Desperate Times call for Desperate Measures

Desperate times call for desperate measures, sure, but I seem to lack the momentum to really push – push hard to open all doors. Currently I’ve only managed to nudge open a few windows –actually little doggie doors seems more like it-- to wait tables and those prospects seem luke-warm at best (hey it could be worse, I could be working at Bubba Gumps. Mr. Mister, on the other hand, has had a full-fledge resurgence of renewed strength and has done a few courageous things that are worth noting. To be honest, my man has approached this whole employment fiasco with much more aplomb than myself but that, however, may not land him a job either. Regardless, his gusto should be applauded and a few of his braver recent moments are shared here.

#1: Putting aside all ego the Mr. decided to discover for himself why he had not been called back by Bacco restaurant. He’d applied on more than one occasion (there had been a few Craigslist posts) but had not heard from anyone. This being a common occurrence I was quick to write it off; The Mr., on the other hand, got a burr up his bum and marched in there between services and requested to speak to the chef. As it turned out, the chef had not seen his resume (instead the HR gal had riffled through them and decided for herself which ones the chef should review). He interviewed very well and was asked to perform a stage the next day (working interview). Again, he performed another non-paying 13 hour shift. He also staged at a sister restaurant—providing 2 more 12 hour free shifts for which he was offered a poorly paid non-management position—but has not since heard back from either establishment. In fact, unlike any other stage, he was rushed out the door by the chef de cuisine at Bacco with a forced 20 in his hand. OK, so I guess I lied about the not being paid part but, seriously, he’s never seen a dime before and the twenty , he said, felt more like a bribe to never, ever come back.

#2: When we first moved here we met this guy from the Chicago area who was a chef (is a “chef” actually, but more of a paper pusher short as of current). Anyway, this guy was very nice and suggested he and the Mr. go for a drink one of these days . . . the Mr. staged there for two nights a few months back (yup, 2 more of those non-paying gigs) but wasn’t even so much as offered a job because: 1. He was over qualified, 2. “a different caliber of cook” and 3. too expensive; not that money was even discussed. Anyway, following the outing a few weeks back an interesting, albeit vague, proposition emerged. A nice hourly compensation was finally negotiated but no real impetus as to what either party would be getting out of it nor any time-line for assessment, promotion, etc. Hmmmm, it was a bold ego humbling move and a strong negotiation, but for what? That is still to be determined but the Mr. made one courageous move that will remain an infamous story in our collective history.

#3: My BFF graciously purchased the new John Besh cookbook for my birthday. It’s a pretty sexy little number but what I hadn’t realized (besides the fact that the delivery dudes here are morons and chuck all packages over the 12 foot gateway into the alley) was that we were in receipt of an early addition.
Since we had recently begun the tradition of collecting autographs in our cook and food-related books my man suggested that I have Besh autograph my book. Although I love the idea of a signature I HATE succumbing to the “celebrity chefs” of the world and participating in the fodder that swells their already massive egos. Since I had just read about Besh’s appearance-to-be at the coming weekend’s seafood festival I was quick to throw the ball back in my man’s court.

“You,” I asserted, “should go down and solicit the autograph and use it as an excuse to present your resume to him directly.”

Wait. Let me back up. The Mr. staged for August way back in like August. Yeah, that was it, I remember thinking it was cute or ironic that he was interviewing for August in August. Anyway, it all went well until his 26 year-old chef de cuisine and/or his 22 year-old sous chefs cock-blocked him (or whatever who can really tell what happened because nothing, thus far, has made any sense to me in our employment pursuits down here). My Mr. really wanted to work there so, initially, he was crushed. He went from being warmly received to being coldly dismissed. No explanation, no follow up just a “don’t call us we’ll call you” blasé blasé e-mail after following up with the director of operations; whom he’d met and had had many correspondence with prior. He went from being cherry-plucked from 300 applicants to not so much as even being considered for ANY of the dozens of positions open in the quickly proliferating Besh group—mind you my man has 23 years experience. Restaurant politics can suck it.

Any hoo, Mr was able to set that aside (don’t know if I could) and decided without so much as a flinch that he would do it; he would present his resume to the man himself. He’d heard, after all, that Chef Besh liked dynamic people. That was dynamic, right?

“What time is he on?” the Mr. asked. (We both thought it was sometime on Saturday, the following day.)

“Oh, I don’t remember. Let me look.” And I did, kind of lackadaisically. “Oh, hell, he was on like 15 minutes ago.” Without skipping a beat, the man grabbed his helmet, his resume, a kiss and headed out the door.

While I didn’t attend (I was still in my jammies), this is what was reported:

The Mr. scooted down to the festival sight not knowing exactly where the festival nor where the demonstration sight was. He headed toward Harrah’s casino knowing it was in that general area. Since he was on the Vespa –and this is the beauty of the thing—he just started darting in and out of the place looking for some sign of where the big-shot chef might be. Lo and behold chef Besh wasn’t even on yet; in fact, he saw him outside drinking a beer with one of his subordinates. Excited, he forgot to even turn off the damn Vespa before heading over (and then he realized and went and grabbed the damn keys).

He approached, introduced himself and asked if he (Besh) might do him a favor.

“I’m a big fan and I wondered if you might sign this for me.”

A look of shock came over Besh’s face, “Where’d you get this . . . it’s not been released yet.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way. Actually, a friend sent it to me in the mail.”

“Huh, you must have good friends.”

“Yes, I do.”

Besh went to open the book to where an author might typically autograph it (one of his first autographs we later thought). “Awwe, what’s that?” My man playfully asked, “Oh my, my resume. Hmmm, how’d that get there? What blatant self promotion. Tisk, tisk; shame on me. (A few smiles, a little chuckle.) Well, since it’s already in your hand you might aas well keep that copy for yourself.”

“So, where’d you come from?”

“Minneapolis.”

“Yeah? Who’d you work for?”

“Jean Georges.”

A tiny bell of familiarity appeared to strike him. “Didn’t you interview or…”

“Yeah, I did …” My man gave a brief yeah I did, not sure what happened, would really like to work for you, heard you like out-going individuals, etc, etc. And then he shook his hand, tossed the book in his backpack and left almost as quickly as he’d arrived. He didn’t want to appear as if he were stalking the guy or anything but he’d done what he’d set out to do and I was proud of him for having done it.