Apprentice Anonymous No. 3: In Vino Veritas Or Whatever They Say

I find my truth in whiskey. The person I become after two stiff drinks is the only constant in my personality. I find that on any given day my perspective on any given situation may alternate entirely between two extremes. Polar opposites. 

Better yet, bi-polar opposites. 

I find myself in this constant struggle, this tug-of-war between wanting to care about things, to develop an educated opinion, and then also the "fuck it, nothing matters; time is spherical, we're all dust anyhow" mindset. And so two bourbons on the rocks brings me to a level of my consciousness that is most familiar to me. I become this personality that I like to think of myself as when I am not in it.  A character. A celestial identity. My opinions - and emotions - are magnified in this state. And they are always the same when I return. I often wonder if this is my true self. I feel that I have become one with I, and therefor "the universe," (because we're all just stardust anyway).

But it's never just two drinks. 

The two wears off eventually. So two turns to three. Turns to four, turns to ten. Ultimately my brilliance at two becomes stifled by ten because of the continuous hunt of higher consciousness.
I am a self-destructive creature. Both in my desire to torture myself with rotten swill and my infallible ability to smite my own potential.

While I take no real belief in zodiac mythology, I am a Leo, and I believe, whether by stars or circumstance, that what "they" say about Leos is pretty accurate. I do nothing productive or creative except for observation by others. This does not mean that I take no personal gratification from my accomplishments; I simply desire to gratify others at the same time. 

"Oh the wonder of me!" - Peter Pan.

I can't help but feel these two staples of my personality help explain my existence in the kitchen. The kitchen, whether it be prep time or service, never fails to provide me with a constant. The clean just-laid cutting board atop a shiny stainless steel table, with a pile of produce on my left, provides me a moment of clarity.

My obsession with Kerouac has always had my second conscious nagging my foremost conscious to take up meditation, and practice the dharma. But I find my zen right here, knife in hand, calmly yet meticulously preparing for service. So thus, at three every afternoon, I am always the same almost fictional identity in a state of pseudo-zen that I am always striving for outside of "the office."

Service applies the same mindset, it's just faster and even more meticulous. But still it simplifies the mind and the task at hand, and it's still just do, do, do. 

And make it look beautiful, of course.

On a busy night, when you've dropped into tunnel vision, and you're sweating ferociously and gasping for air, the pat on the back, the hug, or even the kiss on the god damned lips from your chef afterwards, is really the type of gratification we seek as line cooks. You can milk your own udder all you want about how busy you were and how well you handled it, but if somebody else wasn't watching you and holding the bucket, well then fuck it.

-Kleb Tuckett