Rising from the ashes and landing on Cornelia Street

Truth be told, I don't really want to work for The Man.
I mean, I'm happy to work for someone now and not just for myself. But The Man, well I really may be too creative and independent.
Something struck a nerve in me and woke up a feeling that had been trodden upon.
On Sunday I was with my daughter in Brooklyn, after I left her I accidentally went over the Williamsburg Bridge and into Manhattan,ending up in the west village to be exact. This is one of my very favorite parts of the city.
It made me think of my daughter at NYU, of shopping in the Bowery for my place. Of walking around being immersed in Chinatown, of fascination with all the cafes, bakeries, small food shops. How just three years ago when I was doing my research for building the cafe how I studied all of them. I took menus, and pictures. I wanted to bring this sensibility to where I lived in Connecticut.
And always, the Village reminds me of my first love in the food business. My externship at the small Italian cafe that was bursting into the universe. The chef was on tv and building his next restaurant that became a huge success. He has gone on to a superlative career. And I interned there for a summer.
Thirty seven, my divorce came through while I was there. My kids were so young but I journeyed into the city to work there. Had I been younger and less encumbered I would have gone to Italy but it was not to be. This was as close as I could get.
The kitchen was tiny and in New York every single available nook and cranny is used for something. I fell in love with the sound of the Spanish radio station that played endlessly. I fell in love with the smells, the produce, the camaraderie. The guys. The amazingly simple food. At night when I walked out of there the streets were teeming with life. Artsy, creative types, tourists, bums, students, what an array of people. And I in my sweaty chef whites walking to the garage to get my car took it all in. Breathing in the smells of different foods, of garlic, bakery exhaust fans and even the smell of garbage in the summer in the city.
Once I got off the highway back in Stamford it always amazed me how barren it was. The streets were empty. Everything was closed except for the diner. There was nothing going on like a Tuesday or Wednesday night in the village.
And when my externship was done I had to go back to that world. I made good choices and worked for some excellent people. But that time in the city was always special to me and has been in my heart forever.
When I took my little detour the other day and it all came back to me I started to cry. It was the first time since the business had closed. So far I'd been ok with everything and how it had all worked out. But suddenly my heart hurt. The hopes, the dreams the standards that I had. Would I be sacrificing all of that to go be a worker bee in The Man's hive? Would I be proud of myself? Would I feel successful?
It's not about money. It's about passion. You just don't go into this business to get rich. Some are lucky but generally you do it because you love it. And once upon a time I had that in me.
Every time I see Spanish guys in their checkered pants outside having a smoke, or if the back door to a restaurant is open and they're back there with that incessant radio going, or the chef on the cell phone making his orders, asking the price of the fish this week- I have a pang.
I sniffled a little in my car and went home to the quiet Sunday suburban streets.
The next day a funny thing happened.
I have answered a zillion ads on line. All the executive chef jobs in the tri-state area, not just to the big corporations but to others too. I got turned down for the Sodexo job last week, after 3 telephone interviews and none in person. I had another nibble but that was all. But suddenly out of the blue I got a call. A wake up call.
A woman who owns a restaurant that needs a chef to run the catering operation in the village. Directly across the street from that first place, where I fell in love.
My resume was perfect she said. And as she talked my heart skipped a beat.
I met with her and the executive chef. For two hours we talked and talked. The place is small with a courtyard filled with flowers and vines. Behind that is an old house from the 1850's with another kitchen. It's a funky little farmhouse, as unique a place you would never find in Stamford, CT. It makes my former restaurant, which I loved believe me, look like a mall.
The money- eh. Not so good. Benefits? Uh, probably not.
But I can do my simple food, I can work with professionals, I can bake, I can deal with clients, I can joke with the others, I can be in the game.
If I take this I won't be embarrassed. I will be proud. I can use my creativity and talent but I don't have to worry about paying the rent, or making payroll. I will get a paycheck every week.
They want me to go to the farmer's market at Union Square 4x a week. She wants to send me to Italy to teach a class.
When a fish gets thrown back into the water it slaps its tail and swims out to go back where it belongs.
As I shook their hands, we agreed that I would return the next day- in my work clothes to follow, to see, to learn.
Walking up Cornelia Street on this hot summer day I smiled to myself and felt the opposite of what I had been feeling on Sunday afternoon. It was joy. And in the background coming from the various kitchen doors I could hear the Spanish radio station and it was calling my name.