That was the exact moment I realized my family had somehow constructed an inflexible caste system based entirely on living-room furniture. And it was also the moment I decided their little kingdom was finished.
Three days later, a crisp vinyl For Sale sign would be driven into their front lawn.
But before explaining why my parents reacted to that wooden stake as though I had personally harvested their organs for a traveling circus, some context is necessary.
My name is Ian. I’m thirty-six years old, and I run three high-volume restaurants.
My entire adult life has involved dealing with intoxicated customers, fixing catastrophic deep-fryer failures at midnight, and preventing line cooks from murdering each other over missing ceramic ramekins. My tolerance for absolute nonsense is therefore exceptionally high.
You have to develop a deadened nervous system to survive hospitality.
A normal person sees thick black smoke pouring from a kitchen door and thinks, Fire.
