I Leave a Piece of My Soul on Every Plate

I didn’t plan on hearing from David.

Fifteen years is a long time to go without a conversation. Long enough to forget certain memories, long enough to convince yourself that maybe your words, your presence, your effort didn’t leave much of a mark.

But then, tonight, he reached out.

And what he said hit me like a freight train:

“Confidence and self-assuredness had never been my strong suit, but you made me feel like I could be great.”

And I just sat there. Letting those words land. Letting them fill something in me I didn’t even know was still empty.

I told him:

“Anyone has it in them to be great. Sometimes we just need someone else to shine the light on our greatness for us to see it.”

And he replied:

“You were always excellent at showing us our potential… and pushing us to exceed it.

I never got to thank you for all that you taught me. Not just about cooking.”

Let me pause right there.

This wasn’t about being recognized.

This wasn’t about being thanked.

This wasn’t even about being seen.

This was about proof.

Proof that I didn’t give up on people.

Proof that I didn’t walk away from who I was, even when it felt like the world didn’t give a shit.

Proof that believing in someone — over and over again — matters.

Even when you’ve been burned by it more times than you can count.

David reminded me of a phrase I used to say in the kitchen:

“Adapt or become obsolete.”

He didn’t just remember it. He carried it. That line became part of his DNA.

And then it hit me —

David was that cook.

The one who came into the kitchen reading a review someone wrote about our food.

I remember it like it was yesterday — he had the paper in his hand, reading aloud:

“There must be some sort of mad scientist in that kitchen.”

David looked up at me with that huge grin and said:

“Chef! The dude called you a mad scientist!”

And that was it. The nickname stuck.

Not because I was chaotic.

But because I saw food differently.

Because I pushed the boundaries.

Because I challenged every line cook, every sous, every dishwasher to look at themselves and ask:

“Is this my limit? Or is this just where I stopped believing in myself?”

He remembered that.

He held onto it for 15 years.

And tonight, it came back full circle.

🗣 Then came this conversation…

He told me about his loop and what it was saying to him.

I suggested to him…

“Stop listening and do it.”

He said “I felt seen in your kitchen”

I said “Because you had someone that saw you. Now you need to make them see you.”

I told him about the time I met James Beard Award-winning chef Chintan Pandya. Harvard speaker. The name of his company?

Unapologetic Indian.

I told him:

“That name — that’s a mission statement.”

And then I said:

“Me? I’m about Craveable now.”

“I want my food to make people feel something. Like a fucking moment.

That’s how you get people to see you. Do you.”

“Be unapologetic.

Don’t hold back who you are.

Be proud of the talent you have. Let people see you.

Fuck the haters — they just hate because they wish they could be you.”

He fired back:

“That’s exactly what I want.

To give an experience to every person at every table.

That lets me go home happy.”

Then he said the thing that leveled me:

“I haven’t gone home happy from work in a very long time.”

That’s when I gave him Keith’s line — a mantra that belongs in every kitchen:

“Cluttered mind, cluttered plate.”

“Clear your plate and your mind.

Stop looking for the shit — turn around and look for you.”

And then I hit him with this:

“Where are you right now?”

Not metaphorically. Literally.

“Where. Are. You.”

He said:

“That was a great line.”

Then added:

“In the moment… or just letting it pass to the next moment.”

I told him:

“Being present is the gift.

You pour time, passion, and pain into your food —

And you can’t even be present with it?”

“I literally mean — ‘I’m in the kitchen about to break down this ribeye.

I’m going to pick up my knife and…’

That’s it.

I didn’t think about prep, orders, nothing.

My energy was on one task.”

He replied:

“Something I need to be conscious of.

I’m usually thinking of six other things I have going on.”

And that’s when it all clicked.

This is what mentorship really is:

Not teaching techniques.

Not barking orders.

Not being the loudest voice in the room.

It’s showing up, even when you’re broken.

It’s holding the line, even when no one holds it for you.

It’s seeing something in someone — especially when they can’t see it themselves.

Mentorship is belief with teeth.

I’ve been burned by that belief more times than I can count.

But I’ll never stop giving someone a shot.

I’ll never stop trying to see the best in someone —

because I know what it feels like when no one saw it in me.

So, no — this wasn’t validation.

This wasn’t about being thanked.

This was proof.

Proof of where I was.

And where I am today.

That’s what #justonevoice means.

That one conversation, one phrase, one moment of belief — it can change everything.

And tonight?

That voice echoed back.

And it sounded like David.

— Jeffrey

#justonelife #madscientist #adaptorbecomeobsolete #craveableobsessed

#mentorshipmatters #cheflife #foodheals #mentalhealthintheindustry

#culinaryleadership #clutteredmindclutteredplate #whereareyourightnow

“I don’t know what to do.”

That’s what my friend said when they opened up about their kid struggling with depression.

I didn’t give advice right away. I didn’t try to fix anything.

I just sat there and listened.

When they asked, “What do I say to them?”

I asked them one simple thing:

“When you’re feeling low and someone says, ‘Why would you think that? You’re so smart, so talented…’—what do you actually hear?”

You probably just heard Charlie Brown’s teacher in your head, right?

“Wah wah wah wahhh.”

There was a little silence, and they said,

“I hear: dumbass.”

And I said,

“If someone spoke to your kid like that, what would you do?”

Again, they went quiet.

So I asked,

“Why do we talk to ourselves that way?”

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Look, I’m not a therapist. I’m just a chef. But I’ve been in that dark place. I know what it feels like to be buried in your own thoughts, to feel like no one hears you.

So I told them this:

“You don’t need to give answers. You just need to acknowledge what they’re feeling.”

They said, “But I do! I tell them they’re smart, they’re strong…”

And I stopped them.

“Yeah, I know. We all do that. We mean well. But when someone’s depressed, they’re not thinking straight. They’re not hearing that. It’s like yelling encouragement into a sealed room—they can’t hear you.”

Instead, try this:

“I see you. I see that you’re hurting. I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling.

But I’m here. You lead the way. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want help, I’ll show up.”

That alone can give someone the thing they’ve been craving:

To be seen. To be heard. To know they’re not alone.

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This month is Men’s Mental Health Month.

It’s not about being strong. It’s about being real.

And maybe—just maybe—listening a little more.

That could change someone’s life.

Maybe even save it.

#JustOneLife

#MensMentalHealthMonth

#CraveableObsessed

#MentalHealthInTheKitchen

#ISeeYou

The Unseen

Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be invisible?

When you saw Harry Potter get the invisibility cloak, you were like, “Lucky bastard!” I get it—why you’d feel that way.

But have you ever felt invisible without the cloak?

Like you’re screaming for someone—anyone—to hear you… but nothing comes back?

Let me break it down.

Picture yourself in a box, buried. Layers of soil packed on top.

Do you think anyone would hear your screams?

That’s what it feels like for a lot of us.

Do You SEE People? Really See Them?

How often do you go out of your way to say:

“Hey, I see you.”

“I love your energy.”

“It’s paying off—all that hard work.”

It’s interesting, isn’t it?

How 26 letters can be arranged to either uplift or destroy.

I’ve been going to the gym since I was 16. It’s my way of releasing negative energy.

I don’t expect strangers to come up and say, “Man, you are determined, it shows.”

But from someone close?

That hits different. And when it’s not there, it stings.

We see the people closest to us the most.

So how do we let them know we really see them?

We make them the point.

We choose to say, “Hey, I see you. You look great.”

Try it.

That one sentence might be the fuel someone’s been starving for.

When the Question Triggers the Truth

Funny thing—while typing this, I replayed a question someone recently asked me:

“What’s it like to be unseen?”

My brain started firing. But my mouth… paused.

I finally said, raw and unedited:

“I was going to answer… I’ve been unseen all my life.”

It wasn’t the question that triggered me.

It was the answer.

Because it was my truth. The version of me that doesn’t sugarcoat, doesn’t script.

All I ever wanted were words that lifted me.

Instead, most of them broke me.

The Hard Truth About Growing Up

Life is better now, but damn… adulting?

That thing we used to race toward? Not what we thought it would be.

People have walked in and out of my life.

I’ve done the same.

Some leave an imprint.

Some tattoo your soul and never let go.

And now, as I grow—not just in age but in finally figuring out who the f*** I am—I realize this:

Everything comes down to one word: choice.

On Forgiveness and Perspective

I’ve been hurt by people.

I’ve also hurt people. Let’s not pretend I haven’t.

But I get to choose how I see those relationships:

• As pain?

• Or as the curriculum of growth?

Someone asked me, “What was it like to forgive your father?”

