It's always been my dream never to have to own my own restaurant

And I’m living the dream, baby!

 

I guess my dream of never having to own my own restaurant started when I was a very young child. I loved to eat (still do!) but I had no idea what things like “point of sale,” “firing times,” or “front of house” meant. I could sense I really didn’t need to know any more about those terms. I was happy the way I was.

 

Once I started cooking for myself, I became a little more worldly. I realized I was satisfied with cooking for myself or for small parties, rather than cooking for mass amounts of demanding strangers, worrying about inventory or daily specials, or dealing with staff turnover. I just wanted to go about my dreamlike existence of not working 80 to 100 hours a week or having my hands completely covered in cuts and calluses.

 

With the rise of the Food Network, I’m even more determined to live my dream of never being burdened by restaurant management. You see people on shows like Restaurant Impossible who were living out their own dreams of owing a restaurant. This caused many of them financial and emotional trouble. Some of these people left high-stress jobs like stock trading for the high-stress job of owning a restaurant. Personally, if I were to do a lateral move in terms of stress, I would dream of moving to an industry in which there was not a 30 percent chance of my new venture failing in the first year.

 

To achieve their dreams, some of these Restaurant Impossible contestants do things like raid their retirement funds, then run the restaurant into the ground and go into $250,000 of debt, then get their parents to put up their houses to bail them out of debt. Well, my dream has always entailed solvency. Also, my Mom also likes living in her house and part of my dream includes not having her mortgage it so I can keep serving small plates in a trendy part of town.

 

The stress of owning a dream restaurant also seems to take a toll on people’s marriages and families. No thanks. I’m fine living with my husband and son in tranquility and not coming home at 2 a.m. smelling like a grease trap.

 

Then you watch Chopped and my God, the things these restaurateurs and chefs go through to achieve their culinary dream. Here’s what they tell the judges:

 

“I had six strokes on the line while making one pasta primavera.”

 

“I burned off all my fingerprints recooking a ribeye someone sent back and the guy still didn’t like it.” 

 

“One night my sous chef had a psychotic break and spiked the risotto with acid and 14 people overdosed.”

 

“I had to sell my house to make payroll for my staff and had to move into the restaurant’s walk-in fridge and then the restaurant failed and I ended up on the street doing tricks with poached eggs for money.”

 

You know what? I’ll pass. I’m already living my dream of working in my field for the same company for the last 20 years, with a well-funded 401k, sitting at a desk all day with the freedom to slack off online occasionally and getting home every night for dinner. I’m basking in looking at the hell restaurateurs go through and saying, “I don’t have to do that.”