Starting a novel

Oooooooh look at me I’m like everyone else working on a novel. Am I cool yet?

I have been toying around with writing a culinary novel for a while now. I thought maybe I’d start it in the new year, but after closing the store my back went to shit. At one point I thought I was going to become someone in a chair because my feet would consistently go numb. I had to rotate between heat and cooling pads to get the inflammation down and let the nerves relax. As I laid there rather panicky and dramatic with pain I said to myself well if you are going to be an invalid what better time to start that novel. It’s not like I can go for a bike ride and enjoy this Autumn weather. And I can’t cruise the backroads, I can barely get myself into the car without pain.

Personally, I felt like a grouch. What’s the name of that Sesame Street character in the trash can? That’s me. I finally had time to go to these restaurants here in Montclair or in the city and I was just meh. Meeeeeehhhhh. There’s a lot that goes into creating a successful restaurant. And you can only be successful if you are already a success. Does that make sense? A successful restaurant is where the food is pretty good to great; the waitstaff are confident, funny, and buzzing; the kitchen is clean, sharp, and dialed in like Jack Hughes on a power play. It is where the manager has drilled his staff so that each utensil is clean, in the exact place, and so on. The chef has tested every dish, the prep cooks have every ingredient as clean and pristine as possible, and the cooks have had their coffee or coke and stations are ready. And none of that matters if the restaurant isn’t buzzing. Success breeds success and there’s no point in playing basketball in an empty arena. It has to be filled with loud and eager fans so the room gets wild. And it is better to come crashing down than the slow drip death. Nobody ever remembers the one who went out with a whisper. This is the food industry, you never make Wall Street money.

Drafting this novel feels like a breath of fresh air not just because I am in physical pain, but it is lifting me out of this cloud of jadedness. I love food and restaurants. Growing up as a kid around New York eating at so and so place was the thing. Fuck those museums, that was old shit as the Germans say. Walking into those delis back in the 90s you could grab a slice of cheesecake and stand in line behind some Wall Street asshole or supermodel. When you saved up some cash you threw on a suit, yeah I had a suit as a kid what, and went to wherever the mayor or Barbara was lunching. There was one kind of food, French, and if you didn’t act like a millionaire one of those servers carrying 8 dishes at once would trample you like that dad from Lion King. I loved it. But it is more than that. I’m remembering the smell and sound of trout hitting a hot pan, the crisp bite of fresh lettuce, and the wondrous aroma of stock being made.

I don’t know if many of you see food in the same manner. Sometimes I feel like an old man who saw a whole school of art come and go but eberyone’s still talking about it like it’s cool. I thought about reviewing restaurants on social media for a time. Forget my own opinions on social media, I thought that well I know what I’m talking about and why wouldn’t you want to read someone who truly enjoys dining out. I didn’t expect to make money off it. Maybe I still will, but as of right now I’d rather focus on this novel. It will put me in a better place to enjoy things again. Waking up at 5am is about the same as I did when making gelato, and I find my brain most active and creative.

I’m feeling classy, maybe I’ll go out and buy some trout, almonds, capers, and turnips.