It is generally not a lucrative endeavor, though that fluctuates slightly depending on what type of food you do and where you are in the country.
There is a low return-on-investment. And we're not just talking monetary investment, but time and energy commitment as well. A responsible and dedicated restaurateur will be there 6-7 days a week.
There is a low return-on-investment. And we're not just talking monetary investment, but time and energy commitment as well. A responsible and dedicated restaurateur will be there 6-7 days a week.
It is vulnerable to the capricious whims of the public. Although the mob can seem unfair and implacable, this is a harsh reality that all Star Fleet capta.....errrr, hopeful restaurateurs must face. Keeping up to date with trend changes as they are happening and appealing to your clientele are paramount to success.
I suppose there are more difficulties that only restaurateurs really have to deal with, but to me those are the trickiest to handle adeptly, and most clearly define the difference between success and failure.
I'm sure many of you have gone to a fancy restaurant and wondered why a pasta dish costs $18, or why a bottle of wine seems jacked up to $50. There are specific reasons for this and it's not merely a price-inflating tactic to line the owner's pockets.
A standard restaurant model goes like this. Every food item, all the money that comes in and is spent must follow a basic guideline.
35% food cost
35% staff wages
20% overhead (equipment, rent, repairs, etc.)
10% profit
So when you could make a pasta dish for like $4, then a restaurant could (hopefully) do it better for you at a higher price. Every dish needs to follow that model somewhat, but every restaurant has slightly different numbers. Some places get away with cheaper food cost, some with cheaper labor. Some places, like restaurants in New York City, have to charge exorbitant amounts to compensate for the high price of land (Ever eat in Times Square? Yeah a $19 hamburger at Friday's is ridiculous just to enjoy that illuminated piece of real estate, but tourists = suckers). And believe it or not, four-star dining has some of the worst profit margins because staff and food costs are skyrocketed. They need the best cooks and front of house management, and they demand the best ingredients. So when those numbers edge closer to 40% each, the profit margin takes the hit. This is why a good chef must be a good manager of efficiency. Every bit of waste will hurt the overall profit. When I clean vegetables in the kitchen my chef will walk by and inspect my trimmings. If they aren't exclusively waste product he will always point at the pile and remind me, "That's the difference between being open, and being closed."
Wine generally follows a 2.5-3x mark up rule in restaurants. A high-end restaurant will need to pay one or more sommeliers, manage the space to store all those bottles, and hunt down all those fine wines to keep a diverse and balanced wine list. So a bottle that is sold at $10 from the vineyard will probably reach your table after you cough up $25-30 bucks.
But if you look at it that way, what are we really making? Two or three dollars per dish? A little more on wine? And this is only real profit once we clear a certain hump. If it's a slow month, you still got to pay the worker bees. And as is the case with so many restaurants, most of the profit must often go back in to the restaurant. To constantly adjust and improve your establishment is a result of being a good cook, a personality quirk that you acquire sometime throughout your career. Every day, you must do better than the last, you must constantly be in a pursuit of perfection.
So what does that mean for me? Michael Ruhlman speculates in The Soul of a Chef, that true money, lavish riches are bestowed upon only the most enterprising of chefs. Chefs that can create empires, make themselves a household brand, are the ones who reap the true rewards. There aren't millions to be had by most restaurateurs. Only chefs like Roy Yamaguchi and Wolfgang Puck can earn the kind of money we attribute to celebrities and power executives.
But I'm not really looking for that kind of money anyway. I've had personal fantasies of being a recognized chef, of being a famous name that lights up the culinary blogosphere every week. But if it never happens, I won't exactly be heartbroken. I truly try in convincing myself to keep my head down and always have the end goal just in the back of my head. To just focus on every day as it comes. The goal is to own and manage a fantastic restaurant. To reach that first goal I must build a solid foundation of culinary technique. To reach that goal, I have to go to Va Pensiero and give it 110% every day I step in to that kitchen.
If fame and fortune ever reach me, it will hopefully be because I was prepared and ready when opportunity came knocking. Time and chance happen to us all, and it will require no small bit of luck to attain meteoric success. I should focus on controlling what is controllable, myself, and push onwards from there.
How's that for fucking motivational, yeah!? Too bad it's always easier to give advice than to follow it. I'm very good at giving advice to others, and to a somewhat detached sense of myself. But actually carrying out those orders in my CPU is a whole 'nother matter. Here's to trying though.
