Wine From a Soup Cup- A Story of Addiction.

The summer I turned 15, a friend called me and asked if I would be interested in bussing with her at the Italian restaurant in town called “Silvesterie’s.”

I was.

The owner and Executive Chef was a Sicilian man with deeply sunken dark-rimmed eyes and a Burt Reynolds mustache, called Bill.  He had been a sniper in the Marines and a professional chef ever since. His food was good. I mean, really good. The Valley has always attracted artists and skilled craftspeople; like the gold at the bottom of a river talented capable people often settled here. 

His standards of service were high and he was passionate about his guests’ dining experience.  It was not his abilities in the kitchen or his back office accounting that sealed his fate.  It was his skills at the bar down the street that led to the eventual closing of Silvesterie’s.

My first day, I was faced with this tired, beaten looking man who lumbered when he walked, like each step was a tremendous effort. He gave the distinct silhouette of being in his third trimester of pregnancy, though that couldn’t be. He achieved this effect by drinking so much his organs swam in his gut, likely looking frantically for an escape from their toxic environment. 

 Bill looked me up and down; and told me that next time I came in, I needed to iron my shirt much better. He explained in no uncertain terms that this was a serious job.  I was to arrive on time and ready to work immediately.  I was to look presentable and leave any problems I was having at home, there.  He was in no way interested in my teen angst. He explained that by being “on time” he meant at least five minutes early.  Any missed shift would result in instant termination.  

In these four walls HE was the king and anything that I was told or taught was to be treated like holy law.  After about ten minutes of hearing all the ways it was possible to lose my new found job; I was turned over to the head waitress, Sue. She was a beautiful, tall woman who looked like a ballerina.  An impression accentuated by the way she wore her long red hair- pinned in a bun on top of her head.  

She looked at my face and giggled a bit.  I can only imagine the expression I must have had after such a warm welcome by the management. She cooed “he is not that bad.  Plus it’s easy.  Just stick with me, I’ll take care of you.”  She was a true service professional.  One of those people that knows it is not a job, but an attitude towards life.

That first day I was shown how to cut the bread and fold the napkin in the basket over perfectly. How to pour the oil and vinegar so that the dark liquid pools at the base of the garlic- neatly surrounded by the oil.  More importantly, I learned how to make them in such a way so that you don’t spill oil all over the table cloth, or your diners.  As time went on and with the constant help of Sue, I came to love the fast paced precision that was necessary to complete a busy dinner service smoothly.

It was not easy.

Bill was militant about the way everything should be done.  The slightest infraction (whether real or perceived) often resulted in a torrent of profanities coming from the kitchen.   Each month there would be at least one new person somewhere in the staff, and it was often better not to ask openly what happened to the former coworker.  It was customary for stories of excommunication to be told in hushed tones over side work at the beginning, or end of the shift by those who had borne witness to the melee.

The restaurant was busy during the weekend with every seat occupied at least once.  For a large upscale restaurant in a small town, this was an achievement.  Especially considering there already was another very busy fine dining restaurant, you could see from the front door. Though Boulder is small and rural, it is 40 minutes away from the Silicon Valley and many people (like my dad) commuted ‘over the hill’ everyday to high powered tech jobs. There was money to be made, and spent in our little town and on the weekends it seemed everyone was determined to do so. 

  On nights like that getting everything done required no mistakes. If the floor (dining room) was not properly prepped it would quickly descend into a living hell.  Properly prepared, it was like a grand ballet. A room full of movement, grace, laughter and joy for both staff and guests alike. It is a thing of beauty. At the end of the night you were handed a wad of cash.  It always looked huge because bussers usually got all the small bills. Working in a restaurant can either be the most amazing experience of a career, or the gateway to an endless pit of despair. Sometimes the same place can be both, just on different nights. 

When I started, Bill looked swollen because he was.  He had been recently told by a doctor that if he did not instantly reduce and then stop his consumption of alcohol, his engorged organs would shut down and he would die.  Sue was a recovering alcoholic, sober 20 years.  She and him often clashed about his drinking.  They had an intense relationship, one that could result in shouting matches before she had finished her night’s paperwork.

Or.

A midnight tryst on top of a table in the back room. It was always hard to tell which one it would be on any given night.  With Sue’s help, over the next few months Bill actually managed to stop drinking entirely.  His belly shrunk and though he still took his nightly stroll down to Joe’s Bar he was actually able to drink only cranberry juice.  Sadly, his progress did not last.  By the same time the following year his cranberry juice became light again, with vodka. The time in between was good though. Our nights were filled with hard work, comradery, genuine affection and well executed services of amazing food. 

One day our dishwasher didn’t show.  While cutting bread in the kitchen Bill asked me if I would be interested in a few dishwashing shifts. 

Starting now.