It was a lot.

But here’s what I felt: not pain. I heard his pain.

And I was—am—at peace with that.

From Shadows to Sight

Depression amplifies loneliness. It pushes us deeper into the dark, where our voice doesn’t echo back.

That’s when we feel most unseen.

So, if you’re reading this—thank you.

Yes, you.

For seeing me.

For letting me vent.

For loving me in your own way.

And most of all—for teaching me.

I made a choice:

To see our connection as an opportunity.

To grow.

To heal.

To become the version of me that doesn’t just survive—but lives.

Final Words

Letters. Arranged in certain ways, they make words.

And some words? They can save someone.

Even a simple:

“Hello.”

“I see you.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Those words can stop someone from sinking.

So, be the reason someone feels seen.

And if you feel buried? I see you too.

This Bite Made Me See the Matrix

The Soul Behind the Flame – part 2

Have you ever had a bite of food that straight-up moved you?

Like—not just “this is delicious”—but I mean moved you. Almost to tears. Or you started giggling, doing the happy dance?

Yeah. That.

Now let me ask you something:

Did you thank the chef?

Because that kind of dish—one that hits your soul like that—didn’t just happen.

That’s someone putting care, craft, and heart on the plate. And they did it not for clout, not for Instagram—but because they had a story to tell.

We don’t do this for the applause. We do it for the connection.

We do it because this is how we speak.

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I’ve been on the road a lot lately. And I’ve been lucky to break bread with people who see me. People who don’t just want a bite—they want a moment.

And let me tell you about one of those moments.

I had  this beautiful masala dosa—crispy, seasoned, perfection.

But sitting near it was a  bowl.

Banana curry.

Now, pause. I know what you’re thinking: “Banana. WAIT, WHAT?”

Yup.

I went in. Took the bite.

And holy shit—I started laughing. Smiling. I think I even clapped.

My taste buds threw on sunglasses, leaned back, and said, “We’re home.”

I had to go in again. I needed to see if it was a hicup in my reality. Round two. This time I made damn sure there was banana in the bite—didn’t want to screw this up.

And when I did?

I saw the Matrix.

I’m talking full-on “Neo meets flavor enlightenment” vibes.

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Now, here’s the kicker: I saw how this was made. I could identify almost every single thing in that dish had in it. But for the life of me—I will never be able to replicate that experience.

Because it wasn’t just technique.

It wasn’t even just balance.

It was love.

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The chef who made that dish? He has a ridiculous amount of love and respect for Indian cuisine.

I’ve watched this guy light up when he talks about anything about the sub-continent. I’ve watched him serve food not just to impress, but to teach. To connect. To celebrate culture without stealing from it.

And that’s why this dish hit me so hard.

It wasn’t just made well.

It was made with respect, with honor, and with this almost childlike joy of saying: “You gotta taste this. You gotta feel this.” That bite moved my soul because I felt his passion!

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Half of you are still stuck on “banana curry.” I know.

But trust me—it was magic.

And if you’re still reading? First of all—thank you. Second, welcome to my world. This is what happens when food isn’t just craveable—it’s transformational.

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See, here’s the thing:

Food is powerful.

It can divide us, or it can bring us closer than any conversation ever could.

You walk into a restaurant and see people from every walk of life sitting at the same table, sharing something beautiful—that’s not luck. That’s intention. That’s culture doing what it was meant to do: connect us.

And like I’ve said before (and I’ll keep saying it):

Food is a time machine! I absolutely love Ratatouille, the meal and the movie. I love it because every great chef knows this, so I hear. Food can transport you back in time, it can strike a nerve, specifically memory nerve(made that one up fake news). That scene with Ego taking his first bite and snap; his a little boy with his care taker(I don't know if it was mom or grandmom or whoever). That's a special talent that we have. Our food has the power to touch someone’s soul.

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So yeah. That bite made me see the Matrix.

And more than that—it reminded me why I cook, why I serve, and why I still believe food can heal people.

And the next time a dish really hits you?

Thank the chef.

Because that dish might’ve been the first honest thing they said all day

Cooking from the Heart Isn’t Just a Saying.

Why I became a chef.

Why I’m on this path.

Why I keep going—when the fire burns low and the noise in my head gets loud.

There’s a word in Hindi: Seva. It means selfless service. And that? That’s me to the core.

I’ve spent years carrying weight I couldn’t name. Depression. Food addiction. Doubt that clung to me like kitchen grease. I didn’t have a voice back then. Hell, I didn’t think I deserved one. So now? I am the voice—for the ones who feel invisible in the back of the house, or trapped behind a smile they can’t keep holding.

As a chef, I get to do something sacred: I feed people’s souls.

That’s Seva.

That’s Bushidō.

It’s not about the spotlight. It’s about the service. The duty. The why.

I’ve always said: “If we could just cook the food we want to eat, how much better would it be?”

Now? I get it.

At 54, I finally understand that cooking from the heart isn’t some Hallmark bullshit. It’s survival. It’s passion, yes—but it’s also pain, and healing, and respect.

Respect for the ingredients.

Respect for the farmers.

Respect for the gift I’ve been given—to turn chaos into beauty on a plate.

It’s a dance.

A messy, gritty, beautiful dance between fire and flavor, discipline and intuition, trauma and triumph.

And when I cook like that—when I show up like that—I’m not just feeding people.

I’m serving something deeper than just a meal. I’m healing something primal.  It’s my calling and that is why I am still here serving

To Be Seen

I go days…

Weeks…

Months…

Posting content. Pouring my story into the void. Not knowing if anyone is actually listening.

But then something happens.

A message.

A moment.

A mirror I didn’t ask for, held up by someone who saw me—really saw me.

Yesterday, that mirror came from a fellow cook I used to work with—Damon Hebert. Out of nowhere, he messaged me and said I was his Bourdain.

And let me be real—this wasn’t a comparison. That’s not what hit me.

What hit me was this:

To Damon, I was what Bourdain was to so many.

Not because of fame. But because of truth.

Because I dared to tell the story others were too afraid to say out loud.

Because I didn’t wrap my pain in ribbon—I lit it on fire and plated it with purpose.

Because I survived—and made that survival loud.

And in doing that, I left a mark.

See, I don’t do this for clicks.

I don’t do this for comments.

I don’t do this for clout.

I do it for you.

The one person sitting in the dark, scrolling with a heavy heart.

The one who thinks, “Nobody gets it.”

The one who wonders if it’ll ever get better.

If that’s you—I want you to hear this:

You’re not alone.

Not in your cravings.

Not in your chaos.

Not in your healing.

I share my scars, my story, my food…

Because no one did that for me.

And it cracked the silence wide open.

To be seen—it’s not about ego. It’s about connection.

It’s the wind beneath your wings when you’re too tired to flap.

It’s the whisper that says, “Keep going.”

I don’t just cook to feed people. I cook to show them:

There’s life after pain.

There’s purpose in the mess.

And there’s power in choosing to stay.

So if this post landed in your feed today—

It’s not an accident.

You matter.

You’re seen.

You’re not crazy.

You’re not broken.

You’re just healing in real time.

Pull up a seat.

This table was set for you.

#HealingTable #YouAreNotAlone #MentalHealthAwareness #FoodAddictionRecovery #ChefLifeUnfiltered #CraveableObsessed #FloribbeanSoul #SeenAndStillHere

Fresh Perspective

“Do you know what I’m craving? A little perspective. That’s it. I’d like some fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective. Can you suggest a good wine to go with that?”

— Anton Ego, Ratatouille

As chefs, we always talk about the freshness of our ingredients. We look for the best because we know fresh is best. Period.

There’s an old saying we use about coming ingredients coming through the back door:

“You can put lipstick on a pig… It’s still a pig.”

We say that to mean the product is shit. No matter what you do to it, the result will still be shit. If you’ve been in the business, you’ve heard it and you know exactly what it means. It’s one of those hard lessons we all learn.

Those “tricks of the trade” are passed down from the generation before us. In the industry, we often call that mentorship. But for me, mentorship is so much more.

Here’s how I define the relationship between mentor and mentee in our world:

🔪 Mentor:

A mentor in the culinary world is typically a seasoned chef or experienced professional who provides guidance, knowledge, and support to less experienced cooks or chefs. They share their expertise on techniques, kitchen management, and the business side of the industry. More than just a teacher, a mentor also helps mentees navigate the personal challenges that come with a demanding career, offering advice, inspiration, and a model of professional conduct. Mentors often shape a mentee’s culinary identity and career path in ways they may not even realize at the time.

