 'my nigga.' He's my friend You know I'm not about some racist shit."

Me: "I know. Because I can tell the difference, So, if you told her this, why did she get mad?"

D: "She didn't like me using the word 'nigga.' Even though I told her that's he's my friend. He was my nigga."

Me: "She needs to calm the fuck down. Getting mad over nothing. Nigga please!"

You know, the funny thing was that I never actually asked if the dude he was talking about was black (by the way, Little Thug couldn't stop telling me how much she hated white guys). Still, that's how we rolled at that restaurant. All the racist things everybody always said, but didn't mean (but kind of really did mean). Yet we all still worked well together. It is what it is, and not for the faint of heart. Hell, I once worked at a place where the head chef, a Chinese guy, screamed to his Jewish wife: “I got a white guy and a Mexican here already, and now I got a black guy. So how am I a racist if I fuck with them all?” And then he went on to rant about how he hated the Jews. In his defense, he was always drunk.

I guess that what I do love about working in kitchens. It's the only place where I can call a white guy a “cracker” and he can call me “sambo,” and we can both call our Latin co-worker a “wetback.” And yet, we all still get the job done. As co-workers and friends.

What Not To Do During a Stage (Also not what to expect)

First off, I hate stages ("stage" is a fancy French word for working for free to see if a restaurant wants to hire you. But, in most cases, it's an excuse for "FREE" work that the restaurant cares about). When I was in advertising in New York City, I just interviewed for a job. At worse, they didn't use me. At best, they PAID me to "freelance" to see if I worked out).

But in restaurants, they expect you to work for free. Why? You got me. But this is the same business that expects you to do a "practical" (cook what the restaurant wants) as a sous chef to prove you can cook. Or a "Tasting" to prove you can cook as a head chef. NO MATTER WHAT YOUR RESUME SHOWS YOU HAVE ACCOMPLISHED! I'm not hating on that though (yes, I am). Because I have met more than a few people in the business who simply could not cook (On a job interview, one chef simply asked if I could cook. I was shocked at the question). Many can follow recipes and do orders well, and were great at paperwork. But, given a free hand at food, they sucked. That's it. Simple.

Yet, in advertising, I ALREADY knew 95-percent of the people in the business sucked. Which is why people hate most TV commercials. But I followed (on advice of great ad people), and worked for, the 5-percent that were great. So I became one of the best ad copywriters in New York City. Sadly though, that did not make it easy to find the next job. Then everyone I used to know, who were great ad people, dropped out of the business for the same reason. It was the finest example of Albert Einstein's comment of the mediocre minds destroying a great mind. Only one, a guy who is one of my best friends, is still in the ad game. And he still hates it for the same reason. I understand why, he is better than the co-workers and clients he has to deals with. But at least he gets paid big money. For now.

Still, I digress.

In the restaurant business, cooks have to stage. It sucks, but there it is. I hate it, but there it is. I just did an 11-hour stage recently, and busted my ass doing it, and didn't get the job (which I really wanted). It was the last straw after doing several stages where people lied to me and pressed me to be my best for hour after hour, then offered me nothing in return. I'm surprised, in the restaurant biz verses the postal jobs, that people don't show up with guns to shoot everyone. God knows, I wanted to do it a few times (but that is one of the reasons why I don't own a gun).

Still, I have heard the funniest stories about those who stage. Which is the point of this blog. What not to do during a stage.

#1 -- Don't tell the Head Chef that you can help improve his/her menu. That is an instant way to not be considered for a job. The head chef put his/her heart and soul in that menu, no matter how you think of it. And it is not your ass on the line with reviewers and foodies. Many times, that is the head chef's first chance at being head chef. So they don't want to hear how you think you can make them better at what they worked so hard to be.

#2 -- However good you are on the line, that doesn't make you a chef. You don't know how many people I ran into who were great on the line, but couldn't do shit when I asked them to make family meal for the staff. Pumping out food on the line doesn't make you a great chef. It may make you a great kitchen manager. I knew a great kitchen manager who was a bad head chef (God, he over cooked the mashed potatoes all the time). I also worked for a chef who once said: "A great line cook doesn't make a great chef. Just like a great chef doesn't make a great line cook." And I am not a great line cook, but a great chef. So go work at a big corporate place if you are a line cook, and that's it, and be happy. But don't think that makes you a great chef.

