The Quit-aholic

I had to have the job -- what's more, I knew it would be mine like the cheap, easy bitch of a job I knew it was, despite the claims it was a refuge for the gourmet palette in a tasteless take-out industry, I knew it was the dregs of this six-lane highway, that they called it a Boulevard was another greasy misnomer. I wasn't completely aware that I was doing it again, mouth dry as a whip, offering myself as the courteous, whimsical asset they just couldn't live without, dressed in my best corduroy blazer and purple necktie. My target -- Donald Levy, charismatic proprietor of the newest five-star drive thru (yes, a gourmet drive-thru monstrosity) in Los Angeles, and admittedly a brilliant chef. When in the initial days of training (he insisted everyone sample the menu in order to better serve the whiny, upper class, poodle-obsessed clientele) he offered us a green tea sour cream gelato, I had to admit I was dealing with a world class jackass -- the ingredients and the taste were of such high quality, such obscenely perfect texture and deliciousness, it deserved the same ambiance; an uptown location, the best crystal, the white tablecloth, the pristine service and at least two discreet on-location high class prostitutes. Instead, Levy was packaging his Huso-Huso Belugan Caviar in cheap, white polyurethane, destined only to be mauled in a CO2 frenzy by some ratty Chihuahua hussied up in rouge and a pink garter belt and netted stockings.

The ending should go something like this…

Dear Mr.Levy, and all the employees at Fiddler’s Feast,

I have a confession. I am a quit-aholic, and you are my latest victims. The past three and a half years have been a whirlwind of petty addiction, a relentless game of seduction, deception, capture and release – a dangerous adrenalin-ridden game of impermanence which at its base is a deep cloud of despair and a whole lot of valium acquired by unscrupulous means. And the loneliness of a man whose only sense of power lies in his ability to say no – No, I’m not waking up at 8:30. No, I’m not making coconut mousse Italian parsley cake for that whore with the Pomeranian in a wedding dress. No, I'm not going to light a Belgian chocolate candle at our only table for the 5-digit couple who want the romantic, slow-food experience at this absurd Dadaistic experiment gourmet fast-food Frankenstein. No, I’m not picking up my last paycheck and no, I don’t give a flick of a bugger’s ass.

Thus it is with regret, and a great rush to the head for me to inform you – I quit.