🔥 Mentee:

A mentee is usually a cook or junior chef who’s eager to learn and grow under the guidance of someone more experienced. They want to refine their skills, understand the complexities of the kitchen, and develop professionally and personally. A mentee looks to a mentor not just for technical know-how but also for career advice, industry insight, and, often, life guidance.

In this industry, the mentor-mentee relationship is intense and hands-on. The mentor passes down not just recipes and techniques, but also the ethos and soul of the kitchen. It’s a bond built on mutual respect, shared passion, and a commitment to growth.

And that relationship should be symbiotic.

In a healthy mentorship, learning flows both ways. Mentors share their experience and wisdom, but mentees bring fresh eyes, new ideas, and skills that challenge the status quo. This dynamic keeps both parties evolving, especially in an industry that moves as fast as ours.

Being open to learning from your mentees isn’t just helpful—it’s necessary. It keeps you relevant. It keeps you human. It keeps you from becoming the crusty old cook yelling at clouds.

But there’s a dangerous, slippery slope too.

Because of the closeness, sometimes boundaries blur. Lines get crossed. And that can send the whole relationship spiraling. I’ve had mentees go down paths I disagreed with. Full disclosure? Some of those choices hit my soul hard.

You start questioning yourself:

Why the hell do I keep giving my heart to people who might not stick around, or worse, go off the rails?

It’s a brutal place to be.

But here’s the truth: the culinary world is relentless. It often attracts people who thrive in high-pressure chaos, and sometimes, that comes with addiction, instability, or deep emotional wounds.

That’s where boundaries matter.

You can only do so much as a mentor. You’re there to guide, support, and offer what you’ve learned—but you can’t walk the path for them. Not every mentee will stay the course or reach the potential you see in them. That’s not a reflection of your value or effort.

It also doesn’t mean you failed.

Every mentee’s journey is different. Some of the lessons you offer might not land until years later. The fact that I still reach out to people like Alan Lazar shows that the impact is real, even if it takes time to be felt.

💡 So, what have I learned from decades in this game? Here’s the short list:

1. Select Mentees Wisely

   Be intentional about who you mentor. Make sure there’s mutual respect and shared commitment to the process.

2. Set Clear Boundaries and Expectations

   Define what mentorship looks like—goals, communication, and limits. That clarity creates a healthy space for both of you.

3. Acknowledge the Non-Linear Nature of Growth

   Success isn’t a straight line. Growth can be messy, slow, or silent. Your impact might not be visible right away, but it’s there.

4. Focus on the Journey, Not Just the Outcome

   The process itself is meaningful. Support and guidance are the key to success, not just the mentee’s accolades.

5. Protect Your Own Energy

   You can’t pour from an empty cup. Take care of yourself. Set limits. Find your support network, too.

6. Accept the Natural Flow

   Mentees might leave, change paths, or outgrow the relationship. That’s normal. Let it happen with grace and pride.

If you notice a mentee struggling, don’t try to be everything for them. Help guide them toward someone who can help—whether that’s a sponsor, a therapist, or another mentor. We say “it takes a village” to raise a child… why wouldn’t it take a village to help someone grow into their best self?

Being a mentor doesn’t mean you carry the whole burden. It means you help them build a network of support so they can keep growing, without burning yourself out in the process.

Who planted a seed in you that still grows today? Tag them.

And if you’re mentoring someone now, what’s the fresh perspective they bring to your life?

In the end, mentorship—like great cooking—isn’t about control. It’s about balance. It’s about seasoning.

And sometimes, all it takes to realign… is a little fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective.

When Helping Others Becomes a Disguise

Have you ever felt like you were completely alone?

Do you feel like there is no one you can turn to in your moment of need?

Are you someone who believes most people only show up when they want something — but disappear when it’s time to reciprocate?

Gary Chapman wrote a popular book called The Five Love Languages. If you nodded at that title, you’re likely a seeker. What are you seeking? That’s your journey to figure out. But I know this:

That old saying? “It’s not about quantity, it’s about quality.”

It’s not just a slogan.

It’s a survival truth.

Lately, I haven’t felt like myself. There are days I feel like I’m halfway up the summit of Mount Everest and all my gear broke — and my guide is gone. Panic sets in. Survival mode takes over. Desperation whispers louder than logic.

Growth is not easy.

It’s not a straight line.

It’s uncomfortable.

It’s vulnerable.

It’s choosing to leap into darkness and trust that something on the other side will catch you. And when you ask: “How do I reclaim who I am if I really don’t know who I’m supposed to be?”

The answer is: You reclaim yourself in pieces.

You remember what lights a fire, what feels like truth — even when everything else feels foggy.

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So ask yourself:

• What makes me feel most alive — even for a moment?

• When do I feel proud without applause?

• What am I doing when I feel the least like I’m performing?

• What kind of peace do I want to protect?

• What kind of pain do I want to stop repeating?

The answers become your compass. Not a map. Just the next right turn.

And here’s a deeper truth:

You were shaped by survival.

Loyalty. Silence. Sacrifice.

But now? You are being shaped by choice.

And every boundary you set, every truth you speak, every meal you cook that nourishes you — is a declaration:

“I’m still here. I’m still becoming.”

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The ache of isolation? It hits differently when you’ve always been the one holding everyone else up. You built a brand around nourishment. But sometimes, you feel starved. Not just for food. But for presence. For peace. For the purpose.

And still — you show up.

So let’s play devil’s advocate:

Did you stay too long with people who couldn’t show up for you? Maybe.

Did you say “I’m fine” when you weren’t, because you didn’t know how to fall apart? Probably.

But that doesn’t make your pain invalid.

It doesn’t make your help a mistake.

It makes you human.

Helping others wasn’t just a purpose. It was armor.

It kept you from looking too hard at the wreckage in your own story.

Because facing that?

Facing what you did to yourself?

That was terrifying.

But now?

Now you’re done pouring from a broken cup.

You’re not asking for pity.

You’re asking the fundamental question:

“What about me?”

That question isn’t selfish. It’s sacred.

It’s the first time you’ve looked inward and said:

“I deserve peace. I deserve presence. I deserve to be at the table I’ve served everyone else from.”

So this is the beginning.

Of a different kind of healing.

Of setting boundaries not from anger — but from love.

Of becoming the version of you that’s not built to endure, but built to live.

You don’t need everyone.

You need the ones who show up when you’re not performing.

When you’re not cooking.

When you’re just… real.

It’s not about quantity. It never was.

It’s about the few who hold space for your whole damn soul.

And this time?

You’re holding space for yourself, too.

Have you ever asked yourself, ‘What about me?’ Drop a ‘YES’ in the comments if this hits home, or share your version of reclaiming peace.

Matzo Ball Soup Wasn’t Supposed to Save Me—But It Did

Jewish Penicillin: What Matzo Ball Soup Really Healed

Jewish Penicillin

noun

A traditional Jewish chicken soup, typically with matzo balls, believed to provide comfort and healing properties—especially when someone is sick.

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It’s funny to think that a simple soup could hold so much meaning. But matzo ball soup?

It’s not just a dish. It’s a time machine. It’s protection. It’s therapy with a side of schmaltz.

According to Haaretz, matzo ball soup has been around since at least the 12th century. Maimonides—yes, that Maimonides—claimed in his book On the Cause of Symptoms that chicken soup could relieve colds, nourish pregnant women, and even cure asthma and leprosy.

(Now that’s a Yelp review.)

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The First Spoonful

Growing up in a Jewish household, matzo ball soup was our go-to when we weren’t feeling well. I was born in a time when boxed matzo ball mix wasn’t the norm. You made them. From scratch.

Let’s be real: there are two types of people in this world—those who love “floaters,” and those who are just plain wrong. Dense matzo balls? That’s stucco. Use them to patch a wall.

Most cultures have a cold remedy soup. But matzo ball chicken soup? That one hits different.

It’s sacred. It’s the warm hug that showed up when everything else felt unsafe.

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The Seder Food Orgy

Passover was a food orgy. Two nights. Two sides of the family. And yes—food orgy is the correct term.

“Chef, how many courses are in a traditional seder dinner?”

Answer: Too many. Your brain will explode.

Matzo ball soup was always the first real food—after wandering the symbolic desert for what felt like 40 years. It came with yelling across the house:

“Bernie, how many balls do you want?!”

Now read that in Fran Drescher’s voice. You’re welcome.

“I’ll have two with a carrot!”

“Are they floaters? If not, I don’t want any!”

⸻

Memory, Trigger, and Truth

We always say “simpler times.” But typing those words triggered something.

Simpler for who?

