Never in a million—or maybe three million—years did I imagine this would be my life. Ten years ago, I couldn't have pictured myself traveling to so many countries and actually working in kitchens all over the globe. Not me, the quintessential New Yorker! Not the guy everyone calls for the next big startup, the one who, in some way, helps feed New York and even much of America, whether you realize it or not. Everyone thought I wouldn't last outside New York, let alone the United States, for more than a quick vacation. Well, the universe had other plans, and boy, am I grateful!
Here's the thing: I wasn't searching—or at least I thought I wasn't—for some grand adventure. I didn't realize there was life beyond my routine back home. Why would I? I was wildly overpaid and wanted for nothing. I could eat whatever, whenever. I had friends, women, a nice place—you name it. But inside, I was empty as fuck. That's not what people saw on the outside, though. I was killing myself working for the man, like many others. But I think the real problem was that when your job is to solve everyone else's problems, you never solve your own. So how did a seemingly lost soul find salvation in the very thing causing him so much grief: a kitchen?
Most of my life has revolved around kitchens. My first kitchen experiences were back in Jersey as a young teen, working weekends at Peterpank Diner. My main task was dropping off dishes as a busboy. Then came Laura's Pancake House, where I got my first real taste of kitchen life. Back then, I was only allowed to cook pancakes with pre-mixed batter, but hey, it was a start, right?
Somehow, I ended up in the kitchen of a place called RazMaTazz, a more sophisticated version of your usual Chuck E. Cheese. Pizza machines, fryers, a grill, and an open kitchen where guests could watch their food being prepared. One day, working alongside some other guys, it struck me that they weren't doing things the way I would if I were at their stations, and I started offering suggestions. It felt like I could do more than just smooth things out; I could actually speed things up.
Charlie, my newest friend, was working the grill station, and he, for some reason, would wait for the first ticket to come into the kitchen even though we knew there was a 100 percent chance that the first orders would have at least one burger. I suggested to him that, given the average cook time of five minutes, he could safely add four burgers to the grill once it had been announced that we were open—fucking game changer for him, as he was now ahead of the pack without sacrificing quality.
Later that week, I made another suggestion. Given the success of my last one, Charlie couldn't wait till after the shift to discuss it. "No way, I want to know right fucking now, Rob!" It seemed to me a bit of a mess at his station due to having to dress each burger each time with lettuce, tomato, and onion. The solution we later named "The Burger Set." Instead of one bin with each ingredient, we now would assemble three bins with the three ingredients already stacked together. I got a raise for this one, although I don't know for sure why no one hadn't thought of this before.
Lastly, at least there, it seemed that every time one of us was running low on mise en place, we would have to leave our stations to refill product. I suggested to the boss that, now since Charlie could handle the grill by himself, or anyone could given our current volumes, we had money to hire a Kitchen Runner that would keep all our stations full all the time, drastically reducing the time we needed to be away from our section down to a few pee breaks. What I didn't know was that the boss, whose job it was to do exactly what were simple suggestions from me, had been taking credit for our newfound efficiency the whole time, and I was about to discover I had a knack for this.
Soon after my dad passed away, some friends who worked at a nearby Wendy's suggested I interview there, since the place was always slammed, mostly due to its location inside Woodbridge Center Mall. I met with the manager and was hired immediately. Aside from the shitty blue uniform, burger life ended up having its perks. I remember bringing sacks of the stuff home at the end of a shift to feed the other basically homeless boy I shared an apartment with at the time. Night shifts left me open to continue my education, and it was working.
After about six months, I noticed a woman, not in a Wendy's uniform, staring at me through most of a shift. I was approached by my friend and manager, who asked if I was interested in taking on more responsibility, and then sat me down with the woman, who, as it turned out, was a regional manager from New York. I don't remember her name, but we chatted a few times after working a few shifts together. At some point, I remember thinking she couldn't be serious, noting that she didn't follow any of the "specs" in any of my many manuals.
We sat down again a few weeks later, and I do remember her question. She asked me where I saw myself in five years. Anyone who knows me won't be surprised by my answer. I looked her dead in the face and replied, "With your job, if you keep doing it the way you are. But not five years... more like five minutes!" She nodded and asked if I would like to enter the management program. I was 15. Here is where shit gets cloudy. A ton of stuff happened and happened very quickly, so I will say that mom dies, my 1969 Cougar I had spent making it magazine-worthy got totaled care of the then-girlfriend, and with no family to help or, as I see it now, discourage me, I ended up in New York City.
