Raw in the Middle

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Chapter Sample

I’ve always loved interviews for the same reason I love first dates, namably because I just adore the dynamic of two people blatantly lying to each other.

Private chef interviews are uniquely comical for this reason. By the way clients talk about their home lives, you’d think working for them is like stepping into a Viagra commercial, and the way I talk in an interview, it would have you believe that… any of my references are real.

Spoiler alert to this story. There are, (I’m sure,) many functional families in the country. At least a couple dozen. However, never have I ever cheffed for a non-dysfunctional family or heard about any other private chef who has. There is only one exception to this, and that is a New York-based chef that I talk to about three times a year. She apparently works for an incredible family, and I hate-stalk her on Instagram, wishing she gets fat so the fire of my jealousy-hate can one day subside.

But alas, this is not her story, and actually, before I start, here’s what I’m going to say about being a crazy person in a crazy industry. It’s exhausting, but also, it means that I am not always the protagonist of my stories. Sometimes I will retell my stories so I sound a little bit more like the protagonist, but in this story, I absolutely am the hero and (dare I say) victim of a very very out of touch white lady and her dysfunctional family.

There is no interview I remember more vividly than this one. I remember this interview like many people remember what the smooth surface of creamy peanut butter looks like before you make that first fucking sandwich.

I entered the doorman building and made my way up the elevator. As usual, the entrance was large, and the shoes by the door were expensive, but there was no assistant or estate manager to greet me. A woman in athleisure-wear ran to greet me. Even without her party outfit, she looked exactly like the Patrick McMullen photo I’d seen. “Sorry! I’m a mess.” She exclaimed.

Avital, my prospective interviewer/client was not a mess. Beside a slightly frizzy blowout she looked like any other aggressively hydrated mom who works out at Equinox.

“Hi!” I beamed. Something I’d learned from going to so many interviews is that I have a very inviting smile. Even when it is fake. In fact, even when I am not smiling, I look uniquely approachable, which is why my “resting approachable face” causes me to get stopped on the street by tourists who think I will be the shining beacon who will finally point them in the right direction of Wicked the musical. Unfortunately, in a physical (and in a more existential) way, I never really know where I’m going or what I am doing.

Smiling in the frame of the doorway, I am hoping I am headed in the direction of my next full-time job, but they’d all become a blur to me.

“Come on in and take a seat.”

I sat on the worn leather couch as Avital folded her legs underneath her. So far this interview was going far differently than the others had gone. Usually I met with an estate manager first; the interviews were done at a table. They’d look at my printed resume and go through it line-by-line.

I looked at the surrounding apartment. These people were obviously gazillionaires, but the house didn’t look like any I’d worked at before. I was used to the modernism of the Upper East Side: ugly minimalist art, cut stone, ergonomic but uncomfortable armchairs, and Damien Hirst sculptures. This was nothing like that; it was California Bohemian. Large purple crystals stood at the entrance next to a Persian rug and a portrait of Siddartha sitting under a tree.

I had heard of these types of private chef clients but had not actually worked with one before. These were “Bobo.”

Bobo’s are the bourgeois bohemians. They blend moral superiority with capitalistic hedonism and are the 1990’s successors of the yuppies. They purchase expensive ornamental objects and love using the term “exotic.” They understand American society to be a meritocracy and are so cultured they’re practically yogurt.

In the modern homes I’d worked in before, the apartments were sterile, and I’d gotten used to cleaning counters with gloves, Windex and a bible. I’d gotten used to wearing a separate cooking and serving outfit.

But a private chef NEVER expresses this type of puritanicallness in a Bobo home. Bobo homes are an oasis of casual vibes and judgmental comments about the other wealthy folks who DANE to throw around their wealth gaudily.

However, even with a Bobo the interviews always start the same. The Mrs. will describe their children (inaccurately) and will describe their children’s dietary likes and dislikes (also inaccurately).

“So all three of your children sound like great eaters!” I will exclaim. Avital will nod firmly, “They eat just about everything.” When a client says something like this they will ALWAYS follow up with a story about their child eating a massive amount of expensive food as an infant.

Avital’s story is about her oldest son Eli and how he ate a full portion of steak when they brought him as an 18-month-old to an all-organic cattle ranch in Montana.

This is the only part where Avital breaks into a look of true joy as she describes the aforementioned dinner.

“So we were there with little baby Eli, and my husband ordered a RARE filet mignon. We’ve always been the type of parents who feed the kids what we eat so even as a baby, we fed Eli adult food like steak and camembert cheese, but even we didn’t think this was appealing food for our baby Eli.”

She throws her hands up in the air, “WRONG! Before we know it, the filet mignon is GONE and my husband has to order a second one.”

I contort my face into an expression that is impressed, perhaps even inspired. I focus intently on Avital’s face, so I look like anything other than someone who has just been told a story about a baby eating $145 of raw meat.