Our dear friend Kirk Saunders

13 years ago I was helping to open a small restaurant in Berkeley in what was then a brand spanking new food court in the gourmet ghetto. There were 5 other restaurants all undertaking the painful process of starting up at the same time. I was chatting with one of the executive chefs and I casually said "your new line cook is so cute". Not thinking he would tell the guy what I said,  I went back to making broths and organizing our new pantry. About an hour later, the cute line cook comes over with a tiny crème brulee made in an egg shell for me. And for the next few months, like little birds, we would walk over small, perfect treats that we concocted for each other. 


A shot glass with lobster bisque and fresh truffles. Wild mushroom pate. Rosemary roasted almonds with piment d'splette. It gave me something to look forward to at work and this cute line cook soon became one of my best friends. I've watched him become a husband and a father, switch careers multiple times (including being a goat farmer). I've also watched him struggle with cancer, one too many times for his beautiful heart to handle. I just found out that he will be transitioning in the next few days, and I ask that you all hold this lovely human and his family in love and light. It was an honor to be your friend, Mr. Cute Line Cook, and I will continue to honor your amazing spirit by offering up perfect little bites of food made with love. Rest in power my friend.

A Brief Story About Working in Our Kitchen   3.1.18

I was driving home from work the other night and it occurred to me how lucky I am to be in a position where I have some control over who I get to spend my working life with. What a gift that is! Now that's not to say that I can control what mood they will arrive in, or, for that matter, what mood they will leave in. But I get to hire people that interest me. 

That are kind.

That have a great work ethic.

And most importantly, people that are funny. If I'm going to spend 10 hours a day working hard and putting out fires (not literally, thank god) and feeling overwhelmed, I sure as hell need to make sure that we're laughing as we get through it. 

For those of you who've never done it, working in a kitchen is not a normal workplace. It's another world with its own language, often written in Sharpies on masking tape and intentionally misspelled to make your coworkers laugh when they find it. Often so subtle that it takes weeks to figure out the joke. Sometimes the joke was only funny to the person who wrote, it really doesn't matter. This is what a small section of our pantry looks like right now...


So we usually begin planning for our pop-ups about 3 weeks in advance. It takes a lot of consideration, arguing over who's menu ideas are going to be the sexiest while also being the easiest to execute. It's a task that I've done with lots and lots of different chefs and it's one of my favorite activities. I have a chef (who to protect their identity will remain nameless) who has decided that when they're stone cold sober, they write the most difficult menus. But if written after a couple of beers, the menus are things of absolute perfection. I totally agreed but questioned why they thought this was so, and their response was, "After a couple beers, I begin to doubt if I'm really actually good enough to pull anything off, so the menu becomes more approachable". I laughed so hard that I cried. That is some real kitchen truth.  

We have to balance pride in our work,  our egos about our food, the expectations of our guests, all while somehow cranking out delicious food that people will have hopefully enjoyed deeply. And if they didn't deeply enjoy it, you have to pray to god that they will be kind enough to not leave you a shitty review on some social media site and ruin your life forever. Deep sigh. This job is difficult. So I surround myself with people I care about, who also care about me, and we create a really dysfunctional and incredibly fun little family. 

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