Now let's talk about "trending" and public appeal. Catering to your audience is the most important thing a chef needs to consider. A certain restaurant model that works in New York might not work in Chicago, or in a suburb, and vice versa, ad infinitum. For instance, my mom's restaurant? High-quality but standard Chinese-American food in a neighborhood of mainly Jews. For some reason, Jewish people love their Orientar food and my mom is more than happy to oblige. Va Pensiero delivers fairly traditional, high-quality Italian food for older, richer, North Shore folk. Nothing too far outside the canon of Italian cuisine so as to confuse, but we have high-end dishes that are necessary crowd pleasers given our price tag. We're practically required to have a beef tenderloin dish, even though it's not necessarily prepared in an "Italian" manner (and even though I think filet mignon is the most overrated food item in all of restaurant history).
Chef Michael Symon of Lola fame brought high-end cuisine to Cleveland. He did it by introducing familiar ingredients and making something high quality out of something simple for the people of Cleveland. He essentially let Midwest folk test the waters, feet first. Bratwurst is a common Midwest grill food that everybody here grows up eating. Now how about foie gras bratwurst? Even if you don't know what that is, a waiter can explain that to you in an instant, and you'd then be able to visualize it and be tempted to try it. Another important thing; he kept every entree under $25. He figured out how to make great food for cheap, knowing that Midwesterners weren't about to shell out big bucks for this kind of food yet. You got to know your audience.
But a restaurant in the city, somewhere in New York for example, can really push the boundaries of what we call food. Molecular gastronomy is the next hot thing, and the temples for this cuisine all reside within major metropolitan areas. Could those places really exist somewhere where people aren't ready to be so adventurous with their food? Maybe, but I doubt they would enjoy as much success. Same goes for fusion food, and any experimental cuisine.
But this is the current trend, and it seems that if you want some real recognition you're going to have to hop on this bandwagon. Of S. Pellegrino's Top 50 Restaurants of the World's list, I would gather that at least 70% of those restaurants use "molecular gastronomic" techniques (probably means they have liquid nitrogen and nitrous-whipped sauce foams somewhere in their kitchen). And many are of the aforementioned "temple" establishments, restaurants focused solely on scientifically tinkering with food. So people are hungry for it, people are ready for it, the question becomes if you want to do it that way.
I think high-quality ingredients prepared with flawless technique will always have a place in this world. Be it well-done "junk" food or old-school white tablecloth, there will always be a market for shit that just tastes good. And that should always be the focus for anyone who wants to serve food. That's great and all if you can magically turn something from ethereal foam to satiny sauce on the plate. I respect the technique and research behind that. But if it tastes like crap, then I am not so impressed. I am probably judging prematurely as I've yet to eat at a place like Alinea, or Moto, or El Bulli, but I like traditional preparations as of right now. Today's culinary school graduates are all wide-eyed about new kitchen techniques, but I'm not so intrigued yet. I guess I'm more of a Kevin Gillespie than a Michael Voltaggio.
What do I want to do, you ask? Well, I have a couple things in mind...
At some point in my life, I want to open a sandwich shop. They are the perfect food item, combining starch, veg and protein all in a convenient, hand-held package. Wally & Agador's near my apartment was a fantastic, high-end sandwich shop that unfortunately failed. Maybe the market for expensive sandwiches is difficult to maintain. But if a shop offered braised pork belly BLTs, soft shell crab sandwiches, duck confit on country wheat, and expertly cured Italian meats, could you say no? Alongside a pile of homemade chips or fries? Rick Bayless maintains what is essentially a very good sandwich shop. I guess the key is to establish yourself first in a good restaurant ... which brings me to my next point.
I'm sick of Chinese food. Correction, I'm sick of bad Chinese food. I say this as objectively as possible, but I think the best Chinese food I've had is from my mom's kitchen. Chicago Chinese food has thus far been lackluster. The Koi/Chen's chain is the only thing remotely high-end, and they are in my opinion, pretty bad. The rest consist of cheap take-out places and dim sum done with little enthusiasm. All Asian cuisines seem to be advancing in to the realm of fine-dining, but Chinese cuisine is stagnating on this side of the world.
So what's the logical choice for me? David Chang used his background in French culinary technique and his experience growing up with Korean home cooking to create his Momofuku empire. He has elevated humble ramen noodles and steamed pork buns to a high place of culinary honor. I'm not saying I want to follow his model and method, but I think that's a logical place to work if I want to try and do something with Chinese cuisine, a place that embraces French technique seamlessly melded with Asian cuisine.
