This is the time before I married my soulmate, or at least that is the way she characterizes it.
But somewhere in this void, there was a rapidly-aging young man that had it made: a rich girlfriend with a chip on her shoulder.
Kiki.
She was a very nice-bodied friend of mine, who, by convenience, sort of became my girlfriend.
She would show her stuffy parents, alright.
And evidently, I was just the one she would show them with.
She threw her money away in bunches: trips to Europe and concerts, she was really something else.
I was a hot-shot young chef bringing my classic French recipes to the coast and presenting them in flashy California-cuisine style plates.
I was living in a real meat market of an apartment building overlooking the marina and the incredible net worth they represented, bobbing in the setting sun.
I thought I had it made.
I was making bank from a wealthy group of businessmen that specialized in beautiful coastal locations for their upscale restaurants. I was Executive Chef of a southern coastal boutique eatery and it was a high-visibility location.
Woulda.
Coulda.
Shoulda.
But, if you have read more than a few of my blogs you will know that I am a big believer in Mitch Albom's masterpiece The Five People You Meet in Heaven. I find the book both cathartic and redeeming.
It is for that reason I fiercely avoid regret; I would fear that if one small piece of the puzzle were disturbed, I would not be here, waking up every day to the one person that loves me more than I do.
I seriously never-in-a-million-years would have believed that I, the Satin Latin, would ever find one person to spend the rest of my days with.
One?
I was having trouble getting it down to two or three. (hey it was Las Vegas in the early eighties).
So after taking my show to the coast, I would end up taking a step DOWN from Executive Chef of the highest-volume restaurant between San Clemente and San Francisco, for the opportunity to work UNDER the French Master Renaud DeFond.
Smartest move I ever made.
It was Chef DeFond that sent me BACK to Las Vegas to finish my ice-carving skills under a renown Master at The Benihana before he would allow me to carve for one of his brunches.
The stones on this guy!
Attention to the smallest details.
Unfortunately, I would find that I also inherited some of his colder, less-endearing traits, including intentionally isolating the staff in the Chef-workers dynamic. I think I was one of the last of my wave of classically trained and/or apprenticed chefs before being replaced with a new wave of chefs.
Kinder, more gentler Chefs.
That business is hard enough to do when everything is going right without some asshole (like me) yelling at you.
No apologies.
It was how I was taught and I was great at it.
Hell, to me, would not be the presence of fire, terror, or eternal suffering and damnation.
No.
Just keep me from getting next to Karen.
And of course, Karen, the Domestic Despot, will tell you none of this happened.
Stay well.
.
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