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Thinking about Chef David Fields again, and Carmy is rotating so fast in my head that he might break the sound barrier
Cw: disordered eating, canonical Chef abuse
So Carmy didn’t have to work at Empire.
He didn’t have to stay there when Chef insulted his cooking, cussed him out in passing, got more and more personal, made himself more imposing over Carmy’s shoulder, more cutting, more targeted, more violent, did everything in his power to get in Carmy’s head and entirely succeeded. He didn’t have to stay when Chef told him he was better off dead.
There were other restaurants.
But he wanted to be good. And maybe it started off slow. And it was making him better than good.
No matter what else it did to him, that life or death determination made him push himself into something extraordinary. He got good. He got excellent.
And his mom taught him that perfection can’t be achieved without self-sacrifice, and by fucking god did he give himself up to this thing.
And he just kept getting worse and worse, but it was making him better and better at it, pulling him in, and his meteoric upward momentum was too much to sacrifice.
He was throwing up every day before work. After, he would pass out with his wool jacket still on and only wake up after nightmares about the day before and the day after. Malnutrition breeds brain fog. They say being sleep deprived is as bad as being drunk. Momentum is a powerful beast.
So with everything fighting him, his teeth rotting with stomach acid, panic attacks burning up his lungs when he thought he would have a second to breathe, he takes paths of least resistance.
Chef’s voice intertwines with his own, inseparable. It gets harder to answer texts. He doesn’t want to lie to anyone. So he doesn’t.
He can leave. Chef is impossibly, gut-churningly close, insulting him from behind until it sounds like it’s coming from the back of his mind. The highest praise he could get from Chef was silence. It’s no way to live. This sway between becoming God or scum is no way to live. But he’s already here. He has momentum.
It’s easier this way. He tells himself it’s necessary. This place’s claws are deep into him, past the layer of sweat into his lungs, into his stomach, already torn through everything in his head.
So there’s some half-meaningless last text he sent months ago, the last text he sent to his family, to anyone. Since then, it’s been pure radio silence, static all the way through him.
It’s 2022. It’s for the best to stay away from people. Order groceries online. Let his license stay expired when he hasn’t used it in years. The world follows his isolation, smooths that path over for him.
So for months if not years, the only voices he hears are his own, tight, determined, desperate, and Chef’s.
He chose to stay here. It’s not like he’s never had bosses like this before. Chef stood impossibly tall over his shoulder, and Carmy decided ‘Yes. I can take this. I want to be here.’
So he’s here. Maybe it’s doing something to him. He’s less than 30, and his stomach is lined with ulcers. He keeps sleepwalking, waking in the hall to his apartment then at the edge between the sidewalk and the road. But he works at Empire. It’s the top of the world, the highest he can go.
And then, he finally picks up a call from Sugar. Mikey’s dead. The one that he did this to himself for, the one he did everything for, is dead.
Momentum keeps him going. He doesn’t know how.
It’s impossible to describe what everything does to him.
But he just keeps going.
He throws up every day before work, he has ulcers and panic attacks and nightmares, and it’s been so long since he talked to someone he doesn’t fantasize about burning alive, and he’s never going to work at his brother’s restaurant, and this thing is killing him slowly and painfully.
It takes the reading of Mikey’s will to change his course, break the momentum. Suddenly, leaving is the easiest thing in the world now that he’s responsible for The Beef.
So yes, he chose this. But also, it broke him down into something unrecognizable, taking his neuroses, the buds of unhealthy habits, and making them grow like cancers.
I'm not just going to be good. I'm going to be fucking great.
I was meant for this. I was born for it. If my dad were here, fuck. God, he'd be so fucking proud. And, I'm not even done yet.
He's missed so much. But, fuck. If there's a heaven at all---if there's some fucking second life I'll meet him there. After one last hug, I'll tell him I made it. Because god damnit, I will.
I put on a mother fucking chef's coat on every god damn day. I carry a knife kit around with me to every state I travel to. And by 2013, at twenty two years old I'll be a fucking international chef. I've cooked for Lebron, and had the opportunity to work with Sean Brock.
One day, I'm going to appear at Naomi Pomeroy's restaurant. At Beast's front door. And it'll be a fucking mistake if she says no to a simple free day of work. I'm going to fucking matter one day, and that's a promise.
P!nk once said in an interview that she knew she wouldn't do anything else. She was meant for music. Just like I'm meant for the kitchen. I fucking cook like a monster, and yeah---I come out dirty because I fucking work hard.
So, I'll take that shit from the coworker that's only worked in one kitchen for years, and never went to school. Whose fucking fine making pizza every day or prepping. But, I'm going to run my own place, and I'm going to get that fucking James Beard award. No matter how hard I have to work. Or how much sweat, tears, and money I have to put down. And I'll invite him to have a free god damn dinner and he'll no longer ask, "Why did you even go to school? Why do you even cook?"
And that plate will say it all. I fucking cook because it's more than a passion, it's a fucking love. Because I knock it out. Because I'll out plate any god damn man who thinks he's better than me. And I went to god damn school so I could find that inspiration, so I could find my place, my mentors. So, fuck.
I'm going to be the fucking best one day. I'm going to fucking make it. And I'll invite every person who ever believed me for a free meal.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
FIFTY@FIFTY-Tracey Jackson talks With 50 People On Being 50:# 24 RICHARD NAHEM
Join screenwriter/director/author TRACEY JACKSON in conversation with RICHARD NAHEM (55), a former New Yorker, who moved to Paris (where this was shot) and reinvented himself. If you're planning a trip to Paris soon, don't even think about touring the city without calling Richard first. He's 'the guy' ! Visit Richard and his website: www.eyepreferparis.com
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"BETWEEN A ROCK & A HOT PLACE"-the new book
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