Stockholm Syndrome

I have been in some facet of the hospitality industry since I was 14. Restaurants, mostly, but I did a small 2-year stint in alcohol retail as well. In that time, I've referred to it as a form of Stockholm Syndrome for a majority of it. Much of the time, I also treated it as just a job. So why have I bothered staying?
It's not the pay. Restaurant wages are among the worst I've earned. It's not the hours, either- who willingly gives up weekends and holidays? And it's DEFINITELY not the glamour- don't believe what you see in the media, restaurant work isn't remotely pretty when you're elbows-deep in shrimp shit and shells.
Part of it could be I don't feel qualified to do anything else. I mean, when you spend so much time doing one thing, it doesn't matter what other talents you may have, it's hard to convince yourself that other people would pay you for that. Or, that's been my experience, at least.
Ultimately, I guess it boiled down to passion for me. A passion I didn't realize I had, to be honest. Which is a bit funny to admit, as I am one of the first people to tell my friends to follow theirs.
It turned out I had developed a love of German food without realizing it. When I was in high school, I spent years both volunteering and working in a German restaurant in Brunswick, Maine. Back then, I didn't have any vested interest in food, and actually was a rather annoyingly picky eater. But, when you're a growing adolescent and haven't eaten in hours, sauerkraut gets incredibly tempting-smelling.
That restaurant, Richard's, was one of the first and few places I worked in where they insisted on doing things by a set standard. More importantly, it was a standard maintained on a surprising amount of common sense. It was a method I wound up taking for granted, especially considering some of the places I worked in later years.
Anyway, while I was there, I developed a taste for German food. I proceeded to then work in a few other restaurants that were more concerned with volume and relaxed feel- decidedly not fine dining establishments. I moved to Atlanta, gained an appreciation for eating well, and then got gobsmacked and disillusioned with the dining scene here. I got burnt out. I gave up, and went into alcohol retail. It was fun for a while, but I got restless. Then I worked a special Oktoberfest event.
My company had provided the beer for the event, and I was on hand to help explain what was there to the guests. A catering company had been hired to recreate authentic German food. I was looking forward to seeing what they did, and even offered to consult with the chef at the catering company.

It was the biggest travesty toward German cooking I had ever seen. I was furious. Atlanta barely has passable European cuisine anyway, and to try to pass this off as "authentic"?! I was offended to the core. I had been toying with the idea of starting my own German pub, and this was the final nail in the coffin. I was going to make it happen one way or the other.

I proceeded to call my old boss, Richard, and set up a stage (apprenticeship) back in his kitchen. It had been at least five years since I had worked there, and I wanted to refresh my memory. I went back to Maine for a couple of weeks at the end of January and got to work. It was rejuvenating! I had forgotten how nice it was to work someplace with high standards. I felt at home. And I realized how much I still needed to learn.
I returned to Atlanta, determined to find a good cooking job. No more retail, no more waiting tables, and no more half-assed over-hyped mediocre burger-slinging. It was tough- a lot of places that were hiring were the terrible TGI knockoffs I wanted to avoid. Then, one morning during a 3am bout of insomnia, I found a Craigslist ad for a line cook position at a place I had heard good things about. J had even recommended I apply there months ago, before the Oktoberfest fiasco. I sent in my résumé, and passed out.
Chef called me that afternoon to schedule an interview. I was over the moon! A couple days later, I went in for it. There was another applicant there. I got nervous- he was dressed in his chef whites, while I looked more as though I was going for a hostess position. My nerves continued to get rattled the longer we waited for Chef to arrive. Finally, it was time. And I had the longest, most intense interview of my life. I left feeling completely rattled, but also... Intrigued. I needed to work there, I could tell. They had standards! A good reputation! An more importantly, I could *learn* there. For the first time in my life, I began praying I could get the job.
Three excruciatingly long days later, Chef called me back for a one night stage to see if I'd fit. I went in the very next night... And proceeded to completely fuck up a simple hummus recipe. Then they put me on the line, an figuring I had nothing to lose, I threw myself into learning what I could. The whole while, I was mentally swearing at myself, sure I had blown it.
Closing time rolled around, and that's when Chef gave me some of the best news of my career- I got the job. I skipped home that night. Been damn near skipping ever since, too. I still get the jitters- it's a level of cooking I've never performed at, and some days I feel like I can't keep up. But ultimately, I'm finding myself happy that I'm getting my ass kicked every weekend. I'm getting a perverse thrill from the challenge, and it's doing wonders for my faith in the skills I had picked up in prior arenas. My hands will never be pretty and flawless again- but they will reflect my love for this industry, for the strength it gives me, and the lengths I'll go to for all of my goals- kitchen or otherwise.
So why do I stay in this industry? I guess I'm just that special kind of crazy. Cheers!