Recently, I had a visitor here on the blog, someone from outside the close-knit circle of friends, and acquaintances thereof, who pass by for a laugh or a blood pressure increase or for whatever reason there may be. They come here for a tidbit, an oddity, a piece of fat to chew for the day, or simply to see what I'm doing, where I've been, and the latest in a long procession of strange happenings in my life. And for them, their presence, for the ones I know and the great unknowns whom inquire, I am grateful.
But a day or two ago, some poor soul came and left a foul, acid taste in my sazonado brain. This individual came by, directed here by an odd search about Obama and toast, poked about the place for 15 minutes or so and decided, for whatever reason, to leave a comment. I guess my politics don't agree with said person and in America we are afforded our right to speak, so there is nothing wrong with dissension, but let me tell you something pal-o-mine, I KNOW ARUGULA.
For the better part of my life, I've been cooking. I've sliced and diced, minced and winced, twisted and turned, sauteed and tourneed, braised and burned, scorched and scalded, chopped and slopped, and on occasion, put out a good plate or two. I've worked in 5-star, 4-star, 1-star and no-star places. I've washed dishes, scrubbed pots, mopped floors, set tables, mucked out grease traps bare-bodied, chased wild animals out of a restaurant and scrambled to the local grocery store during Friday night service to satisfy a guest.
I've shown up for work drunk, stone-cold sober and in-the-zone, fucked up, inert, focused. I've slammed white liquor during service, weeped in the walk-in, blasted big rails of premium, first-cut cocaine off dinner plates after service, cooked on no sleep, some sleep, worked while bleeding profusely, burnt, delirious, exhausted, 36 days in a row on top of 16 months, 6 days a week with no vacation in a no air-conditioned kitchen 8 degrees above the equator. Yes sir. I know arugula.
I've served the poor through charity, the weak, the important, the self-important, the rich and the ultra-rich. I have competed for last, first and third place in various competitions and I've seen a plethora of friends sink or swim in the same. I've served movie stars, rock stars, heads of state, heiresses, the kind, the mean, the gluttonous, the picky, the insatiable and the downright evil. I don't need to name names because it makes me no more important than the next culinarian.
No matter who I know or what I know, I've stooped. I've made turkey sausage omelets at three in the morning for a very rich businessman who lived in the hotel where I once worked. I've worried over menus for groups of vegetarians even though my rational mind is screaming, "EAT MEAT!" I've cooked double bacon cheeseburgers in the middle of the night for scandalous Jewish people during Passover celebrations in the same hotel. And once, without shame, I served bacon in a salad to a nice Jewish woman during Hanukkah in my own restaurant. Ooops, my mistake.
Yes, I know arugula.
I used my money along with the wealth of my friends to renovate an old beach hotel/restaurant in Central America and gave life, opportunity, and invaluable life-experience to a dozen or so locals. I paid extreme payroll and social taxes similar to what this Obama character desires for our new, "equalized" America and it was a constant struggle for us collectively. Our wealth, and the wealth of our employees, was taxed for a complex, convoluted and archaic social welfare system that was sadly dysfunctional and blatantly outdated. But we marched on. All of us, together.
I was a minority rich, spreading my wealth with the majority poor. A trickle sideways economy at best. For a time, eyed with a glint of curious suspicion.
My employees were my life blood, my life and my dear friends. I taught them all that I could, built them up and broke them down a thousand times over, only to rebuild them better than they were before. I shared what I had in knowledge, in my heart, and in my soul.
They saw me as a strong leader, somtimes weak, ill-humored, happy, sad, and worried, occasionally debilitated, out-of-control, over-controlling and distraught. But as me, a person. An equal. Imperfect and incomplete.
And therefore, because of the respect of my persona and my ability to accept every person an equal, working hard for nothing like the person I was raised and taught to be, they were there. For me. Always.
I left a mark with them. An indelible reminder of the strong-willed entrepreneurship and will for freedom that we Americans have. And what I saw in them, in their hearts and mind, was awe. They didn't understand my drive, obviously perplexed by my marathon hours, but they respected it, no matter how confused they were by my behavior.
The few who lasted in my kitchen, eventually, got it. It hit them hard and cold, they understood. The skill, the blood, the sweat, the weep. Nothing in life is free. If you wanted something in life, set that goal and work hard for it. It's as simple as that and they knew it then. They know it now.
I never asked for help, but they gave it to me. Forcing me out of the kitchen on a busy night with the faith within themselves that they could handle the busiest night of the week. They took a part of me, absorbed it, the distilled experiences of my life, which are still there and lives on within the people I touched. They learned, strived, excelled!
Yes, I know arugula.
I had a friend, my best friend there, his name was Melvin.
Melvin was a man, a caballero in the sense of the cowboy and the gentleman, and Melvin worked for me. Melvin began as our jardinero, but as I stated before in a post about his life, he had the desire and the higher function to strive for more. He wanted it. He eventually began working in the restaurant and within several months, tragically, he was dead. I've told this story before. But, let me remind those who lament their lives and those who have no appreciation for what they have about the last conversation I had with Melvin before his surgery:
Melvin's last regret and concern was of his job and the support of his children.
In the end, it wasn't about him with his hand out, a man facing surgery on his brain, it was about him worried for his family and their well-being, alone.
18 hours later, Mel was gone. And they brought him home in a shag-carpet box.
Age?
Too fucking young. Younger than me.
Kids?
Three and a wife.
A family, gone.
And he was worried about his job. His $1.1o per hour job.
I know arugula. And it ain't you, Mr. Seamus.
It's Melvin.
Yes, I know arugula. It's Melvin, me and everyone else that tried in vain to do the right thing, right down to the bitter end.
Arugula.
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