I jumped at the chance, “did I ever!!” It paid more by the hour, though the tips were less.  Most importantly I didn’t have to iron my shirt and I got to hang out in the kitchen close to the food.  I had decided early in my employment that it looked like a lot more fun back there.  Plus I love the idea of learning more about professional cooking.  I got to play in hot sudsy water and I had no problem being elbow deep in other peoples’ leftovers. The gruesome bits of life have never bothered me much. After all, I was raised to believe that if there was something dead on the side of the road that was cool enough, it should be collected and brought home. 

I really wanted to cook on the line.  Anytime the prep cook took a smoke break and tickets came back, I would jump in.  Pull everything out for the order before anyone else could.  I watched every little detail of each dish’s preparation so that I could perform any part of the process without needing to be told how.

I LOVED how complicated cooking for restaurant service was.  How many little things are involved so that food hits the table at the same time, with each selection perfectly executed.  I appreciated the amount of tasks that had to be performed in order to accomplish this goal.  It involved playing with sharp knives, fire and ended in amazing food.  What could be better?!

Bill saw this passion in me, he liked me and my desire to learn.  Our relationship over the years was of the apprentice, craftsman variety.  He taught me a great many things.  It was not easy.  His liking me didn’t result in any slack.  He was a demanding, tough man to work for, drunk or sober.

I still laugh when people who work in offices talk about multi-tasking. A fax doesn’t burn if you leave it in the tray for a minute too long, making all your other paperwork invalid and necessitating starting everything over again.  The immediacy and perfect execution of each action necessary to pull off technically perfect food is a challenge I have spent my whole life trying to accomplish.

Kitchens were no place for girls. I have been a novelty in almost every kitchen I have ever worked in.  Kitchen humor is dark and of the gallows variety.  Resulting from the fact that most of your days start with your hands wrist deep in one animal carcass or another.

Pranks are constant and you have to be on your toes at all times or someone is going to make a fool of you. There is danger from incompetent co-workers too, who always seem to be trying to find new ways to cut you or burn you.  

Physical injury also comes along with the territory and it is to be treated as a matter of course.  A sure way to end your career in kitchens quickly, is to be sensitive about blood, burns and pain. As spring gaveway to the following summer brought heat, drama and the return of Bill’s invisible posterior monkey. A vicious creature who gladly reattached to his spine and rode him hard into an early grave. 

I was getting more hours in the kitchen, Bill hired another busser and I became full time kitchen staff (though I would still have to fill in on the floor from time to time). One day mid-week two new hires turned out to be ‘no shows’ and I got stuck bussing, dishwashing and prep-cooking all at once. Adding to the fun, we were unexpectedly busy that day. I was running around prepping the food when orders came in, bussing the table after the meal and washing the dishes that resulted. I remember thinking quite clearly I could end all this madness if I just stopped prepping the food in the first place, problem solved. 

Everyone was stressed, Bill and Justin (his sous chef) were slammed on the hot line and tempers were flaring. At one point I was setting dirty dishes down on the sink two feet away from the stove. Justin was angrily scraping excess oil off the flat top. He splashed a large pool of oil toward the grease trap and pain seared my forehead. I squealed, but the dining room had just cleared out. I had five tables to bus and people waiting to be sat. I left the kitchen not realizing how bad the burn was.

After a minute or two I felt my forehead and there was a huge thumb sized bump, I ran to the hall mirror and looked. A pumpkin seed shaped blister had formed in the  middle of my forehead, surrounded by other smaller ones, this was not good. I kept on doing what I was doing, knowing eventually someone was going to notice and the proverbial excrement was going to hit the fan. Bill had been on Justin’s case for the past week and Justin was fed up with Bill’s increased drinking. They were speeding toward an impasse and I feared that this was going to be the big boom.

Sure enough, an hour later Bill took a good look at me and asked what had happened. I tried to play dumb, I liked Justin. I said I “didn’t really know.” I had just been putting dishes down in the dish pit and that was all it took, he whirled on Justin and I promptly left the kitchen. I didn’t have to be in the room to hear what happened next. 

After about five minutes of yelling Justin came out back and threw his apron on the deck. I was crying at that point, a combination of pain, stress and feeling awful about getting my coworker fired. Justin hugged me and apologized for the injury, and I sobbed that that was fine and I was so sorry he had gotten fired. I knew how tight money was at his house and how badly he needed this job. He told me that none of it was my fault, and it had been fun working with me then walked to his car. I felt responsible, but I didn’t have much time to feel sorry for myself as Bill came out back. He fussed over my first aid as I kept insisting I was fine and that I should get back to the dining room, since we still had a few tables. Plus cleaning up tonight was going to suck! Why couldn’t he wait till after clean down to lose his mind? The only thing it would change is how much stuff the injured person  was going to have to scrub. 

After that, I was on the hotline full time.  Bill started to keep soup cups of wine on the station during service.  As if I would be tricked into thinking that in addition to the crab bisque, and soup of the day, we now offered a cold watery pink option.

