Following yesterday’s news that we won’t be signing the official paperwork for the restaurant today as planned, today has lost some of its lustre.
It also means I have no excuse for not doing the stack of boring jobs outlined on the ‘to-do’ list.
I am convinced I get all the boring jobs, while Gregory swans around being creative, dramatic and…well, dramatic.
I had always assumed that being the performer in this union, I would be the dramatic one.
Turns out I was wrong.
Chefs are not just highly combustable pressure cookers. They’re highly combustable pressure cookers with an artistic bent that must be satisfied lest they wander about aimlessly, dreaming up sauces and plating designs, their ultimate crockery wish-list and whether or not fennel pollen is necessary on a certain dessert.
It’s like living with Picasso at the moment. Minus the mistresses and other wives.
Anyway, I’ve dawdled long enough on this blog, the second draft of the servers manual is begging for a rewrite.
Don’t mind me, I’ll just type my fingers to the bone, while Gregory meets with his Chefs – again – and revises the revision of the revised menu.
*This blog is scribed by Naomi, who spent her 20′s living the life of a performer in NYC, which is where she met her dramatic chef husband, Gregory. He might not like it, but this post is based in fact!