#3 -- Don't think you can't learn something. A great chef will never admit that he/she knows everything. A great chef will always be open to learn new things, at whatever restaurant they have to stage. I've learned things on a stage, in cuisines I was not interested at doing.. Great things, even from the dishwasher. So don't walk into a stage thinking you are the shit. You are not. No matter what the restaurant's menu shows and what you can do.

#4 -- It may not be about you, so stop thinking it is. That is one of the hardest things I had to learn recently (you'd think I had learned that in advertising). You stage, work your ass off, and you are not hired. You are pissed, but it may be about things that you can't control. I'm not a young guy, but in a young man's business (don't even let me get into my age) but I don't know. My sexual origination could make a different in my business, but I don't know. My race could be a deciding factor, but I don't know (where I knew in advertising). The fact I'm a man, versus a woman, could have been the difference. But, again, I don't know.

I don't know how to act on a stage, except to do my best job. I don't care if you came out of CIA, I don't care if you just landed here from Paris as a cook. You have to play the same game, correctly And if your don't know how to do that, or refuse to -- you may want to consider another career.

This Season: Mario Batali And Kim Kardashian in "Beef N' Buns Of Love" (or the state of Celebrity Chefs on TV today)

This Fall -- Mario And Kim dash across Europe. Cooking, eating and getting body tan sprays with various potential love connections to find their perfect mates. Each week, those chosen to move to the next round are handed a deep fried Italian beef n' bun sandwich on a stick. In the premiere episode, everything is going great for Mario and Kim, until Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto shows up with a new recipe for fish eye and hair gel soup because Snooki from "Jersey Shore" is his sous chef!

Don't laugh! (Well, okay, go ahead and laugh) But this could the future of celebrity chefs on television. Because, when looking at the state of the new crop of so-called celebrity chefs on TV (on Bravo, Food Network, Cooking Channel, TLC, NBC, Fine Living, FOX, Travel Channel, ABC, Oxygen -- damn, just throw up some Scrabble chips and take your pick), where else is there to go?

But first, before we go further, let's lay out a few facts:

#1 -- There has only been one TRUE celebrity chef. ONLY ONE! And the fact that person rejected the label of "celebrity" makes all other celebrity chefs not worthy of cutting that person's cheesecloth.

If you did not say the name "Julia Child" as that one chef, then you need to stop reading this blog, and go into a corner to watch her shows on PBS. Every goddamn EPISODE (and read her books too)! And if I still have to explain why she is the only one, then I'll just stick my hand through this computer screen and slap you silly!

#2 -- There are only two types of celebrity chefs: The ones that cook, and the ones that cooked (past tense) to get on TV. Bobby Flay cooks on TV, Andrew Zimmern is on TV. That doesn't mean one is good and one is bad (though I will talk more about Zimmern later), it's just about how those chef present themselves to the viewers.

#3 -- Rachael Ray IS NOT a celebrity chef. To her credit, she never said she was one. Ray got famous for fast meals, cheap eats, being the working class Martha Stewart, and talking. And talking, talking, and talking. I challenge all you haters to say you would not have done the same thing to make the phat cash she did, if offered the same chance. So quit hating. It's a good thing, bitches!

Now, back to the point of this blog.

Celebrity chefs. They are dead. Done. Gone. It's over!

Though Gordon Ramsey is great, his show "Hell's Kitchen" sucks (though "Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares" is good, if only to point out how many idiots go into the restaurants business thinking it would be fun, and how many so-called chefs are bad). Don't even get me started on how many stupid stereotypes "Hell's Kitchen" taps into in order to produce each show (The loud, angry Black chick; the fat guy who can't cook). The funny thing is that if the show hired a bunch of Latinos to work the line, like everyone else, things would work so well there would be no show. No creativity, but the food would get out.