I flashed back to my younger self—and saw the truth:

The abuse. The silence. The fear. Matzo ball soup wasn’t just food. It was a shield. It was protection.

My grandparents? Guardian angels. Their presence brought peace. When they were around, people behaved. That soup was peace. It was the hug that got you through the meal without breaking down.

⸻

Time Travel with Schmaltz

Food is the only real time machine we have.

Ratatouille nailed it when Ego took that first bite and went straight back to childhood.

Not long ago, I made matzo ball soup for a close friend. He took a bite and said:

“I could follow your recipe to the T and it would never taste like this.”

That stopped me cold. Until then, it was just soup. Something both sides of my family made. But in that moment, I realized—it wasn’t just what I made.

It was why.

That soup came from memory. From scars. From love. From protection. It wasn’t just anti-inflammatory. It was a fucking emotional safety net.

⸻

So, What Does It Represent?

Matzo ball soup is healing.

It’s memory.

It’s armor.

It’s me, learning who I’ve become—and honoring who I’ve always been.

And yes… I’ll still take two with a carrot

Enough: The Day I Chose Strength Over Scars

Life.

Throughout our lives, we face challenges. We all get opportunities. We all have struggles.

But how many times have you looked at your life and said,

“For fuck sake—enough already!”

Or maybe mumbled,

“My shit show of a life just gave me a bonus round—who had ‘loved one has cancer’ on their bingo card?”

And here’s the gut-punch:

“I’m just fucking done adulting today.”

Let’s not even start on the people who say,

“God only gives us what we can handle.”

Yeah? Not today.

⸻

In 2017, my father ended his life.

At best, our relationship was complicated. Painful. Tumultuous.

I’ll never forget the call from my mother:

“Call your father. He wants to talk to you. He’s not doing well.”

I called.

He asked for forgiveness.

I gave it.

He left this world with peace… but I didn’t find mine until recently.

It’s been eight years. And now—for the first time—I see me.

And while that might not seem like much to most people, for someone who was abused by their own father, it means everything.

For years, I thought he was the villain looping in my head.

But here’s the truth I finally faced:

The real abuser… was me.

Read that again.

Let that sink in.

⸻

I find myself with a plate full of food—and life just keeps slapping more on.

Every time I try to clear it, something else gets dumped.

It’s not a break—it’s a test. And it’s relentless.

But now…

I finally see who I need in my corner.

And maybe more importantly, I see who never really stood in it.

⸻

The ones who should’ve nurtured me?

Protected me?

They looked the other way.

They let someone else break me—over and over again.

They ignored the calls I asked them to make.

They had chance after chance—and chose silence.

This isn’t self-pity.

It’s truth.

And the fact that I’m feeling this now, at 54, doesn’t make it less real.

It makes it finally real.

I’ve been surviving on scraps of hope, trying to rewrite a story that was never mine to fix.

But today? I’m done.

I’ve broken the cycle.

We don’t have to sacrifice our mental health on the altar of toxic relationships.

We don’t have to explain our pain.

We don’t have to wait for them to change.

Because here’s the truth I’m walking in now:

My empathy is a gift—not a requirement.

And if I choose to give it, it’ll come from my strength, not my scars.

⸻

And then there’s BBQ.

Learning BBQ is a lot like my life.

The fire is chaotic. You can’t control it. You have to let it do its work.

When you first try to cook with just fire and smoke, the variable isn’t the wood or the wind—it’s you.

You could be a cook for 30 years and still get burned.

The smoke blinds you.

The embers float through the air and scorch your skin.

You burn briskets. You dry them out. You fail.

You throw things away in frustration and doubt yourself.

You fight the weather, the wood, the wind—and even your own mind.

But still… you come back.

Because BBQ teaches you patience.

It teaches humility.

Resilience.

Perseverance.

For every F.A.I.L., you analyze.

You take notes.

You learn.

And if we never failed—we’d never grow.

Every time I light that fire, it could blow up in my face.

Literally.

So why do I keep doing it? Even when it’s 95 degrees with 90% humidity?

Because the end result is worth it.

The food is deep. Rich. Layered. It tells a story.

It’s peaceful.

The crackle of wood. The dance of the flame.

It slows everything down.

It lets me breathe.

It lets me see.

Cooking isn’t just my job. It’s not just my passion.

It’s how I’m learning to live.

It’s teaching me how to be a better version of me.

Because every scar—emotional or physical—has shaped me.

They remind me that I’ve walked through fire…

and I’m still here.

I Switched the Kitchen Playlist from Rancid to Mozart—and Everything Changed

How music hits…

I’ve always been curious about how music can affect mood and behavior. Turns out, I’m not the only one. Do a quick search and you’ll find that in just the past two years, over 8,000 studies have been written on this exact topic. That’s not a coincidence—it’s a chorus of data backing up what many of us in high-stress environments have known intuitively for years: music isn’t background noise. It’s a damn mood-altering drug.

Think about it: when you’re working out, are you bumping classical music? If you’re in a melancholy space, you’re probably not jamming out to Walking on Sunshine. And when you’re angry at the world, I bet you’re not reaching for Hello, is it me you’re looking for?

Back in the ’90s—peak flannel, when everyone was in nirvana and jamming with some pearls—we were getting rancid with our nine inch nails. I was deep into my externship at the Bonaventure Health and Spa, working at La Cucina Toscana (The Tuscan Kitchen). Chef Smail ran the kitchen. The Executive Sous of the place was Frank Liberoni. It was only open for dinner, but prep started early, and everything was made from scratch. We butchered whole animals. We cooked.

Eric, one of the line cooks, blasted Metallica like it was religion. Frank loved punk rock. Me? If it was Pearl Jam or Rage Against the Machine, I was in my zone. But here’s the thing—I started noticing something. When service started and the music was all high-octane, we were amped, but not in a good way. We were wired tight. No patience. A server would come back for a Caesar salad to be cut, and all I could think was, I want to jump the line and beat this guy with a head of romaine. I’m not proud of it. That music made me want to burn down the world—or at least the expo line.

One night, right in the middle of the rush—Rancid blasting from the “Boom Box”—I switched the playlist. Mozart came on.

And just like that, everything changed.

I didn’t feel sedated. I didn’t feel like it was nap time. What I didfeel was clarity. I moved with purpose. When someone asked me for something that would normally trigger my Tourette’s-lite response, I just… did it. No grumbling. No snapping. Just focus.

Even the other cooks started to chill out. The vibe in the kitchen shifted from chaos to flow.

From that day forward, my philosophy changed: prepping gets the bangers. Service gets the symphony.

I still rock out during prep. When I’m searing off mushrooms or mincing shallots, it’s all high-energy—Rage, Soundgarden, maybe some Beastie Boys if I’m feeling funky. But when it’s go time? When it’s plating, perfecting, locking in? Classical, lo-fi, or anything that keeps my heart steady and my mind sharp.

It’s funny how music triggers memories, too. A single song can transport me to a different kitchen, a different moment in time. Sometimes I’ll be deep into service and a tune comes on that makes me realize: Damn. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years. That’s a lot of kitchens. A lot of stories. A lot of lives cooked into the marrow of who I’ve become.

I’ve cooked in places where, if someone told me in culinary school I’d be standing in that kitchen, I’d have laughed them out of the building. And yet—I’ve always said: I just cook food.I’ve always called myself a forever student.

I never saw myself as anything special. But music—just like my journey—has been my guide. It grounds me. It focuses me. It helps me get shit done without losing my soul.

I may not be one of the Top 100 chefs in the world. I’m not trying to be.

What I am is the best version of me today.

And that’s enough.

Because life? Life has seasoned me. My story, my scars, my soundtrack—they’ve all molded me into the chef I am right now. And I’m damn lucky, because there’s still so much more for me to discover.

And you better believe that future will be filled with great fucking music.

Now tell me—what’s on your kitchen playlist?

• What do you listen to when you’re deep in prep?

• What’s your go-to when you’re in the weeds and need to lock in?

Drop your recs in the comments. Let’s build a Chef’s Soundtrack together.

Bone Deep: Lessons From Osso Bucco

Let me say this—there are some foods that bring up really cool vibes. Osso Bucco is one of them. And I want to be clear: our industry beats the hell out of us. There were so many times in my career I asked myself, why the fuck am I doing this to myself?

When someone asks me for advice, I tell them: Find your balance early. Don’t let this industry suck the life out of you.

And when someone says, “I want to be a chef!” I immediately cringe. In my head, I’m screaming, for the love of fuck’s sake, don’t say TV!!!

Then I go into it:

“Do you like your family?”

