I fuck with people’s emotions when it comes to food. It’s a religion to some of you.

The praise you give it.

Holding your dishes aloft for photos, an exultation of steaming meat on a plate.

The fanboying of chefs yeah I never got that even when I was getting that.

The chefs themselves oozing with self proclaimed prosperity, coats adorned with patches of regalia. I have to admit some of the biggest asshats I’ve ever met live and breathe by the moniker chef. They often disguised their tyranny with the word “passion”

I never liked being called chef because of those types. I preferred restauranteur. Yeah I made all the food first but I did a hell of a lot more than that. I did enjoy the “best chef in the upstate awards”. That chafed some asses for some reason. Hey guys I was 48 years old without a single trophy in my case my entire life. I had finally won something. My daughter still talks about those plaques. You can never take that away from me. The best part of the whole thing is it pissed off the ones that know I don’t tweezer my food like some of you.

Bottom line- it all looks the same once it comes back out.

*side note anyone who reads my blogs on the regular (yah I’m pointing at you three guys) if you’re picking up a different voice you would be correct. My older self pops out when I’m talking about service industry. It’s blatant I’m not trying to disguise it. I have to let it out to play sometimes. If poopy words make you grimace sorry.

Food service was a very serious thing with me for at least 2 decades.

Plates wiped pristine

Elevated proteins with stock reductions

All of my recipes had enough ingredients to make a mole sauce. If I saw an employee making a sauce without that recipe book open in front of them I drilled the living shit out of them.

Shortcuts got your ass kicked

The last plate at service should look exactly the same as the first. If anything I was told to loosen up. I wasn’t that much of a yeller if I was yelling it was probably for fanfare because my ego thought it had to be done that way until I had to take a step back.

I’m good at this shit yall. I never wanted to be. I literally watched some line cooks at the Blockhouse one lunch and said “I could do this shit”

Kitchen laughed at me. Charlie fired the KM for calling in sick to play golf and I told Charlie “fuck it sign me up I’ll do it”

And I did

I had done pantry one shift. I was a bartender. Charlie threw me in the km spot, no training and said “don’t let Willie get drunk” and that’s how I got my start. I jumped on the line and took some hellish lumps. I stepped down about a year later to try to fix my relationship with my girlfriend at the time. Jesus did that ever become a revolving door of behavior. Hell I didn’t even know the correct way to cut an onion until I was writing recipes for Southern. My old boss at AZ would hire these high falootin chefs from Atlanta for menu tasting and I’d come over in my manager slacks and stained button ups and kick the shit out of their recipes. He wanted the coveted bang bang sauce of the 90s and I made it by palate alone. The other “chefs” couldn’t replicate it. The only reason I was moved into the kitchen was because I kept firing my KMs. I recall my old boss chatting with me when I opened Southern “when did you learn how to cook like this?” Honesty at first I found about three dozen things that looked like they’d work great for a Sunday dinner and worked around that.

Braising short rib? Never done it before

Smoking pork butts? First time.

Bechamel? I had one recipe I manipulated 10 different ways. The og cheese sauce for the Mac was our old steakhouse spinach dip sauce. I mean cmon man it’s butter, flour and cream for fucks sake. Add cheese and you’ve made a mornay. Add some peppers and people are going ape shit while dipping tortillas in it. Subtract the butter for some animal lard and you have gravy. Buy the cow from a local farmer, butcher it yourself, take the bones and cook them down for a slow stock, add some root veggies from the farm that charges $13 for two bunches of carrots at the Saturday market. Add some over the top gastrique (foodies love syllables) paired with brown butter something haricot, atop a piece of beef that’s been sitting dry for 145 months and then get Michelin on the phone pronto! I NEED MY FUCKING STAR. Comes with twice cooked pomme frites (frozen french fries)

I can say all of this because I lived this. Ever been in a vocation you were good at but didn’t enjoy?

It’s the ego in me that always try to pull me back.

Not my passion

I want to win it all. All the time. I walk downtown and find myself peering into vacant buildings. I’m visualizing floor plans, sign branding and concepts.

I can see color schemes, platings walking by the window.

Asses in the seats.

In my head I’m “I would fucking kick the shit out of this place if I opened a spot here. I’m even better than I used to be”

Yep. I’m rested, I’m more creative, I’m much MUCH more grounded. I don’t live in fear of the open bar anymore. I’d actually considered selling some beer and wine at Graze. It’s about the only way I could get some of my friends to come see me.

Then in my head as I’m creating the concept I start visualizing call-ins

Short staffed kitchens

Oven breaking down on a Sunday

Karen leaving a 1 star review because my hungover bartender threw up on her blouse

$1200 smallwares orders

And then I keep walking

You don’t get that part of me again.

Did you know there was a teeny tiny chance of Southern being resurrected? Very recently. My list of demands would’ve been too much. Not for the concept itself but for my sanity.

But

I would’ve blown the fucking doors off.

That’s my kitchen ego trying to break in. Still

Man I would love to create some concepts that I could walk away from after the doors open. Like having kids. The fun is trying. The hard part is when it’s time to raise them.

I’m not raising anymore kids. I’ll babysit for a short period of time but that’s it. I like to hand the kids off once I get tired.

People often ask me what goes through my head when I do these giant tables and I’m just camping man. I’m sitting next to a campfire or I’m having fish tacos with my favorite party of three at the Shrimp Basket in the gulf. Or on the front porch with the wife chatting about our day.

That’s my real passion. Bechamel be damned.

But

I make a damn good cheese sauce.

On occasion I get the itch and I have to scratch it. Writing about it is much cheaper than opening another concept. No I’m not opening a restaurant but Goddamit my ego keeps coming back with “it would kick ass”

Yeah you’re damn right it would. Mine!

I got it out of my system before my next walk. I may need to change my route for a bit.

Cheers