The last good celebrity chef show to air was "Iron Chef" from Japan. The chefs cooked, it had story lines (like the once-famous chef who lost everything after killing someone while driving drunk), it had drama (the Ohta Faction against Morimoto's Americanized Japanese food), a sports-coverage like presentation, and Chairman Kaga was the best host since Ed Sullivan. Add the dumb hot actor/singer chicks and the bad voice-overs, and the show was even better. It was brilliant on almost every level!

Now we have chefs on TV who just eat, or talk, or pretend great cooking is easier than it is (there are the exceptions like "Top Chef," "Top Chef Masters," and "Iron Chef America"). Andrew Zimmern, who always has that smug look on his face (like "aren't you glad you are American, and don't have to eat this every day), gets rich chomping on a fried spider that people have been eating for...oh, I don't know, a thousand years. Of course there are those like Graham Elliot Bowles and Michael Symon, who strike me as chefs who are more about the cooking being all about them (and both CAN cook), than the actual food. Those chefs are not like Anthony Bourdain, who approaches every food and culture with a curiosity that is within all of us (he is like: "What the hell is going on, show me how you cook this, and should I eat it?").

Then there are the cake shows that make pastries, that look GREAT, but taste like crap. Or the shows that no longer offer a unique method to cook food, but promote how unique they are at making it (which a new show "Food Jammers" sounds like it just ripped off my friends from Annapolis, who had a unique show "The Feasty Boys" for years where they used power tools and drank beer while cooking. But the core of their show got lost when they were aired on a major cable TV).

So it's not about cooking anymore on TV. Celebrity chefs today -- for the most part -- seem to be about bad reality television, becoming reality TV stars, and the money. Are you gonna tell me that Rocco DiSpririto is as good as Wolfgang Puck? One was about changing how American chefs presented the ever-changing world of modern western food, the other was about just being famous.

And, sadly, the latter seem to be the overriding goal today.

I miss you so much Julia!

Gays InThe Kitchen: Why ask? Everyone Yells

(Sit down. This is gonna be a long one)

When it comes to sexuality, I don't believe in labels. What I believe about sexuality is this: There is gay and straight. Like black and white. But there is A LOT of gray in between. Most people fall in the gray area, as much as they may not want to (because of the whole "label" thing).

I've known enough gay guys in the restaurant biz who used to be married, and had kids (including Malcolm Forbes)-- and yadda, yadda, yadda. On the flip side, there was my totally straight bartender friend (who was a dead ringer for Matt Dillon -- to the point that when I actually ran into Matt Dillon, I called him by my friend's name), who wanted a 3-way with me and the girl he was cheating on his girlfriend with. I did. But kept laughing because I called it a "3-D porno movie," and had to leave the bedroom to snort more cocaine while listening to Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" over and over again (It was New York City, during the mid-1980s. You had to be there). Yet, on another long night, my straight bartender friend had sex with one of the waiters we worked with (after playing poker, doing coke, and listening to Roxy Music -- it was New York City, during the mid 1980s. You had to be there). When I asked him how it was, he said: ""Eh. Not bad."

Then there was my friend in Washington, D.C., who was a TOTAL pussy hound. He told me once, in confidence, that he did a 69 with his guy best friend. When I asked how it was, he said: "Eh. not bad."

And I won't even get into my fraternity brothers from college (yes, I was in a frat. The most redneck, farm boy frat on campus). Nor will I get into the 3-way with my then girlfriend (who was engaged to some other guy) and another girl. Who both pushed me away when I tried to join in (biggest mistake a guy makes in a 3-way -- thinking that the girls are only into you).

But back to my point: I don't believe in labels. Were my straight friends gay? No. Were my gay friends straight? No. But their biggest concern, across the board, was what they thought other people thought. The labels, and stereotypes, about who they were.

Which goes directly to my point about gays in the professional kitchen.

The thing is, kitchens are one of the last bastions of hyper-masculine sexuality that exists. Like the locker rooms of team sports (child, please). Or the fire and police departments in cities across the country (child, please). Or NASCAR (well, okay, they may have a something there). Women know this, because it takes a thick skin to put up with all the bullshit played by the boys. And like straight women, gay men and women who survive in a kitchen quickly learn this too.