But what do I know and love of Chinese food? Thanks to crappy take-out and poorly realized restaurant ideas everybody thinks Chinese food equals sweet-and-sour chicken, cornstarch laden sauces and thick-skinned dumplings. Everybody thinks of MSG infused wonton soups and greasy egg rolls. That is a travesty. I've never been to the homeland (something I plan to fix), but I've had real and good Chinese food before. The myth about a menu for white people and a menu for Chinese people is not really a myth. There's a whole bevy of Chinese dishes featuring exotic ingredients and techniques that Chinese restaurateurs fear the white man ain't ready for. Which is kind of true. But as people are beginning to appreciate food more; appreciating slow food, sustainable food, locally grown food, something beyond the borders of hamburgers and hot dogs, of steak and fries, of endless protein/starch/veg dishes, I think we are developing a generation of diners who are ready for a bold step in to the unknown.
So how do you blend (or to use Ted's word, "blound") two cuisines? Fusion has been a pretty popular idea for a while, but its execution has generally been awful. Asia de Cuba, Lespinasse under Gray Kunz, Vong and Momofuku are the only successful examples I can really think of. The key is to have a deep, deep understanding of the two cuisines you're trying to throw in the blender. You have to know at heart what that cuisine represents and then make educated decisions as to pairing flavors together. It requires experimentation from a well of knowledge. I remember at Spice Market, Jean Georges' casual fusion establishment, I had a braised prime beef short rib with Asian buckwheat noodles. Hints of star anise, Sichuan peppercorns spiked a traditional red wine and veal stock braising liquid. The natural succulence of well-braised meat is usually paired with something like the texture of risotto or mashed potatoes, but the fall-apart beef was pleasant contrast to the soft bite of buckwheat noodles. The dish came together wonderfully and my mother immediately sought to develop her own version.
Jean-Georges spent years working in Bangkok, familiarizing himself with the food and ingredients there. Gray Kunz grew up in Singapore and had a childhood that smelled like kaffir lime, cardamom and lemongrass. His lifetime of experience with exotic spices, ingredients outside the canon of classical French cuisine, allowed him to show the adaptivity of serious French technique. Good "fusion" chefs would never use the word "fusion" with any seriousness or pride. They would more likely say they were showing the flexibility a background in solid French technique allows. They would more likely say they were presenting diners with exciting new flavors and presentations that they were deeply knowledgeable of. I guess the true difference lies in subtlety and authenticity. The goal isn't to throw in unusual flavors and assault the palate. The goal is to introduce an unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation that rings true to all cuisines borrowed from.
What I am basically getting at, after this long winding, talking road of Chinese food and fusion food, is that I think it's time someone stepped up to the plate for true Chinese flavors. China has such a rich culinary history and an expansive repertoire of dishes that I am not aware enough of. Chinese-American food, though often cheesy (in the stylistic sense, not the literal sense) and dumbed down, has promise. And I thoroughly enjoy both. I love when my mom's head chef from Shanghai throws down a crayfish and snail stir-fry that tastes like nothing else I've ever had. But I can't deny the simple pleasure of well-done sesame chicken with a bowl of white rice, as that was my favorite dish growing up. And I can't resist well-done dim sum. Translucent, paper-thin skins that just barely contain an impossibly flavorful filling. I don't care if it's gringo-pleasers like shrimp shu-mai or something a bit more traditional, like pork and Dungeness crab soup dumplings. I love it all, I want to learn to make it all.
So here we are at an important life juncture. I must continue to refine my French culinary technique (also known as "skizills") while educating myself in traditional Chinese cuisine. I must also use the Chinese-American kind of food that my mom does so well as a bridge. If I get deep empathy for all those cuisines, then I think some kind of unholy Triforce of culinary wonderment can be had. Some sick, twisted brainchild of mine that can wow your mouths (that's what she said). And somewhere along the road, I'll make sandwiches and maybe rest on my laurels. If I'm lucky.
