I'm writing a book of essays

Recipe: Tagliatelle with Ligurian Walnut Sauce

Below is an essay in draft form, incomplete, but an essence of what you can expect from me. I feel vulnerable putting this up so early before edits and running a fine toothed comb through the meat. My hope is that my message, though still being refined, is one of authenticity to what it means to be human. Allow me to present, “Michelin Manager.”

Michelin Manager.

a rare image of me in my management days, circa 2019.

The same alarm rings on my phone promptly at 9AM. Though, most days I mentally try to beat it by “naturally” waking up at 8:55AM. The eternal sunshine of Northern California holds an everlasting optimism to it. Today, just like everyday, I’m grateful. I was chosen recently to be a manager of a three star Michelin restaurant. I wasn’t the first choice, but that doesn’t matter. I was given the opportunity because another person turned it down. I’m eager to prove that I should’ve been the first choice. Every move I make is calculated. The smile I hide behind is dished out in an effusive manner, however, I’m clocking every unreturned email, every unanswered text from my peers. So much is hidden beneath my perfected lacquer.  

I stretch and feel the tender parts of my body offering care and caress where needed. My living situation is minimal to narrow my focus primarily on work. My day begins with nourishment. A sufficient avocado toast with a poached egg and a black coffee sustains me through family meal. My admin duties are chipped away in small doses from home and “on the road.” My passions are somehow linked to supporting the strength of my role at the restaurant. Culturally speaking, anyone that walks through the doors of the restaurant would be able to tell that I am well read, well adjusted and up to speed on what's happening. I have two hours to spare before my early call time for a managers meeting. 

My clothes are delicately hung and I peel away the thin plastic protecting my dry cleaned Italian shirts. The suits I wear evoke a rich sartorial heritage purposefully consistent with the brand of the restaurant. Recently I was fitted for two bespoke suits. I chose the fabrics, the style and the tailoring. The suits are made to order once the selections have been made. Today I’m opting for the suit with a pique lapel in a deep navy tartan. The buttons have oceanic hues reminiscent of the mother of pearl spoons we offer at the restaurant for the famed seated canapé. Every aspect of the suit is flattering. In fact, it gets better with every wear. To increase the sustainability of my body for the long days and grueling services I’ve opted for compression socks. “The dance,” as we call it, is elegantly performed when my extremities aren’t tired. I take a shoe brush and begin to resurface the polish on my Paul Smith shoes. The four razor blades that grace my face don’t pull much hair. The shaving I do daily is like a person who manicures a lawn that was freshly mowed. Anything less, simply won’t do. 

I feel the quiet sting of the Arcona Raspberry Resurfacing Peel. The natural fruit enzymes in combination with lactic acid calmly give me a youthful glow. Once I’m in the shower I wash my body with a sea sponge and Dr. Bronner’s liquid soap scented in Eucalyptus. The reservations coming in a few hours to the restaurant should know that we’re clean individuals but never able to smell strong scents. I pat myself dry with a fresh towel. My face is spritzed with Josh Rosebrook’s Hydrating Accelerator. I follow the routine with iS Clinical’s Pro Heal Serum chalk full of vitamin C. I hear the soft beeps of my NuFace as I apply the gel to my new skin and graze the device in an upward contouring motion for added lift and definition. I dot iS Clinical Youth Eye Cream onto my ring finger and cautiously pat it in. The whole routine is lovingly finished with one of my favorite moisturizers, also fiercely expensive, Luzern Force de Vie. I emerge from the bathroom looking like a baby dolphin or a new Model during his first season in Milan. The transformation is complete and genuinely necessary. When I don’t follow the means to present as a minted professional, I should hand in my resignation instead. 

