Nightmare at Zagara's

The produce section’s always
the first one in.
Lack of impulse sales, I guess.
Nobody goes to the grocery store and says
“Ooh, radishes! I think I’ll pick some up.”
Things to get to impress my invisible client:
whole garlic cloves for the wild mushroom pot pie.
Lobster claw and knuckle meat…
they have it?!
I can get street drugs cheaper than this!

I hated this store
the first time I came in here –
it’s grown on me since.
Aisle 6A, baking needs.
I have to find yeast for the Pate Brisee.
Flour… check.
Sugar… check.
Chocolate… check.
Ok, where’s the yeast?
Cornmeal… check.
Spelt Flour?… check.
Baking powder… got it, check.
Pignoli scented baking oil… check.
Where the hell is the yeast?
Pretzel flour… wha? huh?
Hey! There’s Fluff!
It’s empty and cheerful!
Canned powdered egg whites?!
Where the fuck is the yeast?
Calcified turducken extract –
it’s only yeast!
Doesn’t anybody make bread on this side of town?
Unbeknownst to most people
a yeast infection
is actually caused by a lack of yeast.
This store has a serious God – damn yeast infection!
And a bad case of the crabs over in seafood.
There it is!
Thirty – nine cent packet.
Small victories…
small victories, my friends.
The Pontchartrain pen
is finally broken,
not quite dead.
How ironic.
Turkey backs for stock.
(makes a stronger Tuscan white bean soup)
My D.M. wants me to act like I haven’t been hired yet during my tasting;
stroke my client’s ego
like it’ll be her idea to hire me.
And we’ll laugh in the back
how I was always gonna be the chef anyways.
What in the sam fuck was that about?
I’m thirty years old.
In the prime of my life.
I don’t want to keep secrets anymore,
secret trips,
secret loves.
I’m tired of being on the secret end of shit.
Second class citizen –
FUCK it.
Crème brulee.
Tahitian vanilla beans at $8.49 each.
This will be my Magnum Opus!
Bury myself in food.
I will prove my worth
to the entire world.
I will not be invalidated
by a stupid pack of yeast.
I am a chef.
I am a man.
I am a white man.
Angry young white man.
Isn’t that the stereotype?
I’m done apologizing
for who I am.
I’m done being sensitive
to everybody and their mother.
I’m done being sensitive
over this stupid pack of yeast.
My name is Mark Wilson
and I’m done apologizing for that.