So we're kicking it old school. Not like Nick Cannon in Drumline, replete with cassette tape sessions and snare drum showdowns to sort out his daddy issues. No, nothing quite that lame or contrived (Sorry, when I hear "kicking it old school" that line spoken by Orlando Jones haunts my dreams). We're talking an intrepid, head first dive into a Chinese kitchen. And I think I have one in mind. We're talking an expedition, nay a pilgrimage back to the homeland is in order (though to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure even I know the difference between China and Taiwan ... and boy do large throngs of Asian people terrify me .. cameras and peace signs everywhere ::shudder::). How long I can stand Asian parenting and the hideous dystopia that is Long Island again though is the first question. I'll enjoy Chicago while it lasts.
EP6
I'm sure many of you have gone to a fancy restaurant and wondered why a pasta dish costs $18, or why a bottle of wine seems jacked up to $50. There are specific reasons for this and it's not merely a price-inflating tactic to line the owner's pockets.
A standard restaurant model goes like this. Every food item, all the money that comes in and is spent must follow a basic guideline.
35% food cost
35% staff wages
20% overhead (equipment, rent, repairs, etc.)
10% profit
So when you could make a pasta dish for like $4, then a restaurant could (hopefully) do it better for you at a higher price. Every dish needs to follow that model somewhat, but every restaurant has slightly different numbers. Some places get away with cheaper food cost, some with cheaper labor. Some places, like restaurants in New York City, have to charge exorbitant amounts to compensate for the high price of land (Ever eat in Times Square? Yeah a $19 hamburger at Friday's is ridiculous just to enjoy that illuminated piece of real estate, but tourists = suckers). And believe it or not, four-star dining has some of the worst profit margins because staff and food costs are skyrocketed. They need the best cooks and front of house management, and they demand the best ingredients. So when those numbers edge closer to 40% each, the profit margin takes the hit. This is why a good chef must be a good manager of efficiency. Every bit of waste will hurt the overall profit. When I clean vegetables in the kitchen my chef will walk by and inspect my trimmings. If they aren't exclusively waste product he will always point at the pile and remind me, "That's the difference between being open, and being closed."
Wine generally follows a 2.5-3x mark up rule in restaurants. A high-end restaurant will need to pay one or more sommeliers, manage the space to store all those bottles, and hunt down all those fine wines to keep a diverse and balanced wine list. So a bottle that is sold at $10 from the vineyard will probably reach your table after you cough up $25-30 bucks.
But if you look at it that way, what are we really making? Two or three dollars per dish? A little more on wine? And this is only real profit once we clear a certain hump. If it's a slow month, you still got to pay the worker bees. And as is the case with so many restaurants, most of the profit must often go back in to the restaurant. To constantly adjust and improve your establishment is a result of being a good cook, a personality quirk that you acquire sometime throughout your career. Every day, you must do better than the last, you must constantly be in a pursuit of perfection.
So what does that mean for me? Michael Ruhlman speculates in The Soul of a Chef, that true money, lavish riches are bestowed upon only the most enterprising of chefs. Chefs that can create empires, make themselves a household brand, are the ones who reap the true rewards. There aren't millions to be had by most restaurateurs. Only chefs like Roy Yamaguchi and Wolfgang Puck can earn the kind of money we attribute to celebrities and power executives.
But I'm not really looking for that kind of money anyway. I've had personal fantasies of being a recognized chef, of being a famous name that lights up the culinary blogosphere every week. But if it never happens, I won't exactly be heartbroken. I truly try in convincing myself to keep my head down and always have the end goal just in the back of my head. To just focus on every day as it comes. The goal is to own and manage a fantastic restaurant. To reach that first goal I must build a solid foundation of culinary technique. To reach that goal, I have to go to Va Pensiero and give it 110% every day I step in to that kitchen.
If fame and fortune ever reach me, it will hopefully be because I was prepared and ready when opportunity came knocking. Time and chance happen to us all, and it will require no small bit of luck to attain meteoric success. I should focus on controlling what is controllable, myself, and push onwards from there.
How's that for fucking motivational, yeah!? Too bad it's always easier to give advice than to follow it. I'm very good at giving advice to others, and to a somewhat detached sense of myself. But actually carrying out those orders in my CPU is a whole 'nother matter. Here's to trying though.
Now let's talk about "trending" and public appeal. Catering to your audience is the most important thing a chef needs to consider. A certain restaurant model that works in New York might not work in Chicago, or in a suburb, and vice versa, ad infinitum. For instance, my mom's restaurant? High-quality but standard Chinese-American food in a neighborhood of mainly Jews. For some reason, Jewish people love their Orientar food and my mom is more than happy to oblige. Va Pensiero delivers fairly traditional, high-quality Italian food for older, richer, North Shore folk. Nothing too far outside the canon of Italian cuisine so as to confuse, but we have high-end dishes that are necessary crowd pleasers given our price tag. We're practically required to have a beef tenderloin dish, even though it's not necessarily prepared in an "Italian" manner (and even though I think filet mignon is the most overrated food item in all of restaurant history).
