"Let's Talk About Your Life, Son"

Awhile back I took on a big commitment. I committed to a year volunteering at a public vocational high school in Queens. I went every week to teach a class, and just cooked with the kids. It was a pretty amazing experience. I saw myself in a lot of them. The uncertainty, the insecurities were all there. These kids were a lot like me. Maybe that sounds surprising, coming from someone who’s been a success in the restaurant business. Let me tell you more.

Growing up, I never really thought about becoming a chef—much less owning restaurants or being on TV. The truth is, I didn’t really have any goals. I didn’t like school. I was unfocused. Most of all, I liked hanging out with my buddies on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 84th Street, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, where I was born and raised. Just shooting the breeze. That was the life I imagined for myself when I dropped out of high school. But someone had other plans for me.

I was lounging around at home one day, watching TV, when the phone rang. It was my dad. “Come to my office,” he said. “We need to talk about your life.”

My life? I was 17! Was I supposed to have it all figured out? It felt like being called to the principal’s office—but worse. My dad is a great guy. He’s also very scholarly, so my leaving school must have hit him hard. I didn’t want to let him down. But it seemed that was exactly what I was doing. Part of me was scared. Part of me tried to play it cool: just dad being dad. I went down to his office at Joe Allen—a famous restaurant in the theater district that he was a partner in. “Go get a job,” he said. “You can’t just hang out with your friends on a street corner.”

“Okay,” I said nonchalantly, shrugged my shoulders and headed out to meet my friends. Where was I gonna find a job?

The next day, Dad called again. He sounded exasperated. I guess he figured out that my hunt hadn’t just been a bust, but a complete nonevent. “The busboy had to leave to take care of his grandmother. You’re going to fill in.” Dad didn’t ask me; he told me. “And don’t forget: no special treatment. Because you’re my son, you better work harder than anyone else. Put your head down, do your job and don’t aggravate anybody—including me.”