Dancing With The Devil

The Associate



The Coyote and The Iguana are currently living in Alaskan exile. We have established a base camp about twenty minutes outside of Seward on the banks of Resurrection River. Tonight we are off to Anchorage to visit The Alaskan Bush Company with an associate of Mister K before he has to catch a plane out of town. Upon departure of The Associate, Coyote and Iguana will return to base camp where we'll be met by dirty women, cold martinis, and hot food. Or was it hot women, dirty martinis, and cold food? Maybe it was cold women, hot martinis, and dirty food. It doesn't matter. Because if Plan A fails then any combination of the above will likely suffice.

Mister K


At present, The Associate is running desperately late to the rendezvous point and it puts the current plan in jeopardy, or at least The Alaskan Bush Company portion of the plan. Should the initial plan fail and result in a direct rally to the airport, The Coyote and Iguana will have to renegotiate. And renegotiation will likely result in a post-departure mission to The Alaskan Bush Company. And that, dear reader, is where the devil comes into the picture.



"It's cheaper than a hotel room" has been coined as a signature line and it has been brought up in repeatedly in unhealthy conversations. Our standards alone have kept us pure. But should the devil win tonight... Should The Voice Of Reason further distance itself from us... Then we will all need a long hot shower with Brillo pads, ammonium nitrate, and that gritty Lava soap that mechanics have laying around in the auto body shop. No doubt we will need it even though it is the kind of dirt that never really washes off. And no doubt that it will pollute your minds, question your own standards, and have you running to the shower as well.

***INTERMISSION***

The Coyote and Iguana have returned to base camp with little but a fart left in the gas tank of the Dung Beetle. And this is the end of what should be an ongoing story. It must be terminated to protect the minds of the readers, the identity of the victims, and the dignities of all others involved.

My First Attempt At A Chocolate Torte

Story to come.....

Jon's Goat Killin' Safari

MAFIA ISLAND, TANZANIA- Four months into my contract I examined myself and found that my current state of mental stability was at an all-time low. I was living in the middle of nowhere. I was surrounded by a culture which was completely foreign to me, a language which I didn't speak, and a religion that I didn't understand. I was in need of a visit from The Voice Of Reason. I needed for someone to help me rationalize this place. Someone to tell me that I am not completely fucking crazy and that everything around me is. And even if it is me that has gone completely sideways I need to convince The Voice Of Reason that it is the island.

Jon, whom you have read about in the Jon Is Discreet blog, has purchased a ticket and will be on the island for about two weeks. I was enthused to say the least to get this news. It will be my first visitor from home in three years of contractual chef work in some pretty remote places.

So I am now put to the task of entertaining Jon and making his safari a memorable one. It is imperative that he has a vast array of stories to return home with with regards to life on the Swahili Coast. I send a message over to the Maasai who are selling trinkets, beef, paintings, carvings, marijuana, clothing, lion poison (story to come), and beadwork up the beach from me. I need them to come sing, dance, and jump around for a formal welcome. I also need them to find me a goat. Cause it wouldn't be a proper welcome if we didn't slaughter a goat.

Jon arrives with all sorts of goodies that I bought online and shipped to him. Cigars. Photo gear. Cookbooks. My new goat killin' knife. Clothes. Sandals. Multi-tools. Water purifier. Sunglasses. And eight million other oddities that I bought in a drunken haze the week before his departure. The fiesta is on.

I told him that I ordered a goat and that it should arrive by boat on the resort's beach. We have to keep an eye out because we don't want the guests seeing where their meat comes from and if it is left up to the Africans to sort out then surely it will be paraded through the dining room at high-noon. Jon is a bit excited about the goat and I offer him the honours which he gladly accepts.

The next day our goat arrives at the back gate. Don't ask how the goat got from the beach to the back gate. These things just happen. And after a while you learn that it is better off not to ask. Unless of course you have tossed back a few bottles of Tusker and you want to listen to something humourous.

Jon is pumped about taking down the goat. I bring out one of the Muslims from the kitchen so he can show Jon the correct way to kill a goat according to the Koran. I learned early on that the staff won't eat the meat if it is not done in this tradition. I killed a goat in the beginning of the season and didn't face it in the right direction so the meat was deemed unclean and nobody wanted to taste it before it went out into the dining room. So my goat killin' days are over and I have been relegated to training.

Salim, my Muslim assistant, gets the goat situated for Jon and then gives him the instructions and the knife. Jon whispers in the animals ear. Chants his pre-rehearsed Muslim lines. And at first, Jon starts running the knife against the neck in delicate slits. I abrubtly interrupt and say something like "Jon, you need to vigrously saw the fuck out of that with a lot more of a viscious frenzy". It works. Jon digs in and the goat dies a quick, all be it loud, death.