A professional kitchen is ABOUT the boys. We act like 12-year-olds most of the time, because we can. We rule! Sure, we question everyone's sexuality (do I need to name a sous chef's name?). And, we are used to front of house being gay. Hell, in my last restaurant, we had a waiter who performed Beyonce's "Put a Ring on It" while waiting for his order. Everyone on the line fell apart laughing, thus the order was late. And, when I worked in New York City, Monday nights were slow. So all the gay waiters started doing the "Monday Night Sissy Snap Circle" by the kitchen door before we closed. Suddenly, people started showing up, just to watch it.

So gay is not news to us in the kitchen. Sometimes, we wished a person would sleep with the same sex just to get the 2-by-4 board out of his/her ass (especially in the pastry department, do I need to name her name). But if you are gay, and can hang with us --my experience is that we don't care. If you are gay and skittish about working under the pressure of being in a high-end kitchen, don't used the fact that you are gay as the reason you failed. No. You failed because a kitchen is tough, and you were too skittish to hang. That's it. Pure and simple. Yeah, I said it.

In other words, a kitchen is where a gay person doesn't have to be gay. Don't get me wrong, they don't have to be who they are not, they just have to play no differently than of the boys.

The gays I worked with in the kitchen were tough. There was the one guy, pastry. Real young and a twink (look it up on Google if you don't know what that means). I walked up to him after he was hired and said I didn't want to be politically incorrect around him. His response was: "Bring it on, bitch!" After that, we were friends. He pranced around the kitchen when he met a new boyfriend, he was rumored to have slept with a guy on the line and said "well, at least he's cute," and he took me to the old man gay bar to hang. I even flirted with the old man gay bartender to get some free drinks, which he gave -- to him.

Then there was another guy at a restaurant where the famous head chef/owner was out and about being gay. I didn't expect gay jokes, until I worked there -- and the gay jokes flew. But the gay guy shot back with straight jokes just as fast (He told one guy that at least he knew what good dick was, unlike his girlfriend -- damn funny!).

There was also the guy in the chef's coat who I saw on the "L" in Chicago (that's "train" to New Yorkers, and "Metro" to people in D.C., and subway to everyone else). Who talked about his boyfriend buying a Black & Decker power drill for his birthday. And he said: "Black & Decker? I may be gay, but I know my power tools! Why didn't you get a DeWalt?"

For those in a kitchen, it's not about being gay. It's about being one of the boys. Because, at the end of the day, being in a kitchen is...already kinda gay.

Let's face it --

Working in a kitchen you take more abuse than a submissive cub at a bear BDSM leather bar on Christopher Street in the West Village (again, check Google if you don't know what I am talking about). The yelling, the screaming, the orders -- you endure being stepped on every day to make your main chef happy. Like the chef I nicknamed "Gordon Ramsey Junior" for his ability to scream at everyone. Yet when he used me to diss another line cook, I played along like a high school girl finally being noticed by the cool chicks. How gay is that?

In a kitchen, we worship our head chef. I can't tell you how many times my head chef walked by, and I was "please just say something." Me -- mister tough guy -- and I was a total pussy around him (one sous chef called me a complete "Nancy," she was right). Once I made a chicken dish for him, and he put his thumb up. And I was the happiest man alive. Don't get me started on my sushi chef, who I hung on his every word after he ate my food ("needs more salt' was his biggest complaint). How gay is that?

Then there was the chef I worked for who was practically the same size and height as me. Most people in the restaurant treated us like we were a couple because we were inseparable at work. A lot of times, the servers mixed our names up, even though we looked nothing alike (I was black, and he was white. I was older, and he was younger). Yet most thought we were together, even though he had a girlfriend (who became his wife). It didn't matter, we were joined at the hip. How gay is that?

