Dear Kyle

Kyle,

you called me in for a three-hour training shift and I showed up cleanly shaven in a chef’s coat, a whole load of homework, hangover and money-stress kicking in the back of my whiskey addled brain piece; I was surprised you had me washing dishes and cutting lardons from slabs of pig belly when the rush hit. I asked questions of the new guy, “where does the ring mold live?” “Is this how Kyle wants the hanger steaks?” while you sat in the back of your bistro on the internet, not talking. A three-hour stage turned into an eight hour full­­­­– Hatred for the asshole boss men of the world slowly braised as I mopped the floor and finished the dishes, and then for the glad-handing formalities, all the cooks and wait staff weary. “Kyle, I really enjoyed my first day here.” You asked for a resume, which I did not have, on account of your having hired me last week after a short conversation about my experience: cooking Sunday meals with Sienese grandmothers, knowing by muscle memory every step of the salumi making process from pig in bullets head to ideal climactic conditions of the dry cure, my punk rock, fuck-it-all-for-the-food line cook sensibilities. What did I do wrong? Kyle, call me vain and prideful (you’d be right) but I do not want to work for you or your bourgy establishment.

Best,

Will