Meanwhile, my home life wasn’t too shabby. Drinking to the point of blackout had become an everyday occurrence and I had learned to somewhat function with very little sleep and a hangover. My apartment looked like that of a college men’s dorm and the lack of food in my house for someone who loved food so much was appalling. The only two things I kept on hand were hot sauce and beer. Not once did I stop and think maybe I had a problem. In my mind I had a job, a car, the occasional girlfriend so my life was going great. On the inside I was dying. Numb to my surroundings. A ticking time bomb just waiting to die.
Meanwhile back at the restaurant things were going smoothly. The sushi chef that I had grown fascinated with had taken me under his wing and was showing me proper fish fabricating techniques and what each fish was called in Japanese. He let me try just about every single one of them. My favorite was hamachi or yellowtail as we know it. It was mild yet so flavorful and went with just about anything. The owners started noticing him teaching me and were always keeping an eye on what I was doing. I’m sure they were thinking “stupid white boy making sushi” because they always had this sarcastic grin on their faces. I didn’t care. This was fun!
After about 6 months of the same routine I was approached by the general manager one evening after service. He congratulated me on putting up with everyone’s shit since I joined the team and offered me a position on the sushi bar during lunch. Lunch was slower paced and was mainly prep but to me this was a big deal. That night I bought a Japanese steel sushi knife online that I still use today.
A Chef's Journey 