The spring of 1999 I was still in college, which meant that I was working in a restaurant. Nothing high-brow; a barbecue joint. I put myself through school with a few restaurant jobs, working the tables, running food, coming in on Wednesday afternoons to help unload inventory. The greasy camaraderie of restaurants was a nightly reality, and I ate up that spring’s buzziest New Yorker piece, with its real talk about restaurant life, devouring it as hungrily as everyone else captivated by Anthony Bourdain’s saucy insider look at the kitchen’s secret world.
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