Let's fast forward a bit, past me living in my car managing the kitchen of Hamburger Harry's in Times Square. Let's skip Hard Rock Cafe and Hale & Hearty Soups. As time went on, and my kitchens grew in size from a few hundred square feet to my last kitchen at Blue Apron that was 1 million square feet, few things changed. That is until the BIG MOVE. With time served at Blue 'Toilet' and a few bucks to help get us started, we left the States in search of adventure....
You are probably asking why Vietnam and how. Okay, I'll tell ya! During some stints in New York kitchens, I made a lot of friends. One friend in particular became very close, and he was gifted with the opportunity to do a fair bit of travel. One day we were taking the number one train from Christopher Street to 50th Street where one of our revered drinking holes sat. Siberia was where we went to hang out most times, and this time was no different.
He had just returned back from his second trip to Vietnam and during casual conversation about the culture, people, and food, he made me promise, yes promise with the pinky and everything, that one day I would visit what would end up being his favorite travel destination of all: Vietnam. This promise was not to just go for a two-week vacation—no, I was sworn to go and spend real time there, see the country, experience the people, culture, and food.
I woke up early one morning and just before coffee I received a call. "Hey it's me, you off today?" It was a mutual friend of ours. "Is your TV on?" No, I replied. "Okay I am coming over to pick you up and we can go out. Don't turn on the TV!" You probably guessed by now that I turned the fucking thing on, expecting to get news of some food-related recall or maybe my company has killed hundreds of subscribers due to something. Nothing jumped out right away, so I had my coffee, and then it happened. My friend was dead.
Now I'm pretty cool at keeping my shit together mostly, but this was not one of those moments. Something in me at that very moment had me questioning everything, even life itself. How the? What the? For a few hours, and then the rage came. After meeting my wife after she got out of work, she met me at a bar in Brooklyn where some of my friends gathered, knowing I would probably head there to self-medicate myself to sleep. They had obviously heard the news and knew our connection and that I was probably a little fucked by the news.
During one of my rants to my now-wife Larissa, I must have said something to the effect of "fuck this shit, I want out." Fast forward a few weeks and she reminded me of what I had said: "You still feel like leaving?" Since I was now free of the big blue bullshit box and had finished my contract, it would only mean I had to wait for her to finish the school year. I said, "You know what? We have enough cash now that fuck it! Let's at least try!" When the subject of where to start looking for options came up, it all came back to one promise made and one that I intended on keeping or die trying....
Landing in Vietnam, it only took a few months to get back into the kitchen, but this time was different. Instead of one very large kitchen, I traded up for ten! Scattered throughout the country, I would fly from one beach club to a private island to a big-city hotel. I can state the obvious about kitchens in subtropical areas being hot, but I couldn't really convey just how hot a beach bar kitchen is when the outside temperature is 105. There is just no way to even begin to explain in words what a miserable thing that can be. When even a breezy pig roast on the beach for 100 people sends you to the ground with what had to be a mild heat stroke, and your friends grab you and help you into the sea to cool off. The new friends, the beautiful surroundings, and a cocktail with your feet in the sand, that made it bearable. Given all these challenges, at the end of the day, I would always end up in my safe space... the kitchen.
Kitchens are very much the same everywhere you go. Cooks are all assholes. They play their music too loud. They don't follow schedules well. They all party too much. They swear like sailors. They have families they rarely get to see. They wear the wrong shoes to work. They can all dance when it's crunch time, and yes, this is true of every kitchen on earth. I have been in more than a few countries cooking now, so yeah, it's not hard to see why this is my domain. I mean, someone has to keep it all together, right? Kitchens are a safe space for those who call one home can very well call them all home.
My current kitchen in the heart of Hanoi, I know, won't be my last, and I suspect my last breath will more than likely be taken holding a dupe in my hand, and that's okay. I love some more than others, and always keep in mind that they all must be treated gently and with respect. They can bite if you're not careful. You have to keep working at them as you would any relationship. You must keep it as clean as an open wound, or it will get infected. You need to trust it with your life, and in return, it will feed you and your family. They are the places you will laugh and cry the hardest in. They move on sometimes, but trust me, you never forget what made this one or that one special. They are not always fun and can get angry and hot, but you always know they will eventually cool down. So what is it then? Is the kitchen actually a place one can call home?
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