I got the job.
I mean I got the job I really, really, really want. I should be clinking cosmopolitans. But instead, I am sitting here staring at this computer wondering how I'm going to make ends meet.
How do I get by on a salary that I was making when I first graduated from college 14 years ago?
Listen, you and me are going to have to figure this out together. One of you out there in cybersapce has got to be in financial services and looking for a pet project.
Scratch that idea – if you're in financial services then you're probably loosing your job tomorrow and I'm the one that's going to have to support you!
It's one thing to be living abroad and sucking up the lack of sufficient funds to "experience" and "adventure". It's another thing to be on home turf and chomping down on knuckle sandwiches.
Was it me who said that the street food here was delicious? I feel like I am the street food now.
Ah, well, we can't die with our money. We can't take it with us. It's only life after all and I certainly won't starve – that's the great thing about working in a kitchen. Oh heck, this job is sort of like my postdoc in beautiful food. Why not splurge on education right?
On the sunny side: the restaurant is stunning, the kitchen sleek and modern, the food exquisitie, the staff exceptional, and the air circulation fantastic. What more could a girl – who used to hide out in the walk-in refrigerator to escape the nauseating heat – ask for?
A ridiculously high salary? Thank God for overtime. I need all the hours I can get.
But really that's the breaks. As one of my girlfriend's put it: you chose the profession.
Yes I did. And If I want to learn from the best, then I have to suck it up. And I will, because I do. (I'm sounding like a marriage ceremony).
If you don't love food, love sweating it out over the fire, love crazy people who swing sauté pans around like swords and somehow have time to joke while turning out 210 covers in one evening – then you certainly won't love being a cook because (wait for the drum roll....) there's no money it!
Now that I've got that out of my system, it's time to find a knife grinder in New York so I can start work with my knives razor sharp.
Either that or an organ grinder.
I wonder if I could make extra tips as a dancing monkey? I'm sure I have a red vest somewhere...