No Complaints

When it comes to dining out, I possess a great deal of empathy for people employed in the food service industry, from the dishwasher trainee to the prissy Executive Chef; all of them.

In my career, and you have heard this a thousand times before, I’m sure, but I started at the lowest of the low rungs.

I started as my big brother Ed’s slave, er, employee.

I was assigned the dirtiest, most foul jobs available and I never complained.

I hate whiners.

I shut up and did what I would do the rest of my working career: outwork everyone else.

I would eventually migrate to Las Vegas and picked up mad skills which I would employ for the remainder of my Chef career.

I already had the work ethic required of a big-time chef, now I was able to first understand and then fine-tune the technical aspects needed to, as my mentor Chef Defond would tell me,: “Make history while the other cooks are making entrees.”

Unfortunately, I carried much of his arrogance with me when I left the Santa Barbara resort after marrying Karen.

I went to a local eatery this afternoon on an “off” hour, 3 PM, and I ordered a twelve oz. New York steak. Quite simply put, it was on a par with the finest steaks I have ever eaten, and Maddogg loves his steaks.

I couldn’t complain about the salad; I still have to reconcile the fact that as far as portion control goes, there is none out here.

A family of four could have eaten my “side” salad and had little room for much else.

The steak arrived nicely charred and a perfect rare-to-medium rare. It had been lightly salted on the broiler, and that’s it.

No Cajun spice.

No barbecue spice.

No demi-glace.

No beef reductions.

No bone marrow.

No butter.

Salt.

I could not complain about the service, although many times, and I know you’ve done it too, you go in during the “off” or slow time and it can be a real negligent nightmare.

The girl was right there, and thankfully, she did not badger, but she was a pro and knew when to visually check on my progress, and when to chat.

The broccoli was cooked perfectly, not the al dente or crisp crudite of past times.

The little sourdough roll with creamery butter was an added treat, and I did not follow my urge to try a dessert, but I will maybe next time.

If you are alive, you shouldn’t have any complaints.

I will start shopping for Karen tonight, although I still don’t know what to get her that she doesn’t already have.

It is starting to turn cold (7 degrees by Thursday) so I am hoping we will get a white Christmas and I can build a fire in the fireplace.

Money.

I hope each and everyone who sees these words knows that you are loved and admired in this sphere of existence, and living a Good Life is indeed, the best revenge.

Stay well.