“Do you like hanging out with your friends on Friday and Saturday nights?”

“Do you like holidays?”

“Do you like having time to sit?”

We have a saying: Eat it now, taste it later. I’ve had a hell of a learning experience. And now, at this stage in my life, I’ve come to realize something: I hold something no one can ever take from me. I come with knowledge. I come with life experience.

In the past couple of months, I’ve heard words like: resilience. Brave. Loyal. Patient.

Those are things people say they see in me. And to finally start seeing what others have seen for so long… I’m still processing that.

Which brings me to this story.

I have a tough exterior—always have. But after time, and the right kind of heat, that exterior breaks down. What’s revealed? Complex flavors. That’s me. That’s Osso Bucco.

One of my favorite dishes of all time.

I don’t know why this dish grabbed my cheeks, turned my face toward her, and forced her name into my mouth—but damn it, she did. This dish made me her bitch, I can proudly declare.

Before I knew how to cook, Osso Bucco was just an awful, unwanted cut. Guess who got stuck with it? That’s right—the poor. And what did they do? They made fucking magic.

Start with salt. Let it rest. Then add tallow to a pan and get it hot—like 50 Shades of Grey hot.

Sear the meat on all sides. Let that crust develop.

SSSHHH… trust me. Let it happen.

Then comes the sexy part. Let the heat do its thing.

Brown your vegetables.

Now the star of the show enters: tomatoes. Let them cook down. Let them have their release.

Yeah, it sounds sexual.

And yes—I meant it to. Because what you’re really reading—between the lines—isn’t just a recipe. It’s a story. A metaphor. A goddamn journey of flavor being built from the ground up.

When that tallow hits the meat, magic happens. The fat absorbs flavor, then shares it with everything else in the pot. It’s a full-blown food orgy.There’s a reason carrots, celery, and onion are called mirepoix.

Now think about biting into a raw carrot—what do you get?

Crisp. Slight sweetness. Earthiness. It’s fibrous, it’s basic.

Now think about that same carrot, stewed in garlic, meat drippings, tomato, onion, red wine, bay leaf, salt, and pepper.

What do you taste? You taste sex.

Your taste buds are screaming with pleasure.

It’s not just a carrot anymore—it’s a carrier of dark, rich, deep flavor. It’s tender. It’s seductive. That carrot went through some shit to get to your plate.And that’s the flavor profile. But more than that—that’s the lesson.

Somewhere along the way, I cracked a code. No—not the code. But a code.

I looked at that tough piece of meat and fell in love with not just the flavor, but with what it represents. The resilience it takes to cook it right. The time. The patience. The transformation.This dish is not easy.

But the reward at the end? It’s so fucking worth it.

Sound familiar?

I look back at the younger me—thick-walled, hard-headed, burnt out. And now, with time and the right heat, that tough meat… it becomes something beautiful.

I smoked my Osso Bucco because I wanted to play the Riddler—make it even more complex. I wanted time to develop the flavor I wanted my way. I added Thai chilies. Coffee. I smoked it with Tandoori masala because I needed that heat to go deep.

This wasn’t just food. This was expression. This was me saying: life is hard, complex, painful—but there are sweet moments hiding inside if you know where to look.

I paired it with polenta—because that dish also holds meaning for me. Infusing it with lemon? That brought brightness. Fennel? Why the fuck not. It added another layer of soul.

And the miso paste in the broth? That was the damn move.

The best part?

When that marrow shoots out all at once—oh my God. That’s the icing on the cake. That’s the reward. That’s the moment.

Because time breaks down everything.

We age.

We grow.

We shift our view.

Just like Osso Bucco—we go through stages. We transform. We become richer, more complex.

And when you finally taste the reward of that time—

it’s fucking breathtaking.

Cooking with Scars: Finding Strength, Self, and a Place to Belong

Have you ever had that sense—or that need—to belong to something? Isn’t it just human nature to crave community?

By definition, belongingness is a fundamental human need: to feel accepted, valued, appreciated, and to be a vital part of something bigger than yourself. It’s a psychological concept that reflects our perception of social support and acceptance. Belonging is tied to social identity—a set of shared beliefs, values, and purpose.

I’ve always said that being a chef… our industry is different. We work long hours. We thrive in chaos. We work hard, and play even harder.

The amount of stress we’re under sometimes boggles even my mind. We juggle home life, menu development, employee growth, recipe creation, inventory, ordering, logistics, food costs, catering events, employee drama, food inspections, fire inspections, guest complaints, salespeople, receiving, kitchen maintenance, scheduling—and that’s just Monday.

And through all of that, we’re expected to maintain an image. A consistency. A presence. In a world where someone can throw up a video, get a million views, and suddenly call themselves a “chef” or “foodie,” those of us on the line carry a different kind of weight.

We have this bravado—the kind where the four letters C-H-E-F used to mean something. Some of us still hold that title with honor and commitment, and we’ll say or do anything to protect it. Those of us who still work a position on the line deserve that respect.

Marco Pierre White once told a friend of mine, “Always keep a foot in the kitchen, chef.”

What does that mean? It means: never lose sight of why you went through all the blood, sweat, burns, and bruises to earn that title. You deserve that respect.

I never looked at myself as a “great” chef. I never thought I could change the way this industry is perceived. I sure as hell never saw myself as a “celebrity” chef—nor will I ever.

Truth is, I never believed in myself.

That damn tape in my head was always on loop: “You’re not that good.”

That self-doubt—about who I was as a person and as a chef—has held me back from my true potential. My confidence level? Nowhere near what my experience level is. I always lacked that sense of community. That sense of belonging.

Coming up through the ranks, I got beat down constantly. Made to feel like I didn’t matter.

“Move faster. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I remember one night at Brio in West Palm Beach. Chef Boyd (what a fucking prick) was running the show. Both of our grill cooks called out. Saturday night. I had to jump on the line.

Chef kept yelling, “How long on this table?!”

I shouted back, “Two minutes, Chef!”

He snapped, “It’s been twenty-two minutes! I need that NOW!”

I said, “I’m doing the best I can, Chef!”

He came back with, “I guess your best isn’t good enough!”

Man, I wanted to walk out right then and there.

The rush ended. Tickets were cleared. Chef was getting ready to leave. As I was cleaning down my station, he mumbled, “I’d never be able to keep up like you did tonight. Amazing job, Chef.”

My blood boiled.

You spent the entire night tearing me down—in front of guests, in front of my crew—and now you have the nerve to whisper praise?

I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m sorry—can you repeat that, but louder this time so my staff can hear it?”

I turned in my resignation soon after.

Because how can you work for someone who doesn’t lift people up? Who doesn’t promote a sense of community? Of respect?

I never truly felt like I belonged in this industry—until now.

It’s been a long fucking journey. Over thirty years.

But now, I’m no longer afraid of what I can do. Because what I do comes from my soul. From my heart. I make craveable food—and I will never fucking apologize for that.

I know what weakness are. But today? I’ve got support. I’ve got a community.

I’m open to help now. I don’t look at it as a dig at my flavor profiles. Some folks just don’t get my flavors—hell, some don’t even have the palate. And that’s okay.

I still overthink dishes sometimes. That inner voice kicks in:(that would be my community)

“Strip it down until you break the dish.”

“Keep it simple. Move with purpose.”

But now, I know—I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

Not even myself.

My experience and my palate lead me.

My community says, “Tell me why. Why this ingredient? Why this method?”

And I listen.

I learn. I teach. I share the wisdom wrapped in every one of these gray hairs. (Wisdom whiskers, baby.)

The only way for all of us to grow—not just as chefs but as passionate, purpose-driven humans—is to keep our minds open. To learn from each other. To teach each other.

Travel helps me do that. It plugs me back into my community. It recharges me. It shows me new flavor paths I wouldn’t discover if I just stayed still and existed.

So to my family, my friends, and my community—thank you.

You’ve given me something I chased for decades: a sense of belonging.

And I can never repay you in this life.

But I can help you grow—through my experience, through my strength, and yeah, through my scars.

Together?

We’re fucking unstoppable.

Truth Be Known

Last week, I had the honor of presenting at Catersource, which is right in my hometown. Two of my buddies flew in to present as well, and every night, it was the same question:

“What do you want to do tomorrow?”

One night, it was “Let’s go on a boat!” That’s how I met Captain Mark—a helluva dude! For the first time, I saw my hometown through the eyes of a tourist. The streets, the stories, the places I’d passed by for years…they felt different.

Then, someone asked, “Hey, what’s going on with the YouTube channel?”

And just like that, it happened.

“What are we doing today?”

