Anthony Bourdain

Steven, my sous-chef from 1993 until recently – when he finally took on a kitchen of his own – was my evil twin, my doppelgänger, my director of clandestine services, a Bilko-esque character who, in addition to the usual sous-chef responsibilities such as running the kitchen in my absence, line cooking at a high level and watching my back, was invaluable to me for his remarkable ability to get things done

When management finally got wind of the fact that Jimmy was getting paid for not working at the Supper Club, I was made the chef. Unfortunately, Steven had already carved out his own invisible empire within my own.

It made things difficult.

The boy could cook, though.

And this … this, dear reader, is my closest and most trusted friend and associate

My friend’ famously means ‘asshole’ in the worst and most sincere sense of that word

My vato locos are, like most line cooks, practitioners of that centuries-old oral tradition in which we – all of us – try to find new and amusing ways to talk about dick

But what the system seeks, what it requires, is someone, anyone, who can hold up their station, play the game without getting bent out of shape and taking things personally

Turn left and cough’ or ‘Grab your ankles, ‘cause here comes papi chulo

in short, the kind of warm welcome and name recognition all of us beaten-down, working-class slobs crave when going out to dinner

Let him show up late, fuck up service … because you’re afraid he’s gonna off himself? Fuck him. We’re on a lifeboat, baby. The weak? The dangerous? The infirm? They go over the side.’

If an unexpected period of unemployment inspires you to leap off a bridge, hang yourself from a tree or chug-a-lug a quart of drain cleaner, that’s too bad