As most of you know, I am the proud father of the cutest and best three-year-old boy in existence. He is the most precious thing in the world to me, and I would literally murder anyone who tried to hurt him.* I am not easily riled up, but nothing ruffles my feathers like low lives who find pleasure in messing with kids. Those types of people don’t belong anywhere fit for society because they are not human themselves.*
The restaurant business is known for being “cut throat.” This has always implied that you have to work hard to be successful, most people can’t handle the pressure, and someone will get cut in the kitchen. With knives involved, this is a given. The trick is to make sure no one purposefully cuts you. While I have never cut myself ever while cooking, yesterday I finally got to cut someone else for real.*
My kid is cute. Anyone with eyes can see.* If you can find me on Instagram, your eyes will be blessed. For now, I gift you this adorable picture so you can understand what I am talking about.
Now that you’re convinced, let me explain what happened yesterday.
One of the fine establishments I work at is equipped for a full kitchen. Walk-in freezers, huge pantries, pasta making machines, ovens and burners galore. Stainless steel appliances and counters as far as your eye can see. Every chef’s dream.
Scrolla la Pasta has a head chef and a sous-chef, the second-in-command to a captain (I’m the first mate, if you’re wondering, as I keep the cargo fully loaded), like any fine Italian establishment might have. There are constant terms and orders being thrown around like someone tossing a salad in the kitchen. The chefs move and act quickly to make sure everything is prepared fresh and in a timely manner. It is a marvel to watch, really.
Which is why, sometimes, I sit in the kitchen and observe. My son sits on a counter beside me, and we usually share a bowl of pasta or nibble on something the head chef has made for us. Yesterday, the main chef was not there, which meant the sous-chef was in charge.
Now, this sous-chef and I have never had any beef. I understand his intensity comes from the job and his background and the giant ass stick up his ass, but as he never directed his pompous ass at me before, I had no reason to be bothered.
Yesterday, however, I got more ass in my face than I have in years.
[This ass]* had the audacity to not only yell at my kid, but actually touch him. My kid knows the rules of the kitchen. He stays out of the way. My kid was not in the way. Ask any of the other five witnesses, and they will tell you the same thing: [this ass] was out of order.* I was checking on supplies in the freezer, and when I came back, [this ass] was screaming at my kid like a regular Gordon Ramsay, so I did the most logical thing I could think of.
My kid was under attack, so I threw whatever was in my hand at the enemy. The head of lettuce hit the side of his head so hard, I thought for a second I was actually a cannon, and the enemy’s head was gone. But he bounced right back up, and he had a knife in his hand, so I threw the whole carton of eggs in my other hand at him, and that, plus the yells of the other chefs, defeated him.
It was a good thing there were other people there. If there hadn’t been, [the ass] would have had more than egg yolks dripping off his face.* I don’t remember what I said then. All I know is, I was an angry cock, and I told [the ass] he was fired. He had the audacity to try to contradict me and say I had no power over him in the kitchen, and I do remember I said,
“You fool, I have power everywhere,” and then I name-dropped on him because he obviously had forgotten who I was.
Needless to say, [his ass] was fired the next day when the chef came back because I am the supplier. If a food is rotten, I make sure it is replaced immediately. That’s just what I do. So be careful when you step into the ring with this cock. I’m not here to play.
My kid was fine. Apparently he found the whole thing “embarrassing” because “adults shouldn’t fight like kids,” whatever that means. I took him home immediately after the other chefs doted on him to make some comfort food. And yeah, maybe I was the one who needed comforting more, but at least my kid indulged me.
This recipe comes from My Korean Kitchen (not my kitchen; that’s the blog’s name), who was gracious enough to let me share it with you here.
It’s a great recipe to have your kid help with–what kid doesn’t like to make a mess of flour? It’s an even better recipe to eat with your kid. I hope you can enjoy doing both.*
*Please note this is hyperbole, a satirical form of exaggeration implying that while I would never literally murder anyone, I do love my son enough to want everyone to know he should not be messed with.
*It has been brought to my attention through your lovely comments that some of you are concerned that I am serious. I am. Also, I’m not.
*Again, if you can not tell, this is. a. joke. I have never injured another person (knowingly or purposefully) in my life.
*I apologize to those who are blind. It was not my intention to offend anyone.
*I do not support or condone violence. Thus, don’t wield a knife at a child.
*Apparently, posting his name could get me in trouble. If you’d like to see him, as of this update he works at L’ultima Cena as a regular line chef, a fitting demotion, if you ask me. While I am not sure of his hours, if you mention MY name, he’ll probably pop up like a gopher in a hole just needing to be whacked.
*For those without kids, the recipe will still work. It will feel less magical and special, and you’ll probably feel lonely as you eat it, but essentially the recipe is the same.
Eat Seokjin 