First Second Chance by Jason King

Tupac Shakur has a verse... the realest shit I ever wrote. This is a food or lifestyle blog, if you will - not a mid 90's gangster rap album. So it remains to be seen how accurately that verse can relate to what I am going to write.

Within the confines that my other posts have built, this is a honest as I can be about my experience as a cook, chef, server, or bartender - of which I've been all.

I've had a lot of great jobs over the years. When one is talented and can perform, it's not difficult to stay employed. In the restaurant business a cook can benefit from working in different kitchens, as a way to grow. Journeymen, if you will - I have been that, I'd say.

I have no culinary background educationally speaking, besides experience. I don't have a pastry class under my belt. Instead I filled in for a pastry cook who was sick once. Rather I shadowed a grumpy old dessert chef, when he'd allow. This has been my syllabus.

My education, if you will, if not for one restaurant owner, would be nil. That man gave me a life changing second chance.

If not for him rehiring me I may have gone another route. Had I took to another trade, this could be a landscaping or deck building blog.

After a just termination from my first full service restaurant job, prior to a battle with bipolar disorder, I returned to the restaurant a few nights a week. I really had no where else to go.

I would sit at the bar and eat wings. Some of my oldest friends worked there, as well as the man who originally inspired me to cook. It felt comfortable there.

The owner was always gone by the time I got there. I knew he still disliked me; I would time my arrival to ensure we'd not cross paths.

One week, Ray the GM (my first chef) came out to the bar. I'm imagining he'd deliver his usual quote of random classic rock knowledge or fun food fact. Instead he informs me the dishwasher had quit and, if I wanted to work off my dinner I could.

I had experienced situations during my hiatus as a direct result of bipolar disorder. Events that should have killed me. Everyone there had heard about it, some more than others.

As I walked back, putting on an apron, a few people clapped. I was a badass cook there once. They were happy to see me there on dish. I was happy to be there. Ray hid it from the owner.

This happened a few more times, working my dinner off in the dish pit. Then one night, as I sat at the bar, the owner Tom came out. Fuck he hadn't left yet, I thought. He came right up to me and asked to speak to me in the back.

In the back dining room he colorfully explained why he didn't want to, but would give me another chance. I took it.

Today I reflect and write about a life of cooking. Which is good, since if he hadn't given me that second chance, this would be a lousy landscaping blog.

I don't know shit about landscaping.