I don’t make too much money. And I doubt I’ll ever be rich. I make my living behind an espresso machine. I enjoy it; it’s a modest living. That said, I’m not very good at saving money either. I make tips and they’re likely gone in half the time they were made. Paychecks are sourced from my bank account by the usual domestic bills, a new pair of something, and a particularly good time or two. I eat everyday, but just once or twice. Usually before or after libations.
I was a cook for a few years when I was younger. I worked in an Italian kitchen and a French kitchen. For a minute, I thought about pursuing the career. However, I found the work wasn’t the most rewarding and really, I just liked food.
Soon after, I found myself enjoying dining at new spots around town. Food blogs were interesting. Chef’s names meant something. Pop-ups, food trucks, farmers markets, and underground gastronomical societies sounded appealing. But at that time, I was making the same amount of money as I always had (not very much) and quickly realized I could buy more good times in beer and pool games than I could in fancy suppers. I was also quickly becoming as disinterested in and jaded by food culture as I had become fond of it.
And then there was this time not long ago that I found myself running late for work at 6 AM because I was trapped on the toilet arrested by the burrito mojado I had had four hours prior. Or maybe it was Indian pizza.
And let me tell you, hangovers and heartburn go together about as well as crying newborns go with car alarms.
It was after said morning that I ate a sandwich. The rest is history.