It was suggested to me at the age of 12 that I pursue a career in cooking, perhaps attend the Culinary Institute Of America (CIA as it is known to those in the biz). Before that day and everyday in my life some of my happiest and most calm, clear and creative moments have been in the kitchen. I have wanted nothing more than to become a Chef.
Around that same age, I was entrenched in horses and horse shows. My Mother, not wanting me to become a spoiled child, decided that it would be best for me to get a job to support that habit. So, at 13, during my summer vacation when all my friends were busy playing on the beach, camping with their families, or going somewhere exotic, I was elbow deep in dishes, hamburger, or mayo in the kitchen of a local cafe. I did this for 3 summers and I was hooked on life in the restaurant business. I look back at it now with both pride and bitterness; Pride in the fact that I have now been doing this for 13 years (I took a couple years off here and there), and bitterness because I was forced into the adult world much too soon and feel a deep loss for the child in me that was forced to grow up way too fast.
I then went on to work in various restaurants, each one a little bit better than the last, until I finally reached the pinnacle, Fine Dining. The catch with all of it was, that I started out in the kitchen, since that is, ironically the place with all the things that can maim or kill you, where people who are new to working in restaurants or America, are placed. Ah yes, the highly under appreciated job as The Dishwasher. Then as one becomes more comfortable or shows tenacity and a certain level of competence and comprehension is moved up to Prep Cook and from there, if still showing all the tenacity and speed if not more so then the day of starting, are moved to the prestigious Line, to be a Line Cook. So there you have it, the succession of jobs that it takes to get to just the humble beginnings of learning to become a Chef.
Here is where I took a wrong turn. I was lured by the cash flow from table to pocket of those that worked the front of the house. Then I was graced with good looks so being in the kitchen was a distraction and I was more often then not offered jobs in the dining Room, despite my yearning to stay in the kitchen. Here I was a cook in soul and mind, already building a slightly jaded view of waiters and customers, and a tongue as sharp and painful as the knife's I used, placed at the front door to greet and seat customers. I was young, and the first in my family to work in a restaurant, I had no idea what was in store for me. My first job in the front of the house as a hostess was a real eye opener.