I paused. Then the words came out before I could think—“Want to see where my story almost ended?”

(Okay, let’s be honest—I cleaned that up. What I actually said was, “Want to see where I almost killed myself?”)

If this is your first time reading my blog, let me introduce myself.

I’m Jeffrey Schlissel. At 18 years old, I almost drove my car into the bay to drown myself.

I spent two years in therapy after that. But here’s the part I haven’t always discussed: I still thought about it for those two years. I wondered what cold steel would taste like.

Then, in 2018, Chef Anthony Bourdain ended his story.

And I saw too much of myself in him.

That moment lit a fire inside me. If I could tell my story and help just one person feel less alone, it would be worth it. So, I wrote my book: Craveable Obsessed: Journals of a Food Addicted Chef.

And last week, I found myself standing at the place where my story almost ended—36 years later.

There’s some irony in that number.

In Judaism, 18 represents life.

When I was 18, I wanted to end mine.

Now, 36 years later—double life—I stand here, still breathing.

I released a teaser about this moment on social media, and the response has been overwhelming. People reached out.People who had been there. People who needed to hear it.

Walking back to that spot after more than 20 years was surreal. Because I am not the same person who stood there 36 years ago. My abuser is gone—he ended his journey eight years ago. But the loop in my head? That tape that used to be his voice?

It’s not him anymore.

It’s me.

(Read that again.)

IT’S. ME.

Was I nervous filming there? No.
Was I afraid I’d lose my shit on camera? No.

What you see (or will see) is raw. Unfiltered. Just a guy who is trying to be the best version of himself.

I was telling someone about my memory of that night—the way I see it play out like a movie. I was back in that car, staring out at the water. I could smell the air from that night. I could feel it. And yeah, I started to tear up.

But you know what brought me back?

The people who were there. The people who hugged me when they saw it happening.

Talking about this now doesn’t hurt—not in the way you might think.

It doesn’t make me want to die.

It makes me want to live.

If I was given a second chance, I refuse to waste it. If I can help others, then #justonelife.

Bullets

According to Unbabel, the most complex languages to learn are Mandarin, Arabic, Japanese, and many more. I disagree. Communication itself is the most complicated language to master.

The English alphabet has twenty-six letters; we can all agree on that. Those twenty-six letters combine to become some of the most potent weapons known to man. They hold more energy and power than all the nuclear arsenals worldwide. Think about it: those same twenty-six letters can be arranged to destroy a person and lift them higher in the next breath than they’ve ever been.

As children, our race wasn’t about schooling. It wasn’t about learning everything we could or being the best at this or that. Our race was to become adults. We used to say, “When I grow up, I am going to…” Then we did grow up. And now, as adults, there are more memes than ever about not wanting to be adults anymore. But such is life! According to Monash University, the phrase “such is life” may have been Ned Kelly’s last words before he was hanged. The Cambridge Dictionary states it may have originated from the Latin Sic vita est hominum. Who would have thought you’d be learning that today?

Words cannot kill, but they can inflict a pain so deep that someone may want to die. Those twenty-six letters can ignite emotions that cause people to lose themselves, to spiral out of control. Words can be arranged like bullets, shattering a heart into millions of pieces. The wounds left behind by careless words can create a darkness like no other. And yet, those same letters—rearranged—can lift, heal, and support someone at their lowest.

On my journey to being the best version of myself, I have learned to process what is said to me. This practice gives my mind time to think and lets my emotions flow through me so that I can find the correct response. I realize that setting boundaries is essential to mental health. We have the ability to make our points without destroying the other person. It is not about winning; it is about being happy. Read that again: It is about being happy.

Trust me, I have my share of days when I don’t feel like adulting. Anyone who is an entrepreneur knows that feeling all too well. There are days when every front of life feels like a losing battle—the sense of collapse, loneliness, and the fear that everything you love is fading. You think, I know so many people—surely, they’ll come try my food! Or this is so different; everyone will want to experience it! You constantly ensure you have enough gigs lined up to stay afloat, but financial survival isn’t the only reason we do what we do. Once in a while, you create something for someone, and their response reminds you why you started in the first place. They use those twenty-six letters to lift you.

Ultimately, life would be better if we used what we have more wisely. We have two ears and one mouth—it’s time to use them proportionately. How much better would our world be if we spoke with empathy first? If we asked ourselves how we would react if someone said this to our child, how different would our conversations be before speaking? There’s a saying in the restaurant industry: If you wouldn’t serve it to your mother, don’t serve it to a guest. Why don’t we apply the same standard to our words? If you wouldn’t say it to someone you love, why say it at all?

The next time you have a difficult conversation, remember this: the words you load into your mouth can never be taken back. You have the power to destroy someone—or to lift them. Choose wisely.

Sunshine State Secrets: Unraveling Florida's Culinary Quirks & Conundrums!

I have to admit that, growing up in Florida, I never had that sense of "my home!" What do I mean by that? Simple, When people move from New York, for instance, they are diehard New Yorkers! When I traveled, I never thought saying I was from Florida was hip or Kool. I was actually embarrassed to tell people that I was from Florida. I mean, come on, zombie bath soap face-eating people! How about those "hangers" or "chads" from that election? What about all those "Florida man...did this" in the news? 

As a chef, I have always wondered what Florida is known for besides the BSC! Hear me before you start blasting your emails about what is genuinely Florida. If I say cheese steak, what city instantly comes to mind? If I had to say deep-dish pizza, what city or cities would you say? Last one, how about redfish being blackened? I have always struggled to determine what Florida is known for regarding cuisine. Are we known for Key Lime Pie? Hell, do we even grow Key Limes in the State? If you do a Google search, you will find the University of Florida chimes in on the topic, which is quite eye-opening. "The Key lime was carried by the Arabs across North Africa into Spain and Portugal and was brought to the Americas by Spanish and Portuguese explorers in the early part of the sixteenth century (Ziegler and Wolfe 1961). The lime became naturalized throughout the Caribbean, the east coast of Mexico, Central America, tropical areas of South America, and the Florida Keys. Commercial production in Florida in Orange and Lake Counties was evident by 1883. Later, small commercial plantings occurred in the Florida Keys (~1913 to 1926) and Miami-Dade County (1970s to early 2000s). Today, there is little to no commercial Key lime production in Florida, although it remains a popular home landscape fruit tree.

Key limes are grown in warm subtropical and tropical regions. Major producing countries are India, Mexico, Egypt, and various countries in the West Indies." According to the website https://edis.ifas.ufl.edu/publication/CH092#. So, Key Limes was brought here rather than from Florida. Our quest marches forward. We are a peninsula surrounded by three sides of water. Our climate varies from Key West in the south and the Panhandle to the North. After living in this State for over fifty years, I discovered we have a peach season. Mind you, the peach season is as long as a brain fart. 

I narrowed down my search on Google. I typed, "What is Florida cuisine?" and found a blogger with the answer. According to https://www.tastingtable.com/1218051/iconic-florida-foods-you-need-to-try/, here is what Florida cuisine is. Number one is Key lime pie - um, Key Limes are not even grown in Florida! Number two is the Cuban sandwich. Call me crazy, but the name states CUBAN, not FLORIDIAN. Number three, Stone Crab Claws, okay from Miami, used to be dirty food back in the day. Apalachicola Oysters comes in at number four. As a Floridian and a chef, I stay away from these guys as our waters are not the cleanest—number five lists pink shrimp as a Florida shrimp. I have to dive deep into this one.

Vannamei are a type of shrimp. They come from Indonesia and are, for me, flavorless. Pink Shrimp or Brown shrimp are "shrimpy" in flavor, and Florida is known for peel-and-eat shrimp loaded with butter and cajun spice. How does that make it Floridian cuisine? Fried Grouper sandwich or, as we know it, Grouper Rueben. It can be fried or grilled. The fish is commonly served on grilled rye bread with cole slaw, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island dressing. It is a swap-out sandwich. Take the sauerkraut from the OG Rueben and the corned beef, add the grouper and the slaw, and there you have it. How is that Floridian Cuisine? Sour Orange Pie comes in at number seven.

Let me know if you are from Florida and your grandmother made this pie. I have never heard of or seen this pie before! Now that I live on the West Coast, this is a Tarpon Springs thing, not a Florida thing, a Greek Salad with potato salad. Yes, there is a story of why, but I still don't understand it. The next one is a Manhattan Clam Chowder, not Minorcan Clam Chowder. This chowder is from St. Augustine, Florida, and adds the Datil pepper to it. It also comes from the Spanish colonization of Florida, so is it truly Florida? The Pan con Minuta - the fried fish sandwich, comes in at ten. Is this Florida cuisine?

