When you become a chef,
not a celebrity cook
on some food-porn channel but
a real honest-to-God,
forearms-burned-by-sauté-pans,
fingers that can’t stretch from knife-scars,
eyebrows-singed chef,
working the line of Dante’s
8th layer of Hell from which
sculptures of sous-vied sturgeon,
fois, truffle-laced risotto,
and velvety cremé bruleé are
carried daintily to Manitee clients
with deep pockets and even deeper stomachs,
even though you read an article
about children with swollen bellies
who eat the flies off their own eyelids
to stave off hunger,
when you tip a cut of Steak au poivre
onto the counter and the seared edge
strikes the stainless steel surface,
instead of re-plating the meat you
throw it sadly into the trash can
and begin the dish again.
Reblogged this on Stray Dog Review .
Thanks three wolves,
Much appreciated!