Afterwards I ask Jon what he thought of the experience. "It was not anything like I thought it would be, but I am glad I did it." I tell Jon, "you have just earned your right to eat goat. So, let's go gut it."

Jon skins and guts the goat and then we hang the goat in an air conditioned room overnight and retire from the carnage. I introduce Jon to Konyagi dawas, Tanzania's equivalent to a gin and tonic.



The next day I show Jon how to make East African curry and we recruit the rest of the staff to help with the preparation of the goat. A few hours later and we have a crowd of Swahili staff gathered around giant bowl of ugali (Swahili polenta) and curried goat. Jon has the balls to try the mchuzi, a Swahili stew made with all the innards and near gags. The rest goes down smooth and the carcass is reduced to bones.

My mission is accomplished and Jon now has the first of many crazy tales to trumpet on his return.

Los Vegetables Del Mar

On Little Corn Island, Nicaragua life can best be described as a strange amalgamation between Gilligan’s Island and The Lord Of The Flies. It lies about 45 km from the mainland and is a median on the highway that brings Colombian cocaine into Central America en route to California. The island can be circum-navigated by foot in about two hours. There are no police. No phones. No McDonald’s. No roads. You can’t drive there. You can’t fly there. You can’t buy a postcard or a t-shirt that says that you were there. The only way to get to the island is via panga boat. A fourty-five minute ride across the open sea in a 30’ skiff with dual 200 hp Everons. It is a very remote island off the coast of an impoverished and under-developed country.

Colombian coyotes would run skiffs to Little Corn and it’s brother, Big Corn Island. They would change Colombian hands to Nicaraguan and eventually get trafficked to the mainland, usually in the Bluefields area. On occasion the Nicaraguan military would make shows of force on the island. They would position themselves at various points and look for boats that were riding low in the water from enormous loads. Questions weren’t asked. If you were a runner who got caught you got an opportunity to plea your case through the barrel of an AK-47 before the seasoned and salty Nicaraguan who in addition to the role of policeman also played the roles of judge and jury.

Boats were shot up and would occasionally appear within sight of the shore. This would sometimes result in some serious bales of cocaine and weed that were floating randomly about the sea. Some would float ashore. The islanders would call it the “lottery of the sea”. The police in Nicaragua earned roughly US$60 per month. The locals earned less. So you can imagine the excitement when an industrial-sized garbage bag marijuana or a hefty sack of cocaine floats ashore. It changes the whole island. Not because the people get all fucked up and destroy the face of moral purity. But because the Colombian kingpin is usually on the island before the police looking to buy his stash back for maybe 10% of it’s street value. It is a win-win situation. The kingpin gets his shit back. And the locals are able to buy school books for children, build churches, afford new clothes, etc.

I went to Little Corn Island so that I could study Caribbean seafood in an environment that wasn’t spoiled by commercialism. I wanted to see what sort of African influence was brought to the island, if any, during the slave trade. I was there to study the natural ingredients. It was an opportunity to get away from Florida’s blackened chicken with mango salsa which appears on damn near every menu south of Tallahassee.

I picked the brain of anyone who would listen. My staff was Spanish-speaking and my Spanish was far less than fluent. I could pick apart sentences and somehow put things together. I was asking my assistant in the kitchen about indigenous ingredients, particularly from the sea. I wanted to know about seaweeds that were harvested from the area. So I made a half-assed attempt and asked her in broken Spanish what sort of seaweeds did the Nicaraguans farm from the sea. It translates roughly to “what are the sea vegetables that the Nicaraguuans use?”.

The question left her perplexed. Her face tightened up and I could tell that she was really trying to put together what I was trying to communicate. Or maybe she was thinking “what the hell is this crazy gringo talking about?”. I waited in silence for a minute and then it came. She looked at me with a dead honest face and said “solamente marijuana y cocaina”. It turns out that the only vegetables the Nicaraguans were farming from the sea were marijuana and cocaine. Most likely harvested by the Colombians.

The Matatizo Rat

I am doing my pre-dinner survey of the downstairs dining room. It is an open air dining room overlooking the pool and beach. I am making sure that salt shakers have salt in them. Making sure that my bartendersput deodorant on today. Making sure that the tablecloths match. Making sure that there are not three different varieties of mismatched silverware on the table. Making sure that the waitstaff knows that room number six is allergic to shellfish. Making sure that the balsamic vinegar decanter is not full of soy sauce. Making sure that everyone can pronounce everything on tonight’s menu. I am double-checking with a waiter to make sure that the Maasai have been told that they are to perform tonight. And I am making clear with him that the Maasai can bring some beads and trinkets to sell but I don’t want my dining room turned into a bazaar.

