Sometimes it even goes in the food

Who am I kidding? I can only remember one time I dropped any of my precious Remy into anything I've ever cooked, and I cook a lot. It's what puts the drink on my table. I don't pay for food, I'm around it all fucking day, cleaning, cutting, manipulating it, putting it on a hot plate and setting it under a heat lamp to be swept out onto some table. The plate returns, it's cleaned, and then I make it dirty again. That's what we do, make plates dirty. Fuck all the pretention chefs hide behind with a fancy title and embroidered $200 chef coat. I proudly wear a dishwasher shirt with my name and title embroidered on it, the title: "Grill Monkey." It comes from an old comic strip, two guys sitting at a table, the waiter comes, "How was everything?"
The response, "My compliments to the grill monkeys."

It was a chocolate mousse. I was in the back of the kitchen, too lazy to walk out to the bar to ask for some Gran Marnier, one of those slow winter days in a beach town when there was no one else around to ask to get it for me. So I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my half-pint of VSOP, took a sip, and then poured a little in, I'd already incorporated the egg whites and just started to add the whipped cream, I took another sip and realized the bottle was empty. Fuck! I'd have to take a break soon to walk to the corner store to get another, my house and my ten litre stash too far away to access quickly. Tasting the Mousse, it was good, damn good, even though it's something I'd never order off a dessert menu, (well the only thing I'd order off a dessert menu would be a Cognac - if someone else was buying.) It added that imperceptible touch to the mousse that no one would be able to finger, but they'd love it. I was dissapointed, I would have enjoyed it more in my belly.

None of the waiters commented on my shirt the first day I proudly donned it, bleached white after I'd puked on it a couple days before on my birthday. My girl got it done for me, besides an expensive bottle of Remy, which she got me the year before, it was a top five ever birthday present. The type of thing I'd said I wanted, figured I'd never get for myself and forgot about it months before. I later figured that no one could understand why I would want to label myself a Grill Monkey, kind of like I can't understand why any girl would want to wear a shirt that reads "slut" or maybe even worse, "Daddy's Little Princess" across her breasts. But there's a lot of shit that goes on in this world that I find hard to comprehend. Half-way through the second day I finally got a comment from a waiter, "Does that say grill monkey?"
"Hey, Kailin, did you see his shirt?"
"What's that say? Oh."
Little titters behind their hands, confusion, and appreciation from all my cool friends that would stop by. "Grill Monkey? I thought you were Sous Chef."
"I got a promotion."
Sarcasm being my only comfortable cover to deal with questions in a world that has few good answers.

Well, why am I here? (I mean why am I writing a blog, something that I have scorned and laughed upon for quite a while (except for my Mom's occasional posts, and the few excerpts I've read of "stuff white people like" that my sister sent me.))

Several reasons, I suppose.
1) I love to write and I have fallen out of practice, this seems to be the modern form of staying in practice. I write my thoughts down all day long in my head, I might as well type them out.
2) I'm curious as fuck as to how long it will take some stranger to actually find this blog and waste their time to post a comment.
3) I dream of stardom as a writer and am getting back into re-re-re-editing my book, titled, wait... guess first... yeah, you were close, "Cooking With Remy." Subtitled: "Memoirs of a Young Drunk Chef." I don't want you to think I'm some old, balding, greying, alcoholic chef with a beer belly. I'm not old, I'm only 26.
4)I also have aspirations to write a cookbook. A book aimed at the college student who spent their life studying and eating Top Ramen and finds themselves graduated and educated and unable to cook a goddamn thing that Taco Bell couldn't do better. A friendly, approachable cookbook that demystifies cooking and cookbooks alike. I want to post the first entries here.
5)With "the economy" the way it is (I miss the time when we could blame everything on 9 11, at least it seemed like it wasn't our fault that the world sucks), the restaurant biz is slow and ten hour days have turned into six or seven hour days, I'm happy if I have a reason to stick around long enough to hit overtime. I have time on my hands and an internet connection.

Why you should ever come back to read this blog again:
Well, you made it this far; either you're a member of my family, sleeping with me, incredibly bored, or actually find what I have to say interesting. Future blogs (I hate myself for actually using that word, it as dispicable to me as using abbrevs for txt msgs.) (Excuse me, I have to go scrub myself clean and have a strong drink lest anyone should not pick up on my sarcastic irony) will be on different subjects: recipes that only include Remy Martin as something for the chef to drink, and, well, what ever the fuck else I want to expunge into the universe.

Well, time to finish my beer and go to work.