I'm one of the small percentage of the staff that get to walk to work. From the bottoms of my feet to the crown of my head I’m in full control. My shoulders sit adjusted and back. Posture, in my opinion, symbolically exudes confidence and power. There’s an aloof quality to me I can’t shake. In my bespoke suit I feel expensive which is ironic when managers earn a portion of the salary captains and back waiters make. My mind is plagued with the old adage, “lead by example.” I have to be the most manicured person in the room, especially when looks and appeal are the surface level beginnings to assess one's preparedness for work. Despite booksmarts, at the three star Michelin apex “looking the part” is half the battle. Myself and one other manager are the fastest with admin. The other managers never learned home row on the keyboard. I watch them type painfully with two index fingers. I’m even beginning to think this line of work is easy as I hunt for ways to lighten others' loads. 

I have to mindfully control myself from eating excessively. Entremet trim, broken shortbreads, poorly shaped chocolates are bountiful during the day. My staff is coming in a few hours and I feel obligated to be mentally alert for whatever version of themselves they decide to bring to work today. As to not show favorites, I embrace them all with the same general enthusiasm. My last review had great marks from the general manager, but he mentioned that it was clear who my favorite employees are. Ashamed, I had some introspection and wanted to rise above this critique. My inner monologue would say, “okay, well if you think that’s the case then I’ll be the arbiter of professionalism.” Since having that talk with myself, I’ve been annoyingly cautious and on edge. I correct and criticize when others are potentially out of line. I’m chasing an unshakable version of myself, one free of fault. 

The active part of my brain is swelling, capturing a constant influx of data. My rest and recoup garner me strength and sharpness no one else can touch. I have an answer for everything. I learn from others' mistakes and adopt them as my own, forcing myself into some creative rehab to build an indestructible façade. When the general manager or chef speaks, I have the ability to quote them directly afterwards. Survival is something they don’t teach on day one of training in these restaurants, you have to have that shit built in. You see, I’ve been operating under survival mode for eight years at this point, each year growing stronger and more able to work the system. Survival isn’t about the day-to-day that I used to feel. I’m playing the long game. I see the reactivity around me. The volatile nature of picking every battle, fighting every fight. I’ve seen the waste of war and know choosing proactivity and good judgment are core principles for keeping your head above water. I refuse to argue, I certainly don’t raise my voice, but I am beginning to question what I stand for. 

A huge part of managing is pairings. I have my own game plans/scenarios that work well for me. The general manager believes he knows what works better than anyone, though his situation is muddied due to his romantic interests with one of the captains on the team. I diplomatically pursue lining the pockets of those I feel deserve their fair share. The greed amongst the elder captains is palpable. Many people believe their tenure warrants bigger paychecks. We work ten to twelve hours continuously, so we know the ins and outs of everyone’s home life, past and present. The stories told are similar to the ones shared at a veteran homes with recollections of being under fire. It's challenging to make a case for everyone’s broken heart and hopeful dream. Diplomacy is my only choice. 

I hold interviews for potential candidates scheduled appropriately when I can give them my full attention. Any candidate more than five minutes late gets turned away, especially if there’s no communication. I can feel how cold I come off. My icy demeanor isn’t on purpose but it protects the values of the restaurant. “A million girls would kill for this job,” a quote from The Devil Wears Prada, holds weight. It’s true. The opportunity to work with this team is rare. We say “no” more than we say “yes” to applicants. I’ve developed a sharp asset to know when someone will work or not. Some of the hetero male managers can’t focus when the female applicants have nailed their makeup or show something else to offer. Looks are something to consider, providing a suggestion, but looks don’t showcase potential. I ask obscure questions hopefully leading to a compelling conversation. This is the proof I need. The guests paying thousands of dollars should be taken care of and entertained with an authentic hire. Hiring is a huge part of my admin and staffing the restaurant with people I can mentor, train and believe in is paramount. Inevitably I know they're the right fit when they reveal their desires. Drive and determination can’t be learned, but are a prerequisite to sustainability at this level. Knowing an employee's North Star is information on how to manipulate them to get their best. 

