Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef by David Paul Larousse

seeking distraction from pain, while my analytical Virgo-nature dissected the experience, seeking a message.  What were the odds that a just-graduated culinarian beginning his first career position would strike a match while standing in front of an antique pizza oven that would lead to a trip through space, scorched skin, and a collision with a stationary wall?  A million-to-one?  A billion-to-one?  I re-thought the steps that led to the fateful event.  Walked up to the stove.  Lit the match.  Turned on the gas.  Boom!  The staff members later investigated the stove while I lay in the hospital.  Their report concluded that a pocket of gas had been waiting in ambush within the gas conduits.  No one could have known this, though considering the age of the oven, the odds were pretty good that it would happen again. 
    Welcome to the dangers of the industrial workplace, young man!  You who were at the wrong place at the wrong time performing the wrong task.  I wondered if I made a mistake in my choice of profession. Years later, a vivid memory of the incident would remain with me, long after the names of my co-workers and even of the ranch had disappeared.  For the moment, all I wanted to do was to sleep and heal.
    But I had no leisure for such indulgence.  Once back at the ranch, I immediately returned to my culinary duties.  My burned skin was gruesome.  Peeling and oozing, I felt like a creature from a James Whale film starring Boris Karlov.  By working in this condition, I was breaking all the rules of personal hygiene and kitchen sanitation.  But not only was this my job, the haunting question – “Can I still cook?” – overrode immediate health and health code priorities.  Within a week, I had my answer.  I could still cook all right, but not here.  I informed the owner of my decision, and he tried every salesman’s ploy to keep me.  But the ranch was history.  I packed up and hit the road.
    On the living room floor of my mom’s home, I laid out a map of New England and began perusing the territory.  I considered throwing a dart up into the air, then traveling to wherever it landed.  Then I noticed Cape Cod, on the sou th-eastern corner.  I had been there the year before, on a long weekend run with some chef-school chums.  I liked the look of all the inlets and interesting village names – it kind of looked like the Shire, in Tolkien’s The Hobbit .  So I hoisted my back pack, grabbed my acoustic guitar, bid Mom farewell, and stuck out my thumb on interstate 95.  Half-a-dozen rides and twenty-four hours later, I found myself awakened by the early morning sun on the edge of a cranberry bog somewhere in the middle of Cape Cod.  I rolled up my sleeping bag, and headed out to the nearest road.
    Another hitch brought me to Hyannis, the largest town on the Cape Cod.  I knew no one there, had no destination, nor any particular goal in mind, short of finding gainful employment.  At the southern end of town, a hand-painted sign jutted out into the street.  It read, “Coffee, Tea, and Advice.”  I knocked gently on the door, opened it and peered inside.  I saw what appeared to be a large carpeted room, the walls of which were lined with bookshelves.  A stately looking gentleman seated at the far end of the room, looked me over.  “New York or New Jersey?,” he asked. 
    “Why, New York, as a matter of fact.  How’d you know?”
    “Oh I can spot you guys a mile away.  Vestiges of urban smog, perhaps.   Please come in.”
    I thanked him, relieved myself of the back pack and guitar, and sat down.  Over a cup of tea, I explained that I was a graduate of a culinary program, and was in search of a job as a cook.
     “What is your line of work?,” I asked 
    “I’m an architect, and as a matter of fact I’m doing some work for a local restaurateur.  I believe he needs cooks in his kitchen.  Where are you staying?”
    “At the beach, I think.”
    “Well, you come see me