Rum cake and conch fritters are next. Let me say that these two are NOT Florida at all! Fried gator bites, okay, maybe, but can't you get a gator Po boy in Nawlins? Rounding the bottom of this article, I am researching the following: The Frita Cubana, Guava Pastelito, Ceviche, and Dole Whip (what the hell is that). Let's take the last one because it is funny. Dole partnered with Disney in the 70s and developed this iconic drink for...wait for it, the tiki bar at, you guessed it, Disney Land. Wait, if my memory serves me correctly, Disney Land is in California, and Disney World is in Florida; how does that...

If you type in "What is Florida cuisine?" the first thing that pops up is a Wikipedia definition. It states, "Floribbean cuisine is a fusion cuisine found in Florida. It is influenced by Caribbean cuisine, Cuban cuisine, Jamaican cuisine, Puerto Rican cuisine, Haitian cuisine, and Bahamian cuisine." Growing up, I was blinded by the notion that my State had nothing to offer. I felt that my State provided nothing to the culinary world. If you think about where you would want to go on a culinary journey, is Florida one of the places you want to eat? It wasn't until recently that I figured out what the cuisine of my great State is. There is not one definitive answer that anyone can come up with. What I love about the cuisine of my State is that there is no clear-cut definition of our cuisine. Florida is a state that is transient at best. We have had such an influx of people from so many cultures that they have defined Florida cuisine.

When Florida was being developed and the railroad was being built, we had an influx of slave labor, and with that came some incredible cuisines. Throughout Florida's rich history, we have had so many culinary defining moments, and I lived through one of the biggest and was so fortunate to be a part of it. The year was 1981. The Iran Contra thing was in full swing. Cocaine was also a hot import, and Cuba opened its prisons, and people came by the thousands. I remember being a teenager and seeing the tent cities under the 836 and the 826. When people ask where I am from, I always say, "North Cuba! AKA Miami!" 

To me, Florida is a true melting pot of the world. There is no Chinatown or Little Korea. We have parts of Florida known for a particular influx of people. Take Carol City or Overtown, known for its Haitian population. Southwest 8th Street in Miami is known as Little Havana. Every year, the US celebrates Latin Heritage Month from September 15th to October 15th. I get to celebrate it every day. 

Today, I embrace the influx of cuisines and cultures to Florida. I find that ethnic cuisine is full of flavor and taste-bud-blowing. Chef Anthony Bourdin said best: "When someone cooks for you, they say something about themselves. They tell you who they are, where they come from, what makes them happy."  I genuinely believe this to be so true. When you eat at a restaurant specializing in their country's cuisine, embrace what they cook for you. We should never have a cuisine assimilate itself so much that it loses its origin. The reason why we travel is to try new things and see unique places that we have just read about. Why should we eat American food in Paris? As Americans, we have this notion that we know what a country is known for by its cuisine.

Is that true? Take, for instance, the national dish of Jamaica. Is it Jerk? Nope, not at all. Ask someone from Jamaica, and they will tell you. We have chefs like Michelle Brienstein, who comes from a Cuban-Jewish background, and she has given us Jewban cuisine. Locally, we have Chef Norman Van Aken/Chef Allen Susser, who created "Floribbean cuisine." Floribbean cooking takes cuisine from the Caribbean/South America/Central America/ West Africa. It combines the natural resources of the land and the techniques they have learned from other cultures to create these excellent flavor meals we see today. One of the most American cooking styles is from a little island in the Caribbean. The Taino are indigenous to Puerto Rico and developed a cooking method called Barbacoa, which is not the beef cut but the actual cooking method. The word later became the word we know today as Barbecue or BBQ. Some great, talented chefs have embraced this cuisine and are doing things that would excite your taste buds into a frenzy! How about a guava and cheese rugelach? How about Latin spiced pink shrimp/ Florida fresh corn grits/Florida goat cheese/blistered Florida tomatoes? Have you ever wondered how Jerked Cantonese duck would taste? Well, in Miami, you could find that. 

In honor of Latin Heritage Month, we all should embrace the authentic cuisine of Latin America and try something so different that you may find something you love. We may not have the Philly cheese steak, the NY pizza, or the cheesecake, but we have so much flavor that the rest of the country has never had or will have. It is time that Florida makes its mark as a culinary Mecca!

My Culinary Journey - I surround myself with people who have been treated negatively yet still have a positive mind!

Yes, I know we are in the middle of a Pandemic. But, right now, in the US, we have an epidemic going on. It is the 10th leading cause of death in the United States. Today, September 10th, is International Suicide Prevention Day, and that is why I am so passionate about this subject. It is a part of who I am. In 1988, I was eighteen years old. I can remember this like it was yesterday. I was standing in the kitchen, and my father was arguing with me about the SATs and school. He repeatedly told me that I would account for nothing. I would be nothing. Basically, I was being told that I was a piece of shit. Later that night, after work, I did not drive home but to a local marina. I went there with the intent to end it.

I was going to show my father. I was going to put myself through hell to make sure I stuck it to him! I was going to drive my car into the intercoastal—death by drowning. It happened as the car went down the ramp, and the water began to enter the car. I had this image pop into my head. It was my grandfather. He was going through kidney cancer, and if I did this, I would kill him. I slammed my brakes just in time. The back end started to float a little. I began to panic a little. The car's rear wheels grabbed, and I was able to back up. I did not want my grandfather's death on my soul.

In 2018, I told an abbreviated version of that story, never how I was going to do it. In fact, I have never told that story. I never told the therapist, not even my parents. I just told them I tried. There is a correlation with that year; Chef Anthony Bourdain completed suicide. 

I have been reflecting on why I haven't spoken about it. It is not like I haven't had some hard times since then. Back in 2003, my ex-father-in-law completed suicide. It was his third attempt. Ironically enough, I found out some interesting stuff about my family at that time. You see, one side of my family was asking in-depth questions. The other side was more silent. I found out that the quiet side had not one but two relatives who committed suicide. We lost my Great Uncle and great-grandmother to suicide. I was always told stories about my uncle and how he saved lives. He was a Dr. I did not learn the truth about his death until I was thirty-three.

I feel more compelled to speak outwardly about mental health because of Chef Bourdain. Here is the quintessential thing about Chef: he was the most extraordinary culinary storyteller of our time. He brought people from different backgrounds and used a common denominator to find something to start a conversation. Food was that denominator. Chef taught us and taught me the power food has. Think about this: whenever some great event happens in history, I bet it was over great food. Chef had everything except peace from his demons. We, chefs, looked at Chef as one of us. We let him into our home to listen, to watch. He was like a buddy we would hang out with every week. To this day, his death affects me more than my father's death. I forgive my father for the way I let him treat me as a child. You read that right. Forgiving is power, and I forgive myself for beating myself up. In essence, Chef Bourdain lit a spark under my ass to tell my story. His death may be his most extraordinary story yet. His last story, his death, started a movement about mental health, one that has now spread to many. Think about this: his gift would be to save so many lives. We now have to start the conversation.

Today, September 10th marks International Suicide Prevention. Today, at your family meals, tell a story. Hell, tell mine. Let your staff know it's okay not to be okay. Have this open conversation with your team. Mental health needs to be talked about like any other medical condition.

If real men can eat quiche, then real men can express their emotions. Sharing Our Stories will help chefs and others. It is just about starting the conversation.  

Hello, I am Jeffrey Schlissel, and I almost took my life at the age of eighteen. I am grateful that I am here to tell my story. I have and still am making a wonderful life not just for my family but for others. Those others need to know they are not alone. You are not the only ones to have ever thought this way. You are not a coward for feeling this way. No, you are not insane. You need to express yourself to someone who can help. The reason you think this way is because of how society dedicates MENTAL HEALTH. The perception that culture has currently is what we need to change. "It's okay not to be okay." should be the new norm.

Those of us who have attempted are like the Phoenix. We are alive once more from the ashes of our old life to the fire of this new one.

Life has several ups and downs. It is how we recover from the downs that are our wins. Funny thing, we never have to recover from a win!

Whining Kitchen Aide

So, you want to become a chef? You love the idea of being creative and working with food. You follow the who’s who of the culinary world along with social media influencers. You read about food, clip recipes to try, and have even developed your own menu for when you open a restaurant. But here’s the biggest question: Why?

This is the most crucial WHY of your life, as it will dictate how your life unfolds. Those celebrity chefs you follow—are the .00001% of what it takes to become a chef. Each one of those chefs did whatever it took to reach that level. Their path is irrelevant to you. Your path is your own! The social media influencers you admire—they carved out their own niche. You need to create your own unique brand.

