conciliatory remark. It was about as sympathetic as any of us could get.
"Guy would have done it sooner or later, man. If not with you, some
other chef."
That didn't quite cut it either.
"The guy had to go," is what I said, the kind of cold-blooded statement
not unusual for me when in chef-mode. "What? Are you gonna keep the
guy on? Let him talk shit to you in front of your crew? 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."
Typically, I was overstating the case. I've coddled plenty of dangerously
unstable characters over the years; I've kept on plenty of people who I
knew in the end would make me look bad and become more trouble than
they were worth. I'm not saying I'm Mister Rogers, a softie—okay,
maybe I am saying that . . . a little bit. I appreciate people who show up
every day and do the best they can, in spite of borderline personalities,
substance abuse problems and anti-social tendencies; and I am often
inclined to give them every opportunity to change their trajectories, to
help them to arrive at a different outcome than the predictable one when
they begin visibly to unravel.
But once gone—quit, fired or dead—I move on to the next problem.
There always is one.
There have been a lot of success stories out of my kitchens over the last
two decades. Mostly Mexicans and Ecuadorians who now own homes,
have careers, enjoy the respect of their peers and their neighbors. They
support families, drive their own cars, speak English fluently—all things
I can barely do. I care about my crew and their problems.