Guys on the line let loose the expected idea being guys without knowing it. One of my sous chefs called me his "big black stud" while he rubbed my back (my response was always: "you know I can sue this place, right?"). And it wasn't just me. This other cook referred to the time spent with the head chef for training as his "chef and me" time. How gay is that?

My favorite country-boy came around my table singing "Hey Jude" by The Beatles after we started working the line together. I joined in singing lyrics on beat. Next thing you know, we both hit the song's crescendo, top of our lungs, across a steel table from each other. I did John Lennon. It didn't matter that he was fucking a server I wanted to fuck. We were singing a duet to each other over chopped carrots for no reason. How gay is that?

So, at the end, it's not about being gay. It's about being one of the guys (and girls). Because that's what make a great kitchen -- when we can grab each others dicks at the end of the shift, and say "we kicked ass tonight." and no one cares what anyone thinks. You just did the job.

I got three words for that: Fab-ol-ous!

And I'm though.

The Worst Thing About Restaurants: Restaurant Owners

Okay...I write. It is the greatest gift God gave me when he put me on this planet. Thus, I was accepted and attended the top TWO writing conferences in this country (yes, one had to be accepted. Not just scratch a check and show up regardless of lack of talent). And the one thing I walked away from both of them was this: The worse thing about writing, are writers.

Nothing more annoying than being in a room of self-absorbed, self-congratulatory, overly intellectual writers who's idea of fun is a bottle of over-priced wine and a game naming all the characters in a William Faulkner novel (double points if you can explain the differences between the two Quentins in "The Sound And The Fury").

The second greatest gift God gave me (or maybe the third, depending if you talk to those I slept with) is cooking. And, like my travails in the writing world, I found that the worse things about restaurants are the owners.

I'm not talking about the down and dirty neighborhood places where the owners bust an ass cheek to ensure you have the best meal, and best time, possible (like my main Assyrian man Nino at Morse St. Broasted Chicken, or my favorite Korean woman Ms. Suzie of Happy Noon Time Grill -- both around the corner from my apartment). I'm talking about those owners of high-end, fine dining places who think they should be on the cover of Gourmet magazine every other month.

Granted, most spend the risky money to get started. Get the best people on staff to ensure excellent service and food. Ride the dicks of every reviewer from The Chicago Tribune to The New York Times to The Los Angeles Times. But when the crowds come, the reviews are good, the foodies rave -- something happens to them. They forget what got them to the stratosphere of great restaurants. and start treating their kitchens as an afterthought. Like the maid they always ignore, until they notice a streak left on the living room window.

I was at a friend's kitchen recently. The restaurant where he works is famous, well reviewed, visited by celebrities passing through, and always filled with what I call the young, hip, "white wine and cocaine" crowd. Yet, back in the kitchen, my friend told me of the two ovens that were not working, the steamer table that barely kept food warm, the less-than-organized walk-in. and the less-than-gave-a-shit staff he had to manage (I won't even get into the turkey burgers that were swimming in...something). I tried one of the pre-fried sweet potato fries, and it was soft and limp and flavorless as an old man without Viagra.

Now, I respect the owner. And my first thought was: why would he let this happen? Then my second thought, the answer to my first thought, was: because he doesn't have to care anymore. He's already getting the money, because he already has gotten the rep. The kitchen drones could scrape what's on the bottom of their shoes on a plate, and most customers would think it's great because they HEARD how great his food is -- not the chef's food, the OWNER'S food.

Another owner I knew drove off THREE top chefs from his top Mid-Atlantic place, so he wouldn't have to share the limelight. Then he offered me the head chef job, which I told him I wasn't ready to do -- but I took the job anyway. It lasted two weeks. I quickly discovered that the owner didn't want me to be a chef, but more a robotic line cook with a title. My desire to elevate the food, make changes to the menu, and build a staff of well trained cooks was secondary to his desire to just keep making money doing the same thing that made his name at the beginning (including a pesto-scallop appetizer that was straight out the Loni Anderson/Burt Reynolds late-1970s). Don't rock the boat, no matter how rickety and leaky the boat had become.

