When I was 13 years old, my parents took me into the Rock Bottom Brewing Company, in Castle Rock, Colorado. I proceeded to order the filet mignon and pronounced it as such, the way it’s spelled. I will never live it down. I ended up falling in love with cooking and ever since that day, my mother and chefs have had a story to share.
A week ago, I unknowingly ended up at the same restaurant for a best friends’ birthday. Brotherhood began to swirl, along with my “career” that had so efficiently consumed that middle-time. 13 years of professional recollection and in the seconds of silence I began wondering which door would open next.
Between The filet mignon and the “filet mignon” I became a dishwasher, cook, saucier, sous, kitchen manager, and head chef.
Insane, out of control, stressful, and I have only maybe three or more times been so in love. Of course, there are the days I stare into the oblivion and the plethora of tickets and question every decision I have made that has lead me here, or there, or anywhere. It is in the fleeting calming moments where I would often regain a since of purpose. However, it is in, near, and over the fire that I know I have found my purpose, the life of a chef.
There is nothing to cooking really, all we do is stand in front of something that will hurt us, living a lifestyle that will take years off our life, sweating, bleeding, crying (onions, chefs don’t cry) searching for that masterpiece on a plate. And when I find it, I inhale it, because it will vanish as quick as bliss. Yet, it is still a moment in time I can recreate for others.