His drinking soon reached the level of its former glory.  I would often come in to prep and he would be laying on the kitchen floor or the back deck, either drunk or sick from not drinking.  The endless wine in a soup cup turned into empty vodka pints on top of the trash with no attempt being made anymore to cover it up.  His body was swelling again and with me on the line, there wasn’t enough business during the week to stop him from spending most of the night at the bar.

I came in one day to him making a rack of baby back ribs. I asked if this was a special for the night and he said “no”. This masterpiece was for his friends down at the bar, it was his secret recipe with Jamaican rum BBQ sauce. I looked at the mostly empty bottle of rum and instantly understood the dish’s not so secret muse. It was three in the afternoon. Right before walking this platter of ribs down the block, he stopped and splashed some rum on top. “Almoss forget to put it inthere” he slurred and walked out of the kitchen. 

The rum in question had not gone into the sauce, but no one needed to buy a vowel to figure out where it was now. It ended up in a more man-shaped vessel, one now tottering seven doors down to Joe’s to become that most revered of all heroes, any person who brings food to a bar with no kitchen. There was an interesting clause in the Boulder Creek Business Association wherein business owners could not be refused one anothers’ services. When applied to Bill and Joe’s Bar this meant that if he wanted a drink on any given day, the bartender could not refuse. They could however cut him off after intoxication had been achieved, an ability they exercised frequently. We all knew the number to Joe’s by heart and the staff down there had reciprocal knowledge of our land line. Any newbie in our staff could find it third on the little list by the phone (right below “fire station” but above the vendor numbers).

Sue had lost her patients with the situation and their romance had ended for good months before, mostly because he kept sneaking off to get hammered.  His Nisan Z had begun to look like a beer can passed around a party in the woods, dented out of true by the late night blunderings of returning home from town. The most senior of the staff decided to have an intervention.  One night that winter after service, we sat him down and told him our concerns.  We gave him our bottom lines. If he did not make an effort to get help, we were all giving him notice and enough time to replace us. We could not come into work every day wondering which one of us was going to find him dead or dying.  He denied that his drinking was a problem and stormed out (to the bar) saying he would find replacements for all of us.

He did.

All five of us stayed on for more than a month to train the new staff.  After all, we were not trying to screw him over. We just couldn’t watch him blatantly kill himself anymore. During this transition Bill was only nice enough to us so that we would not walk out.  Any chance he got to take a shot at us in front of the new staff, he took. He would snidely joke about our lack of professionalism, commitment or work ethic.

We let him, it was not worth fighting with a fool.

My last day I gathered the two new bussers around the trash in the kitchen before service.  On top was the now familiar empty pint of vodka.  I showed the newbies the bottle and emparted (in my most profound and eloquent teenage way) “this, this is why I am leaving. We all have our shit, but remember to keep his shit and your shit, separate. ” Our departure from Silvestierie’s was not the straw that broke the camel’s back.  Silvesterie’s stayed open for about a year after we left. 

There is a tendency among any tight restaurant crew to feel that when the current team leaves, the whole operation will crumble. We all have fantasies that the customers will refuse to be served by anyone else; or the food will not be the same, and everyone will know it- and shun them. The truth is that this almost never happens, even after a massive staff turnover. Customers rarely notice, and life goes on. Silvestierie’s had business till the day Bill decided he was done. He bought a handle of Vodka. Drove home and tried to drink it all in one sitting. They found him in a coma two days later, when the fireman had to break down his door for a ‘wellness check’ after a staff member had dialed the second number on the phone list. (Ironically, they likely were working their way up the list from the third number down) He was taken to the hospital and within a day his organs finally shut down. He was gone.

He was an extremely talented man, but it wasn’t enough to save his life.

Bill was the first person I watched die from drug addiction, but he would not be the last.  It is a heart wrenching thing to watch good and otherwise wonderful people, wither daily by their own hand.  It is hard to understand that the love you have for them isn’t enough, since they cannot love themselves.

He didn’t have kids and was survived solely by his sister.

In the end; the thing that hurt the most was knowing that he had died utterly alone even though he had many people who loved him. Knowing him the way I did gave me an unwanted insight into the kind of internal dialog he most likely perished to.

I want to believe that in the end he made peace.

I have a much stronger feeling that he died believing that no one cared and that his life didn’t matter.  I believe this is the mantra of addiction.  He did matter though.  He mattered to me.  I had to leave, to save myself the trauma of watching from the front row before my 17th birthday.

I wanted a magical incantation to wake him up, so he could see something worth living for, but wishing does not raise the dead.  Just as your love for someone cannot protect them from themselves, if they won’t let it.  Bill’s intervention was my first of many, so many I lost count years ago.  Our industry breeds addiction and fosters a lifestyle where with a little talent, there will always be a paycheck to feed the monkey on your back with the bounty of vices near to hand. 

In the end you can only try your best, maintain healthy boundaries for yourself and let them know that you love them.

Everyone is on their own path.

My first ‘real’ job taught me a lot, not only about the industry, but about life in general.  Above all I learned to be honest with myself; because wine is wine, even when I put it in a soup cup.