In short, marriage, particularly for a woman, was about as much fun as a lingering illness. - Anthony Bourdain

I’m through being cool. Or, more accurately, I’m through entertaining the notion that anybody could even consider the possibility of coolness emanating from or residing anywhere near me. As any conscientious father knows in his bones, any remaining trace elements of coolness go right out the window from the second you lay eyes on your firstborn. The second you lean in for the action, see your baby’s head make that first quarter-corkscrew turn toward you, well … you know you can and should throw your cherished black leather motorcycle jacket right in the nearest trash bin. Clock’s ticking on the earring, too. It’s somehow … undignified now.

Look at your waiter's face. He knows. It's another reason to be polite to your waiter: he could save your life with a raised eyebrow or a sigh.

Male, female, gay, straight, legal, illegal, country of origin — who cares? You can either cook an omelet or you can’t. You can either cook five hundred omelets in three hours — like you said you could, and like the job requires — or you can’t. There’s no lying in the kitchen. The restaurant kitchen may indeed be the last, glorious meritocracy — where anybody with the skills and the heart is welcomed. But if you’re old, or out of shape — or were never really certain about your chosen path in the first place — then you will surely and quickly be removed. Like a large organism’s natural antibodies fighting off an invading strain of bacteria, the life will slowly push you out or kill you off. Thus it is. Thus it shall always be. The ideal progression for a nascent culinary career would be to, first, take a jump straight into the deep end of the pool. Long before student loans and culinary school, take the trouble to find out who you are.