Chef Michael Symon of Lola fame brought high-end cuisine to Cleveland. He did it by introducing familiar ingredients and making something high quality out of something simple for the people of Cleveland. He essentially let Midwest folk test the waters, feet first. Bratwurst is a common Midwest grill food that everybody here grows up eating. Now how about foie gras bratwurst? Even if you don't know what that is, a waiter can explain that to you in an instant, and you'd then be able to visualize it and be tempted to try it. Another important thing; he kept every entree under $25. He figured out how to make great food for cheap, knowing that Midwesterners weren't about to shell out big bucks for this kind of food yet. You got to know your audience.
But a restaurant in the city, somewhere in New York for example, can really push the boundaries of what we call food. Molecular gastronomy is the next hot thing, and the temples for this cuisine all reside within major metropolitan areas. Could those places really exist somewhere where people aren't ready to be so adventurous with their food? Maybe, but I doubt they would enjoy as much success. Same goes for fusion food, and any experimental cuisine.
But this is the current trend, and it seems that if you want some real recognition you're going to have to hop on this bandwagon. Of S. Pellegrino's Top 50 Restaurants of the World's list, I would gather that at least 70% of those restaurants use "molecular gastronomic" techniques (probably means they have liquid nitrogen and nitrous-whipped sauce foams somewhere in their kitchen). And many are of the aforementioned "temple" establishments, restaurants focused solely on scientifically tinkering with food. So people are hungry for it, people are ready for it, the question becomes if you want to do it that way.
I think high-quality ingredients prepared with flawless technique will always have a place in this world. Be it well-done "junk" food or old-school white tablecloth, there will always be a market for shit that just tastes good. And that should always be the focus for anyone who wants to serve food. That's great and all if you can magically turn something from ethereal foam to satiny sauce on the plate. I respect the technique and research behind that. But if it tastes like crap, then I am not so impressed. I am probably judging prematurely as I've yet to eat at a place like Alinea, or Moto, or El Bulli, but I like traditional preparations as of right now. Today's culinary school graduates are all wide-eyed about new kitchen techniques, but I'm not so intrigued yet. I guess I'm more of a Kevin Gillespie than a Michael Voltaggio.
What do I want to do, you ask? Well, I have a couple things in mind...
At some point in my life, I want to open a sandwich shop. They are the perfect food item, combining starch, veg and protein all in a convenient, hand-held package. Wally & Agador's near my apartment was a fantastic, high-end sandwich shop that unfortunately failed. Maybe the market for expensive sandwiches is difficult to maintain. But if a shop offered braised pork belly BLTs, soft shell crab sandwiches, duck confit on country wheat, and expertly cured Italian meats, could you say no? Alongside a pile of homemade chips or fries? Rick Bayless maintains what is essentially a very good sandwich shop. I guess the key is to establish yourself first in a good restaurant ... which brings me to my next point.
I'm sick of Chinese food. Correction, I'm sick of bad Chinese food. I say this as objectively as possible, but I think the best Chinese food I've had is from my mom's kitchen. Chicago Chinese food has thus far been lackluster. The Koi/Chen's chain is the only thing remotely high-end, and they are in my opinion, pretty bad. The rest consist of cheap take-out places and dim sum done with little enthusiasm. All Asian cuisines seem to be advancing in to the realm of fine-dining, but Chinese cuisine is stagnating on this side of the world.
So what's the logical choice for me? David Chang used his background in French culinary technique and his experience growing up with Korean home cooking to create his Momofuku empire. He has elevated humble ramen noodles and steamed pork buns to a high place of culinary honor. I'm not saying I want to follow his model and method, but I think that's a logical place to work if I want to try and do something with Chinese cuisine, a place that embraces French technique seamlessly melded with Asian cuisine.
