Some parents raise their kids in quiet suburbs or busy city apartments. Mine is growing up in a kitchen — a real one, full of knives, flames, and people who move with urgency and purpose. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
More Than Just a Job — It’s a Village
They say it takes a village to raise a child. For me, that village just happens to be a restaurant. No. 7 isn’t just a place where I cook. It’s where I grow — as a father, as a friend, as a human. And it’s where my daughter, Barbara, is slowly learning to grow too.
Not Coworkers — Family
The team at No. 7 isn’t just staff. They’re an eclectic group of unofficial aunts and uncles — badasses who juggle prep lists, sauté pans, and emotional support duties with equal grace. They’ve helped raise Barbara in ways I could never do alone. And they’ve taken care of me too — making sure I eat, walking me home after late nights, texting me on my off days just to check in. That’s not in any employee handbook.
It’s unpopular in our corporate, bottom-line world to call your employees family — especially when you sign their paychecks. But if you spend more time with someone than you do your own child, if they’ve held you up in your worst moments, if you’ve shared impossible shifts and impossible grief — well, family feels like the right word.
Passing on a Culture of Care
Barbara sees it all. She knows the names of our line cooks. She knows not to turn off the basement lights during prep (because people hate that). She brings sodas to the crossing guard and says hello to the restaurant regulars like they’re old friends. These aren’t just habits — they’re values. Respect. Awareness. Community.
The Lessons of the Line
My daughter is 8. She’s not sautéing scallops or handling knives (yet), but she’s curious — and she’s learning. She reads tickets. She runs plates of fruit to tables with toddlers. She asks a million questions. And I answer them all, even when I’m exhausted, because I can see the light turning on behind her eyes.
It’s not glamorous. She sees me shout sometimes. She hears me mutter under my breath. But she also sees me apologize. She sees me listen. She sees me care — about my team, our customers, and the food on every plate. And in that chaos, I think she’s absorbing more than I could ever teach her in a quiet living room over microwave popcorn.
The Reality of Restaurant Life
Restaurants are grueling. You burn yourself. You break down. You lose track of time, of friends, of what day it is. But what you gain — if you’re lucky — is a community that doesn’t flinch in the face of pressure. A place where you can be flawed and tired and still belong. That’s the culture I want Barbara to grow up in.
Rooted in Something Real
I want my daughter to see that work can be meaningful. That it’s not just about making money — it’s about feeding people, literally and figuratively. I want her to feel the beauty of shared labor, the rhythm of a dinner rush, the weird magic of turning broccoli into something transcendent.
If she chooses to follow in my footsteps — and part of me hopes she does — I’ll be there. I’ll teach her how not to slice her fingers on mandolines, how to manage a station without losing her mind, and how to lead with heart in an industry that doesn’t always reward it.
The Future Is Unwritten — But Hopeful
Maybe one day Barbara will cook beside me. Maybe not. Maybe she’ll be an astronaut or a poet or something I can’t even imagine. But no matter what, she’ll carry this time with her — the smells, the sounds, the chaotic joy of it all.
And I’ll keep cooking. I’ll keep building this weird little rocket ship of a restaurant, held together with duct tape and dreams, surrounded by a crew that shows up every day — not just for the food, but for each other. Because community is the secret ingredient. Always has been.
And maybe, just maybe, the aliens will love our broccoli tacos.
