Pierre Johnson

  It was one of those run down shitty restaurants that nobody goes too but is always full.  One table filled with drunken college kids and the next table with some lonely guy and a cup of cold coffee wondering if anyone would miss him.  The lone waitress, because there is usually only one, looking like she has spent her last day at work only knowing she will be back in the morning.  A restaurant that if it were to close down everyone would miss but not realize it was gone.  This restaurant like no other had a secret.  A secret that turned out food like no other joint.

  The secret was in the eggs.  Nobody ever noticed, usually because they were to drunk or crazy but it was there.  The eggs were light, fluffy and exhibited a level that could only be crafted by a chef, not some short order cook so many of us has been fooled by.  The hash browns golden and the bacon crisp with a slight soft center.  This man obviously knew his way around a flat iron griddle.  Yet with his touch slightly masked nobody was ever the wiser, at least not until now.

  I ordered the number seventeen.  French toast, three eggs, bacon and a side of wheat toast.  This combo like all others was typical of what he put out.  A fifty dollar meal in big cities but in this road side town, seven dollars even.  I finished my meal like I was on death row, every bite like it was my last.  The eggs like stated before were crafted for taste and I had to know more about this mystery chef.

I asked the waitress who the chef was.  She stared at me with that look of “why do you give a shit, did your food suck?”  I quickly explained my reason and she told me his name was Pierre, Pierre Johnson.  I made my way back to the kitchen but nobody was there except some nineteen year old kid who obviously was not Pierre.  I asked him where the chef was and he retorted that the cook was out back smoking.  In a hurry I passed through the kitchen once I paid my seven dollars.

  I made my way out the back door where it opened up to employee parking and a dumpster.  Near the dumpster I spotted a man you might mistake for anyone else.  He was around five foot ten and could melt into a crowd.  I asked if he was Pierre knowing he was but being courteous all the same.  He replied yes and continued smoking as if to not make any more friends.  I told him who I was, insignificant as it may be but I needed to start somewhere.  He gave me that typical head nod so many people do when they have nothing to say.

  I realized quickly he didn’t want to talk.  Not so much in a way that he didn’t want to talk about anything just not about himself.  He took a long drag on the cigarette causing it to extinguish on the filter.  Cautiously he looked at me and asked if I smoked.  I said no.  He glanced over my shoulder into the kitchen and saw no orders were coming in.  He quickly pulled out another cigarette and put it to work.  Slowly he looked at me and said “I guess this is where I tell my story.”  I had that feeling like I was the one who finally broke him knowing that was not the case, either way I was about to hear his story.

  He went off in the direction of where and who he came from.  Born in a Navy hospital and raised in a forgotten corner of Louisiana to parents who made his life possible.  His father was a vet of the seven seas and his mother a caring saint, both who taught him the value of being honest.  He answered to an older brother and sister forcing him to fight for what made him to be strong.  His upbringing never left him.  Some people would claim it was his downfall.  He never saw it that way.

  He struggled through school in the way that he never fit in but always had friends.  He made decent grades but nothing that caused him to stand out.  His real passion was standing up for those that couldn’t or chose not to.  This of course caused him several black eyes.  Most of these were delivered by the typical star football player whose greatest destiny was getting fired by from the local warehouse and dying before he turned 30.  Pierre never backed down and even labeled a few eye sockets of his own.

  All of this led to his eventual dropping out of college.  It was never that he couldn’t finish; he just never had his head in into it.  He showed great promise but he always questioned to why it was important.  What was a degree going to teach him that would get him along in life?  He eventually left school and made his way into the Army.  His father knew it would be good for him but questioned why his son had gone down that path.  He joined the Army without any guarantees which led him to being a cook.  Most people would fight it but he went into it with his arms wide open.  In a way he felt like cooking found him and he embraced it.

  He spent four years getting yelled at for under-cooked rice and biscuits that could break a steel plate but his knack at never giving up paid off.  Pierre was recognized as a go getter and somebody that was always up to the task.  He was sent to several chef schools and made a living preparing meals for the top brass.  He learned to love cooking and what joy it brought people, the art of it was always second in his eyes though.

  Once he completed his stint he made his way to the closest big city possible.  His goal was to be a chef in some high rise building just to prove he could do it without having any sort of recognition outside of biscuits and rice.  He shopped around until he needed the money which led him to some themed restaurant that specialized in cheap food and a phony atmosphere.  Nobody ever noticed what he could do.  This was the type of place people remember the garlic mashed potatoes or the bread, not the cold chicken fresco or any of their other specials.