I never meant to be a cook

I am a first generation American of Asian descent. What that means is that I was supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer. Also admissable although not preferred would be some other very financially successful and stable profession. Preferably business related.

I never wanted to get into cooking, or working in restaurants professionally. It was always something I liked doing, a hobby, an interest, the fun thing you do in your free time, or with your friends. Or for your friends. I never wanted to do it as a job. They say never to do something you love as a job, otherwise you’ll end up hating it. I never wanted to hate cooking. And so I always tell people that I never chose cooking as a profession. It chose me.

I went to “normal” school, not culinary school. I studied Psychology, Anthropology, and Latin American language and literature. I went to a liberal arts college, and without a doubt got myself a liberal arts degree. I went to school to study and get a “real” job after I graduated, so I could go and make “real” money in the “real” world.

My senior year in college though, I began to worry about my lack of job direction. At that point, I knew I wasn't going to be a counselor, psychologist, or social worker. I thought I'd look into the restaurant thing and check out the fine dining place near campus. They weren't hiring at the time, but the chef liked something he saw during our meeting and opened up some dishwashing shifts for me. Soon after, I began to do minor prep work near the dish pit. That morphed into some line work, along with the dish shift after that. It was a tiny kitchen with strict French trained standards, but I really really got to do a lot in there. I eventually and very quickly took over the Sunday brunch chef position, which I think would have given most people an arrogant pride...but I had to dishwash the next evening. Pride smushed.

But I loved it. I loved it. I loved being in a professional kitchen. I loved the pace, and the ticket calling, and the shelves and shelves of ingredients and the cramped spaces and the tetris-like skills required to pack things away or take things out. I was also lucky that the sous chef of this restaurant was female, because as my first restaurant job, I never felt like the underrepresented gender in the kitchen. I never felt like being a girl mattered. I just really liked what I was doing, and I think it showed.

Until I decided to actually cook professionally. Like, for real chefs of real companies, who have real reputations to rely on. All of a sudden, I noticed that I was a girl. But I really really wanted to be in the kitchen. I liked it. I wasn't scared of the boys. And it showed. I think those around me noticed, and you can like me or not like me, but I did my job and did it pretty well. At least I hope I did. When you like what you do and are having fun doing it, sometimes it's just not work anymore. My family may not have approved of the job choice, and my parents definitely still think I should be doing something more financially stable at this point, but no one can tell me I'm not happy doing what I do. This all does really make me happy.

For a minute though, I experienced what it might be like to hate what you do. Hate is a really, really strong word. But I clearly remember the moment, and it kind of scared me. I had never felt this way before. Ever. I might’ve hated plating a really complicated dish, or prepping for yet another holiday banquet, or complained about some whiny customer…but never, ever hated the actual cooking part of it.

And I remember thinking, so this is why so many cooks don’t want to do this. It’s not fun. It’s not creative. It’s not yours. People tell you what to do. People don’t care how long you work. People don’t care how hard you work. You never make enough money. You never get a day off. You never get the credit for anything. You don’t have time for laundry. You try to pick out the most non-smelliest clothes out of the laundry. Wear it again. Go to work again. No one ever remembers your name. No one even knew your name in the first place. You get told to do this, then yelled at for doing that. Or not doing that. Do it again tomorrow. Don’t like it again tomorrow. Hate it again tomorrow.

That’s scary to me. And I’ve felt this way several times recently. And you know it’s not about the money. I’m not afraid of the long hours, or the hard work. I was practically born to be a leader amongst the slaves. I love what I do. You know I do. Or apparently, I usually do.

So I don’t like the way I’m feeling right now. I’m usually at my most natural when I’m cooking and feeding and dealing with food. Your job is not supposed to be your life, but for me (insert violin here), food is my life. I don’t (usually) consider it a job. But I don’t even cook for myself anymore, and these days, I cook even less for my friends. In fact, I don’t even have the time to go over to their houses so that they can cook for me.