It didn't matter that the kitchen appliances needed upgrading, that equipment broke down on a regular basis because he didn't want to spend the money on maintenance (yet, more expensive to fix on the fly), and that some of the line cooks barely changed their underwear, scratched their balls and spit on the floor while making dinner for paying customers. Out front, everything looked perfect. And he brought himself an expensive guitar with the money that rolled in. So why worry about maintaining a quality his years-old reviews proclaimed he already had? Because Karma is a bitch -- and The Washington Post wrote an article about what the hell happened to his restaurant. He had to scramble to make things right again or lose his shirt, and guitar.

Once, I told another owner "People don't come here for the entertainment (because there was none), don't come here for the hot servers (there weren't any), and don't come here to be seen. They come here for the FOOD. So why do you treat your kitchen staff so badly?"

I didn't get a good answer then. And since returning to Chicago (with the exception of Moto and Table 52 and TRU), I still haven't gotten that answer.

(P.S.: I told several people I going to write my next blog about gays in the kitchen. That's still coming soon. thanks!)

Chicago, It's, Like, OMG, Seriously! Time To Get Over It

Chicago, I love you. Spent half my youth here (1/3 of being "the Midwestern Boy, born and bred" -- Iowa, Illinois, Indiana). Love the buildings, love the sports teams, love the people, hate the CTA, love Vienna Polish Sausage (hands down, one of the best things in the world -- take that Osaka's Octopus Balls!).

So trust me Chicago when I say, and I mean no disrespect, it's time to get over it.

When it comes to the restaurant scene (amoung other things), you will never be New York. Okay?

What triggered this plea was a couple of minor incidents while on my quest for a position in a high-end kitchen. It was no big deal (one of them I'll write about in the future), but when coupled with other incidents in the past two years, I sensed a pattern. Almost a snide, "oh, you worked on the East Coast" dismissive reaction. I always pretty much knew where it came from, and accepted it. But now it's getting pretty goddamn annoying.

Now I was going to use an analogy that involved F. Scott Fitzgerald and literary characters. Then I remembered this blog targets restaurant people. So I decided to use a more fitting analogy:

High School girls.

Chicago, you're like the cute-as-hell, smart, athletic, sweet-with-a-little-sassy, popular girl. You're the Sandra Bullock of cities. And though you're happy with that, you still hold a deep jealous tinge at New York City. Because New York is the smokin' hot, rich, super-popular, does-what-she-wants-because-who's-going-to tell-her-"no" chick. New York is the Angelina Jolie of cities.

All the boys want to talk to New York, and she knows it. So she doesn't talk to any of them, until she wants too. New York tosses aside the boys she grows bored with, and some of them come talk to Chicago. This doesn't make Chicago mad, because these are cool and cute boys, but she can't quite get past the whole sloppy-seconds feeling.

Now, Chicago is fine with Los Angeles. Because even though L.A. is super-hot and popular like New York, everybody knows she's not too smart and kind of a skank. Always walking around in the pink half t-shirt with glitter and the word "Juicy" on the front. L.A. gets out of control, and always needs attention. Which is why she got caught screwing around with her best friend San Diego's boyfriend.

Miami's cool too, because she doesn't care about New York or L.A. She's Miami, and kiss her ass if that ain't enough. Washington, D.C. only cares about New York when it's time to go shopping. Her dad's some super-rich lawyer and let's D.C. do whatever she wants. Boston hates New York. But Boston hates anybody who doesn't listen to her talk about herself. San Francisco just ignores New York, because she's too concerned about saving the Earth. New Orleans always has too much drama going on to even think about New York. Seattle wishes New York would be her friend. But Seattle listens to depressing music, no fashion sense, and always has a bad perm.

Don't even bother to bring up Dallas, Cleveland, Detroit, Phoenix, Denver, Philadelphia (New York's little sister), St. Louis, Kansas City, Baltimore (South Park's "Kenny" to D.C.), or Atlanta. Chicago knows those cities wished they were her.

With all the things invented in here, with all the innovations in food created here, with the Blackhawks going to the Stanley Cup Finals after decades of waiting -- Chicago is not sloppy seconds to any stuck up bitch.