It is about twenty minutes before dinner. I am face to face with this waiter trying to cover all the bases. Trying to see into the future. Trying to solve problems before they rear their ugly heads. Have I gone over everything? I am exhausting myself trying to think of whom or what could possibly ruin this dinner. And at that moment a giant rat falls from the makuti roof and lands with a splat on the dining room floor right between me and the waiter. It bounced enough that I saw the pink of its fat belly. I looked up at the waiter wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The waiter looked wide-eyed back. We look down at the rat. The rat looks disoriented but it definately saw us. There was a moment of truth. Something primal in its gaze. Like when they eye of the impala meets the eye of the lioness. There is a stall. A moment of silence and indecision. Dumbness. And then the hunt began.

The rat ran pretty fast for just taking a twenty foot plunge from the ceiling to the stone floor. Surely it had the wind knocked out of it’s little rat lungs. At best the waiter and I were uncoordinated and awkward trying to stomp on it. Me with sandals. The race is over before the sound of the gun. It must have resembled a Tom & Jerry cartoon. I was reminded of an arcade game that I played as a child where you are given a padded hammer and you have to pound down clown heads as they pop up out of their holes. I was furiously stomping at the ground. I remember a quote from Ali, “I’m so fast that when I turn out the lights I am in bed before it is dark”. The rat is behind the refridgerator before either of us can get a foot on it. And being behind the refridgerator he now has access to the area behind all of the dining room cabinetry. It is clearly high ground for the rat. That is to say, the rat won. So in fifteen minutes I have to waltz through a full dining room in manicured chef whites, schmoozing guests and looking over my shoulder the whole time for the giant pink elephant that stands to ruin the dinner.

Food is about environment. Just being able to cook good food is not enough any more. You have to be able to create a surreal experience in the dining room. No matter how mouth-watering the dinner is, if a giant rat runs under your table or makes a mad dash across the dining room floor you aren’t going to remember the food. You remember the rat. And Africa compounds the situation. Because people already come here with fears of eating, fears of food poisoning, fears of disease, and fears of nature. They are looking for exactly what you are hoping will stay hidden. And when they see it the circumstances are magnified because it feeds the intuitions that guests already have about Africa and they scrutinize the resort for more problems. Ultimately, regardless of the outcome, it is a headache that can be medicated with a chilly Tusker Lager and a hearty laugh at the end of the day. Because if you couldn’t laugh at it then it would surely drive you crazy.

I am lucky today. The rat stayed in whatever refuge it had found behind the fridge. He won the battle. However, I read The Art Of War by Lao Tsu, and I am pretty sure that the rat did not. So the next morning I grabbed the gardener, a handful of poison, and every trap in inventory and we went to work. I don’t know if we got the one who slipped by me and the waiter. But I’ll be damned if we didn’t get a brother or an uncle.

I’d love to say that it was an isolated incidence. But the following week we pulled an African Cobra out of the dining room. I guess it was after the rat.

Backdoor's Loyal Balls

The novelty of work in Africa wears off quickly and gives way to the hard truths that exist here on a day-to-day basis. Excuses for missed days at work were one of the first things to stand out for me. I was accostomed American excuses. Usually phone calls with a little added drama to validate the common cold excuse rather than the truth which was typically a hangover. The excuses I ran into on the Swahili Coast were some real shockers. Malaria was commonplace. AIDS took one of my guys within a month of my arrival. I remember giving his wife money so she could seek treatment. She returned a couple days later asking for more. She had apparently spent the first chunk on a witchdoctor and now needed more money so that she could try Plan B - the hospital. I had a guy come into work and then “beg my permission” to leave early so he could bury his son.

Early one morning I was walking with one of the resort’s excursion guides down the dirt road that connects the village of Utende with Kilindoni. The road is in a miserable state with potholes and chunks of rock and the landscape is littered with blue plastic bags. The sun was just breaking the treeline and the air was already hot and thick. In the distance a Land Rover sped past a man on a bicycle leaving behind a blanket of dust. I looked down as the Land Rover approached and shaded my eyes. As I looked down I noticed the dust that was gathering on my sandals. The sweat from between my toes mixed with dust and turned to mud. The Land Rover passed and the air became thicker. I rubbed off the earth that was gathering on my sunglasses and I noticed that the man on the bicycle was my baker who was running about an hour late for work. The bicycle was old and looked as if it was pieced together from several others. Africa is surely the place that bicycles go to die. I noticed that it lacked the shock suspension system and hand brakes that we have in the USA for bikes we use to ride down paved roads and sidewalks. Then I turned my attention to my baker. His eyes were wide and distant and the sun glared off beads of sweat gathering on his face and forhead. He was soaking wet. I noticed he was in his uniform except for his chef jacket which I assumed he left at the resort. His face was edgy and stressed and I could tell he was in a great deal of pain.