I’m not sure what to do. The Professor tells me to back away for a bit until something comes to mind, that while I have the time, to not force anything now and enjoy something else in the meanwhile. Which is probably a good idea. I don’t want to hate what I do. If this is even a glimpse of what it’s like to be manic depressive or bipolar, I hope to never experience either on a diagnostic level. And I hope that I’m always sensitive to those who are, because it’s not a fun ride, and not one you can prevent, either.

I want to be happy doing this. I used to be happy doing this.

Haters Gonna Hate

Anyone who knew me senior year in high school knew that I didn’t really care where I went to college, as long as they gave me enough money to go there. With the possibility of financial aid, scholarships, loans, and Navy ROTC in hand, I applied to schools all over the nation…with one exception. California.

I didn’t even look at colleges in California. At all. Because everyone from Hawaii goes to college in California. I was not everyone. I didn’t want to go to school in another state with a bunch of people from my own state. Kind of goes against every reason why you’re supposed to go to college, right? Get away from the parents, become independent, make new friends, yaddi yaddi yah. That probably wasn’t going to happen at a school with other island folk. Us islanders can be quite clique-y. I decided to hate California.

Well, Sophia ended up at Stanford. Probably about half of my graduating class ended up somewhere in California. I flew out a couple of times to spend holidays or vacations somewhere with friends or to visit family. The first time I visited San Francisco, it was too city for me. The first time I stepped foot on campus in Palo Alto, it was too fake-palm-tree-lined-roads for me. The first time I went to some Hawaii Club function, I was ashamed by the exclusivity it radiated. I hated being in California. Too many Hawaiians.

Well, just goes to show you how close-mindedness nips you right back in the butt. Here I am, ironically, hitting the two month mark in California, kind of living and trying to work. Am I happy here? Well, I’m not unhappy here. I think that’s a start. So many of you want me to want to be here. So I’m trying, I really am. I’ve found people I like working and being with, and I’d go so far as to say they feel the same way about me. I’m giving it a few months to see if this all works out: San Francisco, the ramen business, making new friends, if I can afford to be here, and/or finding a place to live. If this is where I decide to live.

But that’s why I’m giving it a try first. That’s why I’m doing this year the way I’ve been doing it, to be open to the possibility of opportunities that might be waiting for me to show up and take it. I’m not afraid to take that opportunity and let it go if it ends up not working out. At least I tried. I don’t want to regret not having tried. And that’s why I’m still here right now.

I think the question most frequently asked of me right now is “Ramen?” Many of you question the ramen choice. Is this really what I want to be doing the rest of my life? And to that, silly people, comes the typical Buddhist answer – that nothing is forever. The only permanence is impermanence. I believe in that. I’m here because he trusts me enough to create my own side projects and post things on the menu and listens to what I have to say and the things I suggest. We know different things, but cook in almost similar ways. We spark ideas off each other. I’m honest and critical, and when he doesn’t agree, he’s honest right back. We don't really ever argue exactly, but often tend to discuss at length in fairly loud voices. Whereas I’m willing to zing out mildly unfocused, trying out anything semi-plausible (while retaining my characteristic resourcefulness, of course), he knows what he likes and wants and is able to mold an idea into something direct and tangible. I feel both equal and respected. We work well together. That, and you also know I have a smart mouth. I’d never be able to accept and stay stagnant.

Besides, I just want to make good tasting food. I don’t need to be the fanciest chef on the block. I just want you to come with friends, have a good time, and really enjoy what you just ate. I feel that right now, in this place, I might be doing just that. This past Tuesday, I personally fed both Daniel Patterson and René Redzepi at the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market. Plated their bowls, poured their soup, and walked it out to them. Made a little chit chat. From our outdoor ramen tent. Our little outdoor stand. We’re not even a real brick and mortar restaurant yet. But two of the world’s leading chefs stopped by our tent to eat our food in a city where they could eat anything anywhere. And they wanted our ramen. If that’s not doing something right, I don’t know what is.

So yes, I know. It’s just ramen. But if Chef and his buddies want to eat ramen, then that’s what I’m making for them. Food that people just want to eat.