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Considering some of the chefs I’ve known in the business, I get it.

But Brynn just seems interested. “Do you have your own restaurant then?” she asks.

I nod. “Three of them, actually. Elena’s on Eighth is my pride and joy, and then there’s Sunday Kitchen and The Bell.”

“Oh, Sunday Kitchen!” Brynn says excitedly. “I’ve eaten there before.”

“And what did you think?” I give her a sidelong look.

“It was really good. It’s been a couple years since I was there, but I remember being impressed.”

“Glowing review from The Brynn Carter.”

“Oh my god, stop,” she says. “Wow, that’s crazy. I’ve heard of Elena’s on Eighth. It was featured on one of the cooking channels I watch when I have to stay in hotels. Everything looked really good.”

“Thank you,” I say genuinely. “It was the first one I opened, and in a way it’s the most authentic of my restaurants.”

“Is Elena your grandmother?”

I nod. “Yeah. It felt right to name my first restaurant after her.”

“That’s really nice. Considering the glowing reviews, she must be proud. What about The Bell?”

“That’s my venture into something more upscale. Not as hoity toity as fine dining, but a little bit more elevated than Sunday Kitchen or Elena’s. I never want to forget that food is for the people, you know? What’s the point of making good food if most people can’t afford to eat it? I’m working on opening another restaurant in the next year or so, and I really want to focus on bringing good food to everyone.”

“What’s the concept?”

“Farm to table, but affordable and more comfort food than it usually is. I want to do huge dinners where the whole community can come out and have a great meal with their families. Hearty food, probably served family style. It’s going to be a massive venture, but I’m excited for the challenge.”

Brynn has perked up enough that she’s turned so she’s nearly facing me in her seat. Her eyes are bright, and it’s the most animated I’ve seen her when we’re not having sex.

It’s interesting to learn that she’s the kind of person who is just as interested in other people’s passions as her own.

“You must have crazy stories about working in restaurants,” she says. “I’m guessing you didn’t go from cooking at home to opening your own place immediately.”

“Fuck no,” I say with a laugh. “Although, I did think about it. But the restaurant industry is crazy competitive, and most places fail within the first year. They run out of money or the executive chef doesn’t have enough experience to keep up with how fast paced everything is. I did my time in the trenches before I even thought about opening my own place.”

“So like, washing dishes and stuff?”

“Exactly. I washed dishes in the back of so many restaurants when I was younger. And every place has a different way they want their dishes washed. There are some places I warned everyone away from eating at just because I knew what a shit job they were doing of keeping stuff clean. If you can’t manage to have enough clean dishes to deal with the lunch rush, you’re probably not going to be in business for very long.”

Brynn makes a face. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. What was your favorite job?”

“Probably when I was a line cook at Purloin. The chef closed the place a couple years ago because she just wanted a change, but it was the most I learned in a kitchen. And she was amazing. She didn’t take shit from anyone. I remember there was this one sous chef who was pretty new, but he’d worked in a Michelin starred kitchen before, so he thought he knew everything. He questioned her constantly, about everything. Dishes she created, he thought he knew better than she did how to make them. One night, we were fucking slammed. I think it was Valentine’s Day. And we had a special that was the filet mignon with this creamy shrimp thing that went on top and potatoes. Classic, right? Well, this dipshit decides halfway into service that the peppercorn sauce that went over all of it didn’t have enough acid. He started talking to anyone who would listen how the lack of acid was making the dish too fatty and that we either needed to add more lemon to the sauce or less cream to the shrimp. And you know, we were just line cooks, and technically, he was allowed to give us orders, so we did it.”

“Oh god, I bet that didn’t go over well.”

“Understatement. Seven plates came back in fifteen minutes. The chef was livid. She tasted the sauce, demanded to know what happened, and we all pointed the finger at the sous. She called him out right then and there for not respecting her kitchen, her line cooks, or her expertise. She told him she didn’t care where he had worked before and that experience only matters as much as you’re willing to learn from it.”

“Did she fire him on the spot?”

I shake my head. “Worse, she made him apologize to us and then go out and apologize to every customer who sent their plates back. Then she told him he could keep his job if he was here to learn, but if not, he was free to walk out and open his own place where he could make his sauces as caustic as he wanted. He stayed and finished out the service and then we never saw him again.”

Brynn laughs, bright and clear. “Yeah, I don’t think I could have come back after that either. That’s wild.”

“I have so many stories like that,” I tell her. “Kitchens are crazy and the people who work in them are even crazier sometimes. I thought for a while that it was going to keep me from wanting to do it professionally, but for every crazy thing that happened, there were three more incredible moments that really solidified my love for it.”

“Wow.” Brynn looks amazed, and it’s a good look on her. “I’ll have to make a point to try your other restaurants when I get back to Atlanta.”