|Photo from Daily Express|
Note: I like to believe that when we dream about the dead, their souls are paying us a visit.
I was working in the kitchen of a restaurant with Anthony Bourdain.
Though I was new to this kind of work I was already good, and getting better at anticipating his needs. As a result, Anthony had developed a respect, and even a fondness, for me. We began speaking a kind of shorthand, and sometimes Anthony even let me prepare things on my own. He trusted me that much.
But then one night, something threw me off. It caused a lot of problems in the kitchen. I forgot to bring him diced onion and lemon juice, chopped garlic and tuna fillets. I ruined two desserts.
Despite this, Anthony never yelled, even though I expected him to. He just looked at me in that skeptical way of his, unsure of why things were suddenly going so wrong.
The reason was that R_____ had come into the restaurant for dinner.
We'd been friends in high school, but had recently fallen out over his support of Donald Trump. In the days and weeks after the 2016 election we'd argued and exchanged bitter words and finally blocked each other on Facebook.
R_____ knew that I worked there. He knew what I was doing with my life, despite all the promise I'd shown in school. And he knew that he was right. I was a whiny liberal snowflake, who couldn't stand losing, who was out of touch with the rest of America wouldn't support our president.
I knew there was only one thing to do. Go out there, say hello to R_____ and make some kind of amends.
I left my station at the kitchen and went out into what we called the "front of the house."
And that's where I saw R_____, seated at his table, talking and laughing with Anthony Bourdain.