I know I’ve been a little slow writing on Substack the last couple weeks and I apologize. A lot has been going on and you’ll see how chaotic it’s been in this post. Thanks for sticking with me.

When I accepted the job as Executive Chef at The Flower Shop, I asked to hire a Sous-Chef, but was quickly rejected and told that I’d have to make it work with the existing Kitchen Manager.

I thought about explaining why this was a reasonable request that should have been granted, but wanted to be a team player and try to make it work.

For weeks I made every sauce myself, marinated every protein, and left the simple tasks to the Kitchen Manager. It became clear that I needed help and luckily, Dave, who runs ops and understood my pain got me a new cook named, Daniel, who also worked down the street at Bar Belly.

As opposed to the existing staff that resented learning anything new, refused to taste on the line, and wanted everything to remain status quo, Daniel was excited. For three weeks, we worked closely every day planning the menu, splitting up prep, and he functioned as my de facto Sous-Chef to the chagrin of the existing Kitchen Manager.

“I think Daniel want more money.” said the Kitchen Manager one day.

“Ok. Let me worry about that.” I responded.

He shook his head.

“Yeah, I don’t think they gonna want to pay him, but maybe you can.”

“Maybe I can?”

“I don’t know.” he said throwing his hands up walking back to the kitchen.

I sat with Daniel one afternoon and his salary demands were very reasonable for someone taking on as much responsibility as he was. I spoke to Dave and it was approved quickly once I explained that Daniel was the only person in the kitchen that cared about the product we were putting out.

That week we had a great week of service with only one send back: a piece of crispy garlic Tautog that was not cooked through. When it got sent back, Daniel pounded his fist on the counter top and apologized.

“I’m sorry, Chef.”

I wouldn’t accept it because Daniel had worked so hard to get every thing right for me. I wasn’t going to let him beat himself up over a piece of fish.

“Daniel, every one makes mistakes. It happens. Just use the fish weight next time. It will help.”

“Yes, chef.”

“It’s not that serious. Let’s get back in it.”

The morning after Halloween, the Kitchen Manager informed me that Daniel was picked up by ICE.

I immediately called the detention centers looking for him, spoke to a writer at the New York Times for help, and got him an attorney through legal aid. Something felt odd. Why would he call the Kitchen Manager that always gave him the cold shoulder?

None of it made sense to me, but I got Daniel’s information, work permit, and submitted it to the attorney. Within minutes, the attorney informed me that he was using fake papers. I rushed into work and asked the Kitchen Manager if Daniel was legal or illegal.

“Oh he legal. He have passport in his apartment.”

“Ok, does anyone know how to get into his apartment?”

The Kitchen Manager laughed.

“Yo this isn’t funny. I’m trying to get him out before he gets deported. Do you know his family?”

He shook his head and anger started to rise in me.

“Why would he even call you?” I asked directly.

“Because he remember my number.”

“And you don’t care what happens?”

“I care, but this is how it is. All of us illegal. It’s not big deal. ICE pick us up, we just go home. Daniel go home.”

In that moment I accepted that I simply couldn’t get this kitchen to care about anything I did.