on livelihood and devotion
submitting myself to what I know to be true
April was both a slog and a blur. I feel in my heart, more than ever, that I’m beginning to curate the life for myself I’ve always wanted. But last year I experienced irrevokable changes around late April/early May after a vacation to LA changed my perspective on what I’m doing, and now, as I enter this month, I find myself at the feet of an equally stilted week.
In April, I saw a job opening at this place I really wanted to work at. So I tried to get in and see if I could maintain a day or two a week somewhere else. And I did.
The thing I love about working in a restaurant has so much to do with identity and personhood. Everyone has to eat. The experience of sharing a meal is integral to life. And I love being a server because I love curating that. As my former coworker beautifully put it, “You really love working somewhere you can be autistic about the food.”
When I sat down with my new chef after tasting some of the dishes, I found myself asking questions about regional cuisine in the Philippines. He asked me if I knew anything about what’s happening in Mindanao, and I admitted I didn’t; only that it was a Muslim majority. I’d heard about political unrest. He talked about the indigeneity creating culinary pockets as I chewed on black cod braised in adobo coconut water with white rice. This, I thought to myself, has been my favorite work conversation I’ve had in a long time.
I haven’t worked in food forever, but one thing about me is: no matter what I do, I’m going to become very obsessed with it, and doing it well. When I delivery drove, I internalized the gridded map of Chicago down to the street numbers. At the florist, I walked around the wholesaler memorizing flower names, now forgotten to time. In retail, I thought about SKU numbers, product specs, insurance details, and the processes of running a corporate chain location. And when I started working in restaurants, I found my footing at a spot with a specific regional cuisine; and immediately began infodumping about the food on the menu and why I thought the region it came from was so special.
This could not be contrast more from my current main gig in a beautifully built-out space, with food I feel no kinship or even real interest over… mainly stemming from the fact that the cuisine is from Western Europe. This is not to say there’s no merit to the food there (I couldn’t work somewhere without vouching for it), because I do think it’s playful and fun. But I also think, inherently, there is a lack in what I personally consider interesting.
As I kept talking to my new head chef, I learned about how their restaurant got its name: from a common American slang for a Tagalog word meaning mountain, which was also a given name in the chef’s family (I obviously resonated, Capati being my mom’s surname). Normally, in any workplace, I don’t bring up the fact that I’m mixed and never talk about how my mom, how she’s dead, anything. But I found myself spilling about her and my family’s history, how they came and moved to Wisconsin in the 60’s, because it was relevant to why I was even there.
And then I thought of the name of the restaurant I work at full time. Both restaurants have similar-ish names, they end in the same suffix. But the name of my main job has nothing to do with the food. There’s no reason behind it, just a word you call weird, gross people. An inside joke between the owners and definitely not a name for a restaurant. The name is source to so many questions from customers who are searching for the reason why we could have such a ridiculous name. And I smile tableside, and I tell them it doesn’t really mean anything at all.
However, the second I accepted the new role and started training, my main job asked for a larger commitment. One that could not involve a second job, even if it was only one day a week. And after I told my new manager, I got a call later about ending it there instead of moving forward. Even though internally, I knew it was going to be impossible to do both, getting half-fired still made me sad.
The thing about working in a beautiful, gimmicky, conceptual bistro in the West Loop with a ton of resources is that there is so much to be made. I am at money’s altar. But to invite people to dine is to invite them to play, and there is so much less playing when I walk up to a table and all of them have their phones out, Googling what stuff is instead of talking to me, the human resource available to them.
The other aspect is that, because this is European food, sometimes diners want the cultural capital of understanding the “upper echelon” of cuisine without really enjoying eating. The natural pathway of working in ethnic restaurants often meant people were excited to eat the food; they enjoy sharing a meal and tasting something they might not otherwise. Here, they request for meat dishes without bones, or ask for a croque monsieur without ham.
It’s strange, the way they are skittish around the language without the inherent nervousness Otherness provides. Or, they act brazen with assumptions and then get upset when their palate does not meet what the restaurant is trying to do. But the space invites intrigue, and who am I to deny their whims, when these people are recession-proof? When the world is burning, and they can afford a $400 meal?
Recently, when a friend got stood up in the West Loop and I was loitering in the area after a shift, I took them into my job to eat as a recourse (and to use my discount). And we tried a bunch of things, all rich and plump with fat. I got two desserts and had some wine. It was delicious, and we had a good time, and I left feeling happy we’d gone in.
However, I keep thinking about the black cod with coconut water adobo, and the warmth from confit garlic. About tortang talong, an eggplant omelette, with a crab salad on top. About how genius it was to serve Skyflakes with a tartare. About the act of dropping a sisig plate tableside, steaming like fajitas at Chiles, and using a shovel-like spoon to mix fried egg with pork belly. About fluffing giant cookers of rice.
At my previous job in San Antonio, at a Peruvian ceviche place, every guest was met with a small cup of free toasted corn, called conchita. The flavor was like corn nuts. It got fried and thrown into a giant bowl with a ton of salt, where it sat under a heat lamp on the counter for the entire night. When I swirled around the ladle we used to scoop it out, sometimes if the conchita were fresh, they’d make little popping noises that I loved. I loved that I worked somewhere that gave out a free snack, where handing out a snack was part of greeting tables. Now that’s hospitable, I thought.
There is something sacred and divine within food I find myself attracted to. I do hold the belief (and I know it sounds insane) that hospitality can be a space to cultivate experiences that affirm connection, and touch an innate part of ourselves. That’s why I can enjoy serving, because it’s an outlet to talk about my favorite thing in the world: eating.
As an American I frequently think of all the foodways and cuisines I have daily access to. It’s one of my favorite parts of living in Chicago. I think knowing foodways is integral to knowing ourselves, and that when we eat from regions our ancestors hailed from, we can find space for focus and alignment.
But for now, I forgo my interests for the sake of pursuing the bag. And I’m excited to do so, but also maybe it comes at a cost. Perhaps there is divinity found in a biweekly paycheck instead.
ok well now I’m hungry