As you continue reading, we will explore why. But first, some legitimate questions. Who am I? I am no one of particular importance. I have been a culinarian for over forty years. I am simply a guide presenting what it truly means to be a chef. My words may anger some, and I might omit things others are passionate about, but ultimately, YOU must decide your WHY.

The restaurant failure rate is alarming: one out of three will close within the first three years. When I was in culinary school, they told us that 98% would close in the first year. Maybe they didn’t believe in their WHY. We chefs wear multiple hats throughout the day. What kind of hats, you ask? Quality control, accountant, line cook, purchasing agent, receiver, loss prevention, advertiser, marketer, a form of HR, hiring manager, enforcer, firefighter, life coach, motivator, therapist, teacher, mentor, mentee, delivery person, caterer—the list goes on. Our hat rack is quite full.

These roles can be taught as you learn to cook and progress to the next level. What cannot be taught but must be realized is the toll this business takes on you—both physically and mentally. The abuse you endure to get to your WHY. If you are okay with the verbal and physical abuse, then let’s move on. Do you value your family unit? Do you enjoy spending time with friends? Do you cherish free time and holidays with loved ones? Do you like hanging out on a Friday or Saturday night? If you answered yes to any of these, best of luck to you—this industry is not for you. The glamorous life of a celebrity chef or social influencer is just that: their glamorous life. You are just an infant in this industry; you need guidance and mentorship. Finding the right Chef to mentor you is another challenge. Chefs have egos, and when we see potential, we try to enhance it and work with that person, but only if they are willing to endure what it takes.

One thing we cannot teach is passion. Many cookbooks talk about ingredients and how they make the dish, but you will never cook that dish as well as the author. Passion is the most powerful ingredient in a chef’s knife roll. I always ask potential cooks three questions: What is your go-to comfort food when you’re sick? If you were to cook for me, what meal would it be and why? And tell me about your last craveable meal and why it was so memorable. Lastly, I ask them to cook an egg over easy. Why? Because an egg is the hardest food to cook perfectly. Try it—make an egg over easy without gadgets to flip it, and don’t break the yolk. What about the perfect poached egg? I could go on forever about eggs.

If, after all that, you still want to sign up, I have more to offer.

At this point in my career, I look back and realize there are more past memories than future ones. Follow me here. I am 53 years old; the time I have ahead is not as long as the time behind. I have an unknown variable—I don’t know when I will stop or have to. At my age, I must prove to myself that I still have IT, whatever IT is. Yes, we all grow old, but chefs are cut differently. At a certain age, you look at that whining kitchen aide and think, how much more can you take? I make it a point to move with intent and execute my food in the quickest and most craveable way. For many, growing old sucks, but for a chef, realizing that their time is winding down is a true sign of strength. You also have to maximize what is still left in you. I guess I need to oil my kitchen aide because I am just getting started. I look back at all the seasoning I went through to become the chef I am today—it’s been a crazy, fucked-up journey, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I am a chef because I constantly strive to create the most craveable meals for people. I am a chef because of my passion for food and the joy people find in my creations.

After reading all this, if you still want to become a chef, I wish you the best of luck. Always remember who YOU are, and never let anyone, any place, or anything take that away from you. Seek like-minded people, build your support group because you will question yourself every damn day! I hope when you are 53, you can look back and say, “I still have the passion for this crazy, fucked-up game. I will stay on this ride as long as they let me!”

Defcon MidLife

Today's therapy session left me marinating in a funk that just won't shake loose. It's as if I've been stirring negativity in my mind like a chef repeatedly botching a lobster consommé. I've come to realize that I march to the beat of a different drum, a tune distinct from that of my father. While I usually possess an abundance of patience, today it seems to have taken a vacation.

Instead of delving into the dark voids within me, a path no one desires to tread, I've made a conscious choice to seek out the light. Every tale has its consequences, every action and its reactions. I've opted to respond in a manner that resonates with positivity, or as a dear friend would say, with some good ol' "ju ju." Today marked the rekindling of my therapy journey, a victory in itself. I bravely acknowledged my unsettling mental state instead of bottling it up, akin to a pressure cooker with a tightly sealed valve. I faced the shadows and embraced the light. These may seem like small victories, but they embody the essence of a healthy mental outlook. Recognizing self-sabotage and steering clear of it is perhaps the grandest victory of all.

I have never taken the time to sit and truly reflect on the events of the past three years of my life. It never occurred to me the weight I have been carrying. The tumultuous waves of emotions, crashing incessantly into my soul like the relentless pounding of the ocean against a seawall. It's rather amusing how, as I pause to gather my thoughts before typing, one idea leads to another, reminiscent of a bustling Saturday night at downtown Disney. I observe these thoughts as they come, swiftly assessing what needs my attention, much like a chef scanning a busy kitchen to ensure everything is in order and cooking smoothly. Slowly, I begin to see a glimmer of light at the end of the chaos—I am emerging from the weeds. I see life unfolding before me! Despite enduring some truly challenging experiences, they have shaped me into the person I am today.

A thought suddenly crosses my mind: "God only gives us what he knows we can handle." While this is a familiar adage, I find myself questioning its accuracy. Is it not true that every cook, every individual, needs a push to reach their full potential? Were all those cooks the same, eagerly seizing every opportunity presented to them? Some may require that extra nudge, a reminder of their own capabilities. Reflecting on this, I realize how crucial it is to step out of our comfort zones to grow and evolve. Perhaps encountering challenges that seem insurmountable teaches us valuable lessons in resilience and adaptation. Another saying comes to mind: "Sweating is pain leaving the body." Well, I must be shedding quite a bit of pain, given the amount I perspire!

Some may label this phase as a mid-life crisis, but what does that even entail? Is it a convenient excuse for aging men to indulge in folly and have it deemed acceptable? Right now, I contemplate the fuel left in my tank, the legacy I wish to leave for my child, and the imprint I hope to make on this earth. A new sports car won't resolve my quandaries; instead, my focus lies on my journey and the person I am destined to become. The uncharted territory ahead may be daunting, yet it also beckons with a sense of novelty and introspection. I find myself delving into profound philosophical musings more than ever in pursuit of that elusive work-life balance—my very own unicorn!

Exposing Food Waste: Unveiling the Guilty Party

In the realm of culinary creations, where flavors dance and ingredients harmonize, a dark shadow haunts our world's kitchens. Behold the unveiling of the guilty party behind the masquerade of food waste, a phenomenon as puzzling as a chef seeking a straight squash or zucchini in a world of delightful imperfections.

Picture this: a grand feast laid out before you, each dish crafted with care and skill, only to meet its untimely demise in the clutches of the trash bin. Yes, dear gastronomes, the staggering truth emerges like a soufflé gone awry - in the land of abundance, nearly one-third of the world's food meets a fate sealed in wasteful oblivion.

As we delve deeper into the culinary underworld, a startling revelation emerges from the bustling kitchens of restaurants. Behold, the half-pound specter of food waste per meal, haunting both plate and pantry with reckless abandon. A symphony of flavors doomed to be silenced, as 85% of unused restaurant fare meets a tragic end in the abyss of landfills.

But who, pray tell, is to shoulder the blame for this culinary tragedy of epic proportions? Are we, the culinary maestros, not endowed with the power to stem the tide of wasteful excess? I implore you, fellow chefs, to ponder upon the legacy we leave behind - a legacy not solely measured in Michelin stars or James Beard accolades but in our stewardship of Mother Nature's bountiful gifts.

Let us rise, like a perfectly risen soufflé, to the challenge at hand. Let us embrace the imperfect, the unconventional, and the overlooked in our culinary pursuits. For in the realm of food competitions, why not celebrate ingenuity in waste reduction, turning scraps into masterpieces and leftovers into legends?

Consider the staggering statistics that lie before us, a tapestry woven with the threads of 218 billion dollars in wasted sustenance. Let us not idly stand by as nature's bounty is squandered, but instead, let us wield our knives and ladles with purpose, transforming waste into wonder with each culinary creation.

And to you, dear epicures and epicureans, I extend a challenge - place a five-gallon cambro on your prep table, witness the symphony of waste unfold before your eyes, and embark on a journey towards mindful consumption. Let us not merely savor today's flavors but embrace the responsibility to nurture a sustainable tomorrow.

In this culinary crusade against waste, let creativity reign supreme, and let innovation be our guiding star. Ultimately, as we trim, chop, and simmer our way toward a more sustainable future, we all emerge as victors in the grand feast of life.