But what do I know and love of Chinese food? Thanks to crappy take-out and poorly realized restaurant ideas everybody thinks Chinese food equals sweet-and-sour chicken, cornstarch laden sauces and thick-skinned dumplings. Everybody thinks of MSG infused wonton soups and greasy egg rolls. That is a travesty. I've never been to the homeland (something I plan to fix), but I've had real and good Chinese food before. The myth about a menu for white people and a menu for Chinese people is not really a myth. There's a whole bevy of Chinese dishes featuring exotic ingredients and techniques that Chinese restaurateurs fear the white man ain't ready for. Which is kind of true. But as people are beginning to appreciate food more; appreciating slow food, sustainable food, locally grown food, something beyond the borders of hamburgers and hot dogs, of steak and fries, of endless protein/starch/veg dishes, I think we are developing a generation of diners who are ready for a bold step in to the unknown.
So how do you blend (or to use Ted's word, "blound") two cuisines? Fusion has been a pretty popular idea for a while, but its execution has generally been awful. Asia de Cuba, Lespinasse under Gray Kunz, Vong and Momofuku are the only successful examples I can really think of. The key is to have a deep, deep understanding of the two cuisines you're trying to throw in the blender. You have to know at heart what that cuisine represents and then make educated decisions as to pairing flavors together. It requires experimentation from a well of knowledge. I remember at Spice Market, Jean Georges' casual fusion establishment, I had a braised prime beef short rib with Asian buckwheat noodles. Hints of star anise, Sichuan peppercorns spiked a traditional red wine and veal stock braising liquid. The natural succulence of well-braised meat is usually paired with something like the texture of risotto or mashed potatoes, but the fall-apart beef was pleasant contrast to the soft bite of buckwheat noodles. The dish came together wonderfully and my mother immediately sought to develop her own version.
Jean-Georges spent years working in Bangkok, familiarizing himself with the food and ingredients there. Gray Kunz grew up in Singapore and had a childhood that smelled like kaffir lime, cardamom and lemongrass. His lifetime of experience with exotic spices, ingredients outside the canon of classical French cuisine, allowed him to show the adaptivity of serious French technique. Good "fusion" chefs would never use the word "fusion" with any seriousness or pride. They would more likely say they were showing the flexibility a background in solid French technique allows. They would more likely say they were presenting diners with exciting new flavors and presentations that they were deeply knowledgeable of. I guess the true difference lies in subtlety and authenticity. The goal isn't to throw in unusual flavors and assault the palate. The goal is to introduce an unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation that rings true to all cuisines borrowed from.
What I am basically getting at, after this long winding, talking road of Chinese food and fusion food, is that I think it's time someone stepped up to the plate for true Chinese flavors. China has such a rich culinary history and an expansive repertoire of dishes that I am not aware enough of. Chinese-American food, though often cheesy (in the stylistic sense, not the literal sense) and dumbed down, has promise. And I thoroughly enjoy both. I love when my mom's head chef from Shanghai throws down a crayfish and snail stir-fry that tastes like nothing else I've ever had. But I can't deny the simple pleasure of well-done sesame chicken with a bowl of white rice, as that was my favorite dish growing up. And I can't resist well-done dim sum. Translucent, paper-thin skins that just barely contain an impossibly flavorful filling. I don't care if it's gringo-pleasers like shrimp shu-mai or something a bit more traditional, like pork and Dungeness crab soup dumplings. I love it all, I want to learn to make it all.
So here we are at an important life juncture. I must continue to refine my French culinary technique (also known as "skizills") while educating myself in traditional Chinese cuisine. I must also use the Chinese-American kind of food that my mom does so well as a bridge. If I get deep empathy for all those cuisines, then I think some kind of unholy Triforce of culinary wonderment can be had. Some sick, twisted brainchild of mine that can wow your mouths (that's what she said). And somewhere along the road, I'll make sandwiches and maybe rest on my laurels. If I'm lucky.
So we're kicking it old school. Not like Nick Cannon in Drumline, replete with cassette tape sessions and snare drum showdowns to sort out his daddy issues. No, nothing quite that lame or contrived (Sorry, when I hear "kicking it old school" that line spoken by Orlando Jones haunts my dreams). We're talking an intrepid, head first dive into a Chinese kitchen. And I think I have one in mind. We're talking an expedition, nay a pilgrimage back to the homeland is in order (though to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure even I know the difference between China and Taiwan ... and boy do large throngs of Asian people terrify me .. cameras and peace signs everywhere ::shudder::). How long I can stand Asian parenting and the hideous dystopia that is Long Island again though is the first question. I'll enjoy Chicago while it lasts.
EP6
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