"Bosom Buddies"

This review, to me, is how I read old Ruth Reichl reviews years ago. Okay, 2 or 3 years ago. I gripped her books in my knuckles and read them cover to cover, some before I moved to New York and less after. She was a wonder to me; I wanted her job and her palate and to go to the places she went and to see them as she did.   As the NY Times restaurant critic her reviews were romantic, tasteful, brash, and luscious. And now, here was the restaurant I am part of in that same column. All of us hunched over a laptop during lunch service swallowing the imagery and owning our two stars.

In working at M. Wells I’ve gotten to take the reviews out of context. The counters are where I work; where I laugh very, very hard belly laughs with my co-workers many times a day. I’m not sure I’ve thrown myself so heartily into a job before; immediately agreeing to six days a week with only 40 hours of pay (but with kickbacks every now and again). I wanted to stay in New York, and I wouldn’t have without them. I’ve complained a lot. Cried a lot; slept very little, slept too much. Ate too much, drank too much. I’ve learned very little about cooking and massive amounts about baking and cleaning and killing ants and making custards in industrial woks.

Them. Sarah and Hugue. Sandi, Aidan, Brian. To a much lesser extent, Jeff (my sometimes bully). Colin, who loves his girlfriend more than anyone his age loves their girlfriends. They are my brothers and sisters and I love them. I love them for giving me a key and giving me the restaurant in the morning. Without those hours alone I’d have no chances to sing at full lung capacity. I’d have no way to listen to NPR and sit and contemplate my daily list in whichever booth I decide is my favorite that morning. I’d have no chance of dancing from one end of the diner to the other with no boundaries or worries other than getting my list done.

I’ve gone from making 4 desserts for dinner to 10. I’ve trained interns and gave them work and had servers peel my apples and had my mom and little sister sit near my work space. My life, in the last 6 months, has been encapsulated into this tiny space; one I can hardly recite the table numbers to but can tell you how many rubber spatulas we have in the kitchen and where, near the woks, you will find them. 

I am the woman making banana cream pie. The man who wrote this is merely talking about a place I am home and the people I live with and the food with our elbow grease.