In The Deep Sea

‘Flowering Plum and Moon’ ( circa 1910 ). Woodblock print by Ohara Koson ( 1877 - 1945). Published by Daikokuya (Matsuki Heikichi)

Image and text courtesy Freer Sackler. Japanese Art

Dirt Candy in New York joins the small but growing club of restaurants that will effectively eliminate the ridiculous practice known as tipping. Amanda Cohen will levy a 20% administrative fee on all checks, I report over at Eater. There will not be a separate line for gratuity on your bill.

Is amazing. Like being a part of some jaded, bitter, rowdy, sarcastic, creative club of burn scarred bros.

You can go anywhere in the world, and if you befriend a cook or a chef, if you inform them that you’re a part of the squad, you have a friend for fucking life.

Not only that, but with each new comrade, you have a new teacher and you have the ability to share your own knowledge and ideas and oh my god the shit I’ve learned just by chatting with a line cook while I’m having dinner near his station, by talking with my sous after work, or by gossiping with a chef on my commute home after sharing knowing glances at our similar burn scars and tattered knife bags.

And I think the reason we’re all so close is because this industry can swat people down like flies. Huge guys that towered over me and side eyed the little bow that hung off my hair tie would cower to the side like fucking puppies on a busy Saturday while I helped them get out of the shits, and then a week later they’d leave without a word. Sturdy ladies would show up and then complain that they ‘only have two hands’ when chef tells the to hurry the fuck up.

It’s tough to really stay, to love food so much, to love the heat and the blood and the burns and the yelling to a really weird masochistic level, so when we find another one of us, someone who’s as hungry and eager and stupid as we are, we want to, at the most, make this person family, and at the least, give a smile of mutual admiration in their direction.