a color story: suerte dinner

The quiet dinner with four people was a mirage as I entered the restaurant. My preference in “ninja mode” where my lack of visibility was a high priority had to be toggled off. There were three long tables for Shopify and I was a guest for their team dinner. Of course, an awkward tension permeated the dinner setting. It wasn’t the lack of familiarity that rooted the unpleasant moment but the recognition of seeing some of the members at the airport spoiled the first impressions. “Ninja” mode clearly failed.

With the surprisingly warm welcome, I entered the art of the small chit-chat with neighboring dinner guests. Names were thrown around and our early thoughts on Austin were neutral for the time being. I couldn’t help but notice a full house on a Wednesday Night for this ~100 seater. The interior of the open-concept space with the tall ceilings caught my attention. Beige canvas cloth canopied the ceiling which provided an airy flow of a large tent. With the Austin heat, I didn’t mind the visual illusion; the air conditioning also helped with the interior escape.

As the drink orders started to go around -where I admittedly said that I could barely handle my water- the restaurant’s hospitality initiated a stage of relaxation or a change of mood. The dinner table was now a hot spot for the exchange of stories. Everyone had their own. I couldn’t help but share David Choi’s Momofuku. It seemed like a great place as a Korean-American and being in a bougie restaurant setting.

“Well it all started with…”

Momofuku, an internationally renowned culinary brand, started as a rebellious act of David Choi. His father’s hopes and wishes were for him to become a professional golfer. With 25+ years working in restaurants, Mr. Choi hoped he would never touch the industry. But of course, David Choi interned at various NYC restaurants, traveled and ate noodles in Japan, and attended a prestigious culinary school. Then, David opened Momofuku with his father’s savings and credit cards (which he maxed out). There was no room for failure. I joked that the downside was generational debt. As a Canadian, with very Korean parents (well I’d like to think), I thought the story was crazy. He was about my age when he started his venture.

As you know, David hit the right food trend with noodles and won the hearts of New Yorkers and eventually the story/brand spread internationally. His presence has even become a media machine with David Choi’s celebrity chef appearance on Vice and Netflix. I couldn’t help but saw a physical resemblance to him if I grew out my facial hair.

The appetizers arrived. There were various plates of authentic Mexicana cuisine. Most I have never tried or heard of. The puree and ingredients were another topics of conversation. Huh. It felt weird or even polarizing being on the receiving end of the restaurant as I glared at the open kitchen. I couldn’t help but think about all the time and work the team put in for our meals. I also couldn’t but think whether the back kitchen had good chemistry. You could hardly tell because there was no yelling with the open kitchen aspect- unless you were in Hell’s Kitchen, it wasn’t a good look. But, at the restaurant’s full capacity, it had to be running smoothly.

I believe the attentive listener (name left out) was curious about how I know about this. I confessed my “professional” involvement in the restaurant industry. I warned him it was a little long. He wanted to hear it anyways. Now looking back, I felt like Zero, the hotel owner sharing his story with Jude Law’s character as the light conveniently pans.

“Well, it all started with…”

Not being able to land a tech job after two years.

My frustration — “with the process” — impulsively sent my resume across all the vacant dishwashing jobs across Toronto after reading Anthony Bourdain’s debut book, Kitchen Confidential. He sold me on the underworld in the kitchen the good and not so great. With his unfiltered tone and back stories on his journey to becoming an executive chef at a reputable NYC bistro, I felt compelled to taste the restaurant waters; this was all before COVID happened. I went on and on about where my real “culinary” school started, the importance of the dishwasher, the concept of the well-oiled machine, and working my way up to other fine establishments. My story, however, ended up as a burnt-out COVID cook whose initial romantic ideals in the kitchen disappeared along with his innocence and naivety. But, I’d like to think that I “outgrown” the industry, or got bored, or even the convenient “career change”. After the 8th restaurant within two years, I knew I shouldn’t tease other restaurants — I knew I wasn’t going to be a good fit.

Oh. Back to the table, the red meat was out. I heard that it was a ribeye. I, also, heard it was going to be wagyu. A fine Mexicana restaurant serving wagyu; it could not be. Regardless, the aromas coming out of the hot plates with thick and well-cut beef sizzling with gravy stopped all of the conversations. The forks were out.

Tender was an understatement. And my gravy spoke another language- I couldn’t figure it out. Ash made his grand entrance to our table with a half plate of the beef when he noticed that we devoured ours. Who knew the most simple dish — I presumed — made the largest impact on our meal. Later on, we discovered that it was actually wagyu and of course, it came with a hefty price tag. Each strip was around $10. The simple gray mystery was due to the natural wagyu grease. I joked that I could taste the belly rubs.

Self-conscious of my conversation time on the table, I decided it was my time to listen. I learned that Germany and Brazil were 2 and 3 for NFL fans. I joked that the blitz was popular with Germany in another way. Then, the sleep problem from jet lag popped into the conversation. I suggested 50 000 steps or physical fatigue will set your biological straight. It was like a walk to Mordor- and back. I chuckled at the Lord of the Rings reference before I even said it.

It's not like I joined the dark side. But something in me felt guilty that I was at the guest table of an open kitchen. I even announced that I should be running the dishwashers in a joking manner. The subtle hints of trauma still lingered or could it be the stories that left a trail of unfulfilled responsibilities. Listening to others helped me get out of the kitchen zone.

The night had to end somewhere and we were running late for another event. But, I couldn’t help but enjoy our time at Suerte. I don’t know whether the beige ambiance complimented the food or vice versa. Regardless the stories exchanged on the table had an organic warmth to them. Just for those two hours, all of the things that weighed us down didn’t seem to be too apparent. I told you that I couldn’t handle my water.

Originally published at https://pholder.xyz on June 16, 2022.