I had just moved to Boston, armed with a Master of Arts degree in Mathematics. I was temporarily living with my then boyfriend, eagerly awaiting his return home from work, because I'd spent all day making him what was for me, as a 22 year old, a very lavish dinner. I remember chicken and broccoli with hollandaise sauce.
A few days prior to this, I was out wandering the streets of downtown Boston, in the neighborhood of the Ritz Hotel and the Boston Public Garden, the first botanical gardens in the US. According to the people who still operate the swan boats in the pond there:
Surrounded by Victorian-era cast iron fencing, the garden sits in the heart of downtown, surrounded by the historic neighborhoods of Beacon Hill and Back Bay.
I wandered into a very busy macrobiotic restaurant on Newbury Street, Sanae, and had me a big bowl of brown rice with gomasio, which was probably the only thing on the menu I could afford.
There was a little help wanted for a dishwasher sign. I applied. I was in Boston looking for a job as a computer programmer. Even though I'd had a really good interview just prior to this meal, I was in need of some immediate cash. I'd enjoyed working in a restaurant as a teenager, and restaurant jobs come with meals, so a shift or two until I got my "real job" (as my father would implore me to get for several years after this event) would be very helpful.
So the emergency call for me to come in and wash dishes came, on a landline at my boyfriend's house, about an hour before he was to arrive home. I told the caller, Huey, that once I got that dinner on the table, I would be there. I watched my boyfriend take a couple bites, and off I went.
When I arrived, the dishes were piled very high, and boy was Huey ever glad to see me! Undeterred, I got right to work. I got those dishes washed in short order, and saved the day.
It turned out that Sanae was a satellite restaurant for The Seventh Inn, a large and bustling, largely macrobiotic, restaurant that was right across the street from the Boston Public Garden. The Seventh Inn, originally opened by Michio Kushi, father of macrobiotics, was then the home base for a cooking apprenticeship program, run by master chef Hiroshi Hayashi.
I'd washed those dishes so well, I was offered a position as apprentice.
The programming job, which I had wanted very much, didn't pan out, so I gave myself over to 90 hour work weeks in downtown Boston, and habitation with the other twenty or so apprentices in a big house in Longwood. Under Hiroshi's not-always-politically-correct hand, I developed a great passion for cooking, baking and all things restaurant.
Hiroshi was nuts. We all were.
I've told more about the apprenticeship in a post I wrote for one of @galenkp's weekend experiences concepts.
I went on to a career in restaurants. I owned and operated, with my husband of 27 years, four food establishments in all. Where did he and I meet, you ask?
He was an apprentice at the Seventh Inn, too. Talk about decisions that change your life!
Now retired and in no need of gainful employment, I still look at empty store fronts and envision what kind of restaurant would work well. Wherever I go, I seek the best restaurants in the area. I managed to move to a hillbilly town that has no good restaurants whatsoever, so I cook a lot. Fortunately, there are amazing farmers in these hills, who provide almost all of the food that I can't manage to grow for myself.
I love good food!
And I have that phone call to thank for all this.
This is my entry to @ericvancewalton's Memoir Monday initiative. Every Monday Eric posts a question about our lives for us to answer, in hopes that, after a year, the participants will have produced a valuable collection of memories.
In Eric's words:
Someday all that will be left of our existence are memories of us, our deeds, and words. It's up to you to leave as rich of a heritage as possible for future generations to learn from. So, go ahead, tell your stories!
I apologize for the lack of pictures of myself! I am out of town, finally found some time to put this together, and have no shots of me in one of my restaurants with me! I searched online, my mug had appeared regularly in New York City publications, but apparently, finding those from thirty years back is a task I am not capable of.
The menu images are from this article
Here's a review of the last of my food businesses, a really good restaurant, which closed in 2010 seven months before my husband's death. I retired on the day this restaurant closed.
