Well, I figure we have another month of middle class income.
I gave notice. Two weeks of labor and two weeks of paid vacation, so that's going to get us to mid May.
Then I go on wages that I earned in college while I'm looking at the short side of 40.
Amazing how the Earth spins and puts you right back where you started, huh?
I'm looking forward to interviewing chefs. Cristof and Ertgutn and Wolfgang and Tomas. I'm looking for an Austrian that is like four goose steps to the left of a complete nazi war dog. Ok, without the racist scary stuff. But a hard-ass with good posture and a uniform fetish who can bring some discipline to that kitchen. This whole thing of flip flops and tank tops in the kitchen is SO freaking me out. And finger licking. God DAMN, people! Why don't you just rub that piece of bread on the floor under Jorge's feet on the line?
The culture of what I'm walking into is so dysfunctional that every single aspect of it will have to be rethought and redone and implemented with reason and measure and care. The loyal employees of the former regime have been told no so many times that they stopped asking for anything. They stopped thinking for themselves. I've got to empower them to think for themselves with confidence because they KNOW what is expected and have the tools to make it happen. They will all need a fair and unbiased review within the first week to establish a baseline.
The whole kitchen just rambles along, everybody doing what they think needs doing. There are no divisions. If they run out of salads at lunch in the store front, the kitchen may or may not supply more. Every catering job I've seen go out of there has missed something. Something vital, extra wine glasses, crackers, a wine key, "where's the food for the museum? these people eat at 7:30." uhhh, it's 6:40, and there's not a van here to bring it. I needed 15 box lunches and you only sent 13; where are the brownies? is there punch for this punch bowl? Shit like that. Which is where Chef Nazi comes in.
Why would I give up corporate bonuses, filing hundred thousand dollar invoices and irate oil company men for this?
Because I've got a recipe for strawberry rhubarb pie that will make you want to smack your mama and I want to wear Crocs to work everyday instead of stockings and pumps.
*Sharp as a knife* But not a knife from that existing collection.