SO PLEASE -- quit pretending like you know that, and start BELIEVING you know that!

Be more like Miami.

Gossip -- It Is The Life Blood Of The Industry

I don't care if you work at The French Laundry, or sling hash during the graveyard shift at Dennys -- if you're in the restaurant business you fall into one of three categories:

1 -- You gossip

2 -- You are being gossiped about

3 -- You gossip while being gossiped about

Front of House, Back of House -- doesn't matter! The two things you can be certain of when working in a restaurant: almost everybody's crazy, and there is always gossip.

Who's sleeping with whom? Who's doing drugs? Who's doing drugs at work? Who drinks too much? Who's not drinking much (and why)? Who's throwing whom under the bus? Who's scheming against whom? What clique is ganging up on what smaller clique? Can the new guy/gal be trusted? Which manager needs to be fired?

And so on.

I write this because someone I know recently got fired. And one of the reasons was that person had been tap dancing to Lady GaGa's song "Poker Face" on ice that was thinner than a dishwasher's paycheck from nearly the first day that person was hired. I once referred to that person as "the walking eye of Hurricane Gossip. And we're talkin' category 5, baby!"

Now, I'm not saying all the gossip about that person was true. I'm also not saying all the gossip was not true. Some was true, some wasn't. At times that person did nothing to get the gossip rolling. Other times that person did everything to push the car off the cliff.

It's not about the gossip though. There will always be gossip. What helped bring that person down was how that person HANDLED the gossip!

See people (for those not in the restaurant biz), our work environment is not like the rest of the real world. We talk MUCHO shit! And we talk shit about stuff that would get any other company sued everyday. For example: when you can tell -- I'm sorry -- yell at your co-worker to "GET YOUR BOYFRIEND'S DICK OUT YOUR EAR AND LISTEN UP!" you're not working at an accounting firm.

Therefore, our gossip is much more intense and viral (like the internet). It's like a flash fire that burns everything, and when it's died down a new one is already heading your way. After a while, your skin toughens as you get used to it, and keep doing your job. Or you run away screaming like you woke up in bed next to a naked Larry King after a drunken night. I once told this timid woman hired for pastry that is she lasted a week she would make it. Then gave her my best Heath Ledger-as-The-Joker face and said: "But be afraid. Be very afraid." She was gone three days later.

So you know what you are walking into at a restaurant. So when the day comes that your name is in the opening credits (an analogy I came up with years ago. You are the center of the gossip, you're the star in a movie. In the closing credits? Minor role or extra), whether what's being said is true or not, you immediately own it!

If someone is spreading gossip that you are a drunken slut, and it's true? You say: "Yeah. A damn good one too!" If it's not true, you say: "No, I'm not. But I can't stop you from thinking that. So fine, I'm a drunken slut."

Either answer kills the rumor in it's tracks. Because gossip only thrives when people think you care. When they think you don't, it dies a quick death.

When I bar manager, I can't tell you how many women -- and men -- I heard people said I slept with. I WISHED I had as much sex as I was told I did! At first, it annoyed me. But then a moment of clarity came, and I stopped caring. So when a good friend quietly said he heard I worked both sides of the field, my immediate response was: "At least I always have a warm body next to me every night." My friend busted out laughing, and I never heard the rumour again.

There were a bunch of others though (like trying to sleep with my best friend's girlfriend on New Years Eve. I didn't. But it did cross my mind). Hell, I managed a shitkicking bar in a small town. The day I was hired as the first black person to ever work there, my name was in the opening credits. And stayed there. Because everybody gossiped about EVERYBODY!

So, in conclusion, what do you do when the gossip is about you? Handle It! Own It! Then walk away. That person whom lost that job didn't, in the case of gossip, handle or own it. That person tried to deny it. Came up with varying reasons why the gossip couldn't be true (which made people believe that person less). And that person freaked out and didn't walk away (which made the flash fire grow instead of die out).

I believe everyone has a limited number of Life-Minutes on this planet. So why wasting them worrying about something you can't change.

Because even after your dead, the gossip about you lives on.