My first few months managing I would close the restaurant every shift. A pearl of wisdom was given that my closing should be quick so the chef would have to lock up. The nights that didn’t happen I was furious. 9/10 times I was being held up by a militant coffee server who decided to bleach the coffee cups maintaining their white luminosity. I jokingly would offer to help but I had been at the restaurant for eleven hours already and opted to let out a disappointing sigh. Securing a jewel of a restaurant was a pressure I didn’t enjoy at the moment. The sous chef knew I was desperate to leave before him and I would make silly jokes as I dabbed out and sauntered home blissful at my achievement. I already felt alone at this restaurant being one of a few gay people. I wasn’t coupled up, I didn’t want to live there and I had a vibrant imagination. The restaurant was full with overly served people just an hour ago and now sits completely vacant. The humming refrigerators, the gentle breaths of central air and old wood settling into place is eerie. My mind and body are vacant too checking/locking every window and door. When all the lights are out, I sense a mysterious energy shift, the restaurant lets out a sigh of its own. 

Exiting through my last check point the most haunting part of all is when I catch my reflection on the polished glass office door. Frequently I ignore this man looking back at me. He feels foreign although, I know it’s me. As I’ve risen to the top of the food chain I had to suffocate a lot of my own desires and dreams. The reality I occupy is a version of a dream I wanted. Maybe the reflection I see is the man who said no to the managerial promotion. Did he have a freer life? All of the factors I deemed necessary to compete and survive in this arena are beginning to weigh on me. The guests and the employees will never know this reflection I see. I clutch my secrets because it’s all I have. If this was a game of poker, my shades would be dark and my cards are the weapon I reveal at the most gut wrenching moment. I smoke ‘em, collect the winnings and live to play another day.  

---

In 2020 I had ambitions to work at noma in Copenhagen. I completed a two week trail at the restaurant as a part of a scholarship I won with the restaurant I was working at. My “two birds, one stone” approach would hopefully pay off. The pandemic changed all of that. I started a podcast doing only four episodes called, Night Cheese, named after the iconic Liz Lemon (30 Rock) bit where she sings to a plate of cheese after writing comedy in her apartment alone to the tune of Bob Segers, “Night Moves.” The podcast was about highlighting a cheese and having an informed conversation inspired by the cheese with a guest or just myself. I moved to Colorado to escape my dull existence after being furloughed by my employer. A lovely friend of mine offered me a position to work at an all-inclusive ex ghost town resort near Telluride. 

At the Colorado resort, I watched the slow stream dividing the resort from the dirt road trickle down the residuals of winter's past. I could feel my old dreams washing away with the mountain waters. A restaurant concept I had was a return to cooking in primal form, rustic and pleasurable. The ambiance embodied warmth and comfort. The service would be less frills and more substance. I wanted to own a restaurant named after my late mother, Menta. My ambition for the restaurant would radicalize the industry, promising employees a payment structure of fairness but also a return on investment operating quietly as a cooperative. I didn’t want personal gain, rather creating a foundation where my employees would benefit from the profits and their interest in the business. Based on growth and sales, the employees stood to gain something instead of a handful of people not working service at all. Beyond that dream, I fantasized about completing my own Michelin circuit upon adding noma to my resumé. Perhaps I’d eventually be good enough to open my own place. 

On daily hikes around the ghost town resort, I realized the pandemic was a crooked gift. As spiritual as I allow myself to be, I understand the circumstances of life are out of our control. I wasn’t looking for a sign and I didn’t need answers but I got all the information. I was still a manager and occupying a new set of rules. I’d skip shaving for a day or two. I’d arrive late sometimes. I’d hand in inventory at the last minute. I’d flub the schedule a few times. What the Michelin world didn’t afford me was grace. Only a few months ago I was operating under Navy Seal precision and the pandemic shifted my attitude towards how I treat myself. I no longer cared about being the smartest person in the room or the most organized. I could give a rat's ass if someone thought my appearance was “off.” What mattered in the moment was that I was living. 

