Get It Together, Restaurateur.

Anecdotally, it's a fistful. Almost all, and the graveyard still grows. The industry I love, which has spat me out more than once, is a carpenter's level holding the reaper's scythe. The starry-eyed narcissist who believes that experience isn't a prerequisite is destined for the cutting room floor. The spoiled brat who gets handed a golden goose and flies it into the Earth's mantle due to a lack of work ethic. The man with abyssal pockets who sees a restaurant as another part of his business diversification plan. My experience tells me that most restaurateurs want the idea of owning a restaurant, not the sacred work that is demanded in return. They crave salvation but reject the sacrament.

I write in generalities; there are a select few who take the reins and lead their cavalry into success. The few who understand the odds are stacked against them, but choose to roll the dice regardless.

It is not lost on me that this passion I find identity in is worthless. The world will not be saved if another dimly lit steakhouse or a dinner club in the rolling hills of the country opens. The only life affected for the better would be mine alone. This egotistical expression is the bare minimum.

This article is my bleeding-heart, guttural cry from the cold side of the window. Get the romance out of restaurants. Take your rose-colored dream and incinerate it. If you cannot dedicate yourself to a craft many consider holy, leave it for the next.