Bars and Ink on my Wrist

Just started working at a bar as a short order cook with the intention to start bar tending. This job sucks because although it’s a nice place, there are no customers. This is a huge step down in terms of where I was working before and “how I got here”, also I find it somewhat demeaning. Nonetheless, it is a job and it began on Valentine’s Day this year.

Sometimes you find yourself in a place and time with no understanding of how you got there. This must have been what David Byrne was talking about. I found myself just starting to work at this bar the other night. I asked myself this lyrical question because of how much I felt like I was wasting my time. I cooked about ten different items ranging from burgers and salads to mozzarella sticks and nachos. I watched “The Ohio State” lose to Wisconsin in men’s basketball. By the end of the night with two Pabst Blue Ribbons in me and the ability to recite that evening's entire ESPN SportsCenter coverage, I was ready to go. With a fifteen dollar tip in my pocket and friends waiting outside for me, I left.

"Dance Now, Fuck Later" was the name of the warehouse party we all went to. This wasn’t necessarily a bar nor did they serve food but the time and place went together like a “be mine” card and chocolates. Upon entering the warehouse I quickly received some ink on my wrist allowing me to enter and exit at my discretion. If this was a floral arrangement sent to your sweetheart it would consist of Beck's beer, a cocktail of drugs, Men, Women, the Gay community, neon lights, expensive projectors and music. Not a bad Valentine’s gift. There was no massacre this evening. However, trying to depart a warehouse and find a cab way to close to the arrival of the sun almost resulted in mass execution.

I woke up Sunday, tired, realizing I had to go back to that shitty bar I just started working at. I showed up an hour late, frantically set up doing the little amount of work necessary to running this operation only to sit back a read the Sunday paper. At least there was pool league practice this day and the All-star basketball game was on, the West crushed the East. We closed early and not having my other job or school to report to on Monday I figured I might as well stay and have a few free Pabsts. After four beers and six games of pool I was ready to leave. I said a few words to my new manager about “how much I think this job is going to work out” and left with a twelve dollar tip in my pocket.

On my half buzzed rainy ride home, I ran into a friend’s older brother who had an extra ticket to Don Caballero at the Independent. The ticket was ten bucks I just so happen to have twelve. After presenting my ticket to the guy at the door I again received a stamp on my wrist. The Independent had the same characteristics as “Dance Now, Fuck Later” and Don Caballero was loud! However, The Independent has a full bar that I indulged in. Three seven and sevens later, my ears were ringing and I was on my way home. I was thinking that if The Independent served food it would be just as shitty as a place to work as the bar I just started at. Although you would be able to see live shows which would be a plus, you would still have to cook mundane boring bullshit food. At least you would be busy doing it.THE INDEPENDENT

Sunday was a good day not to have to be obligated to do anything. I watched one hundred and forty-eight years of presidential history on The History channel which was appropriate giving the day. After spending an entire day of watching television I decided I should go see movie. I went and saw Slumdog Millionaire, which featured a few songs I had heard a couple nights previous. The Kabuki Theater is remolded, new and confusing to find from the garage. Nonetheless we made it to the show with time to spare. The Kabuki Theater has what they call a balcony bar but really it is just a bar, I didn’t see anything balcony about it. Showed the guy my I.D. to get in and again received some ink on the wrist. I bought a couple of beers so I wouldn’t have to leave my seat, walk out of the theater, down the hall and into the “balcony bar”. After buying our drinks, we searched for the right theater and again I found myself reciting David Byrne lines thinking “this must be the place”.THE KABUKI THEATER

All in all it was good weekend brought on by a slew of going out to bars after spending my days working inside of one. This is how the service industry works and how it has always worked in my experience moving around. You spend all day or night working at some bar/restaurant/café, gain a little chump change in tips just to find yourself redistributing to people doing the same job as you. It goes full circle like the ring of ink on your wrist at a club or the mnemonic recollection of music and events.DAVID BYRNE

How I got Here

There are several ways to make a living in America, often people do not know what it is they want to do to make a buck. I was no different; however I fell into something that was not only a livelihood, but also an opportunity to travel around. I accidently learned a skill and trade beginning at the young age of thirteen. Thirteen years later I found myself working as a professional chef. This is my story of a journey through the culinary industry from working on a line and an American lifestyle.

In this MTV driving culture with reality shows like The Real World and MTV’s Spring Break along with movies like Jackass and Borat, my generation has been exploited as a sex driving party culture. Through my experience as a cook I was able to par take in this American ritual.

I started working as a dishwasher at the tender age of thirteen after being asked by a stranger, “Hey kid, you want a job.” That stranger would end up becoming a dear friend to me and the sole person responsible for sending me down the path of being cooking. I worked for this man all through high school and eventually parted ways because he put the idea in my head that I was capable of working anywhere. I put this suggestion to test when I was nineteen and moved to Ocean City, Maryland. Not experiencing what it meant to go to college and live in a dorm or what it meant to go on spring break, I quickly got both of these experiences when I arrived in O.C., MD..

I lived with sixteen guys in a six bedroom, two bathroom apartment on the second floor. Below us was the mirror image of our apartment but instead it was sixteen girls. Needless to say it was the best summer of my life. We all worked and lived at the same restaurant one hundred feet from the beach. I now knew what I had been exposed to after all those years watching MTV. That was an important summer because I had proved to myself that I truly could support myself cooking.

After years of desiring to move to California, I finally had something tangible that would work. I had already moved to Maryland, lived, worked and partied; I felt confident that I could make California possible. I spent only a night packing up my things and car. To my Mother’s horror and dismay, I left the next morning to drive cross country. This is when I learned what it really meant to be supporting yourself as a line cook. Six years later with a whole lot more kitchen experience, I made it to San Francisco.