The air was clean, my lungs full of it. I was happy to have this break from the grind of perfection. I made new friends on the mountain at 9,000 ft elevation. We planned small trips to Telluride and Cortez when restaurants and shops were open again. This little community in southwest Colorado had welcomed me and even gave me the title of “city mouse.” I was definitely a city mouse. My thirst for culture could not be contained. I wasn’t a gear person who needed to go paddle-boarding on the weekends or start contemplating which set of cross country skis I would invest in. When I was living up on the mountain I had a roommate who was a “country mouse,” often taking trips in his Toyota 4 Runner back to Texas to visit family. Meanwhile, I was receiving packages from SSENSE containing an Acne Studios leather jacket and a cashmere Gucci turtleneck. It became obvious to me, I missed New York. 

On my last morning on the mountain my friend Jordan drove me to the airport in Cortez for my connecting flight in Denver to land in New York on December 31st, 2020. Eleven months prior, my mind was fixated on departing my manager role at the three star Michelin establishment. As Jordan and I approached the airport, tears began to form and I felt ill. I thought I was making a mistake to leave such a different but kind group of people behind in my never-ending pursuit of more. Jordan and I had grown to have a special bond. She was full of insight into living in the rural west. Her hospitality is fluid and natural where mine is technical and collegiate. Her sentiments towards me brought on more tears. I can’t stop crying, almost convulsing. We hugged in the kind of way you hold onto a person that you don’t want to let go of. We healed each other that year. You have to let go of the ones you love the most. In my heart I still had some fuel to burn for management, but I knew something would change. 

Arriving in New York was a homecoming. I had a great crew of friends that had been right where I left them in 2012. I took a job as an Assistant General Manager at a two star Michelin restaurant in February. In July I was done. I dabbled in management one more time at a small neighborhood restaurant in SoHo also under the title of Assistant General Manager. I preferred the role over the previous one. My mental health was declining rapidly. Old patterns of dissociation, depression and loneliness emerged. The therapist I had at the time said over Zoom, “Okay, so we’re not going to talk about work today.” Initially, I was furious but his request made me sick of myself. In a birdseye view, I could sense my complaining and wallowing in self pity. I disliked that I had become work obsessed. I handed in my notice and left in August of 2022. The general manager I worked with loved my creative flourishings. She came to the restaurant on my last night, gave me a generous hug and handed me a gift. The gift was the book “The Artist's Way,” by Julia Cameron. She said to me, “this book helped me during a time in my life when I needed it the most.” “The Artist's Way” is usually given in an unforced manner, merely a suggestion. As if synchronicity would have it, my friend Alana called. She asked how I was doing and how my last day went. I told her about the gift from my general manager. Alana paused over the phone, “are you kidding me?”

Alana said that if I was up for changing my life and opening my eyes to a new way of seeing the world I should commit. Alana is a friend that shares an interest in cultivating the divine. With her validation I started reading. “The Artist’s Way” changed my life where another management role couldn’t. My inner compass and values were being honed and listened to. Every aspect of change was scary but soulful. I grew happier each day and I felt genuinely alive. The book is a key in the door and choices feel curiously infinite. The routine and polish I had once perfected edging towards the pinnacle of hospitality morphed into a regiment of self love and nurturing. My inner artist was being fed, cherished and listened to. My life is now a devotion towards creativity. I’ve committed to meditation and writing, both practices have proven their benefits, tenfold. My previous dreams melted away like the snow cap from the mountain in Colorado when I first arrived in May of 2020. Jordan and I had the fortune to complete the Telluride Via Ferrata together. The Via Ferrata is a horizontal hike with sections that involve holding onto iron rods with a sheer dropoff below. Though we were cabled into a line, the height alone was terrifying. One misstep and you’d be dangling out in the open, knowing the true strength of the support harness. My body was shaking during these sections. When the hike was over, we felt vibrant for completing such an exhilarating quest. After completing “The Artist’s Way” I felt a similar sensation, a rebirth I’d been longing for no Michelin star could ever afford me.

Jordan and I during the Via Ferrata, Telluride, 2020.