My excursion guide exchanged a few words in Kiswahili that I did not yet understand. And then my baker tells me that he isn’t feeling well and asks me permission to take the day off. I tell him that it is no problem and furthermore I say “the next time you’re in such a sorry state just stay home”. He really looked like shit. He thanks me, turns the bike around, and rides back in the direction he just came from. I asked the guide how far away he lived. “About forty-five minutes by bicycle”. I wondered for a moment why he wouldn’t send a messenger instead of coming himself. Then I ask what was wrong with him. I am told that he had elephantitis of the balls.

This man just spent an hour and a half riding a bicycle down a primitive dirt road under the blazing African sun with a set of swollen balls in order to ask me permission to take the day off. I certainly have never seen loyalty like than in an American kitchen. And this guy was probably banking about $3 per day. Later I was talking with the dive instructor about it and found some reason for the man’s loyalty.

The baker had apparently slept with another man’s wife, which truth be told, was not an uncommon occurance on the Swahili Coast. When the husband found out he promptly plunged a knife into the baker’s back. The hospital in Kilindoni, Mafia’s only hospital was ill-equipped to handle the situation. There are no flights after dusk and the Mafia runway had to be lined with cars and flashlights so the pilot could see the runway. The owner had to fly his Cessna from Zanzibar to Mafia to pick the baker up and then deliver him to the hospital in Dar Es Salaam. The baker owes his life to the owner. He has been working for the resort now for the better part of ten years. After I heard the story I nicknamed him “Backdoor”.

Jon is discreet

Also soon to come... The story of Jon's goat killing safari in Tanzania.

Very early in my career, a client of mine bought a beautiful beachfront house in New Smyrna Beach, about twenty minutes from Daytona on Florida’s east coast. I was contracted to cater her house-warming party and provide food and drinks for thirty to forty people. I included my friend (and then business partner), Jon, on the gig. Jon is an analytical to the extreme. He is the consummate bean-counter. A managerial accountant who thrives on details. Someone who deals with all of the red tape that I am intolerant of. I wanted him to help me in the kitchen. I am trying to help him better understand the culinary underworld. I have also hired out a bartender and a few servers, stealing them away from their weekend schedules at restaurants that I used to work for.

This event is carte blanch. A very affluent couple who spares no expense at impressing their wealthy cronies. With no doubt there will be expensive wine to be had, cocaine trails on the bathroom counter, casual sex in the basement, and other varied acts of debauchery and lascivious behavior which frequently occur at parties of this calibre.

The ‘spoon tree’ is also to make an introductory appearance. The spoon tree was built by Jon who is an amazing craftsman and wood snob. This party will be it’s trial run. I pushed it on the host like a used car salesman pushes an extended warranty. It is a series of concentrical circles of cedar wood with grooves cut into the sides of each circle. Three hundred spoons fit into the grooves and are loaded with different appetizing nibbles, desserts, hors d’oeuvres, aphrodisiacs, drugs, whatever. Seven circles, about 3/4” thick, are stacked on pillars. Picture a red cedar wedding cake about three feet tall and four feet wide at the base. It’s value as a conversation piece is monumental. The idea is to pull a spoon from the tree, eat what is on it, then discard it in the provided bin. No plates. No mess.

We are building a sushi and sashimi spread on a mirror roughly three feet wide and six feet long. And we will send out about ten different appetizers intermittently over three hours. We will have a working, open kitchen during the party.
It is going to be overdone. The kitchen will be a beehive of activity. It will be breakneck intense preparation for about eight solid hours. We will either shit or shine. Jon is a nervous wreck. He is much more comfortable analyzing my budget and putting structure to my chaos than he is trying to devein prawns at the pace in which I have instructed him to. He is sweating profusely. He is shaking with nervous energy. His face is red. Not red like an embarrassed child. But patchy red like the alcoholics working the counters of your local ABC liquor stores. I’m not nervous. I am edgy. But somehow or another I always pull this type of shit off. I know it will work. So watching Jon is fun for me in a sort of sadistic, barbarous way. I occasionally fuel it a bit as well. I am in constant communication with him while working at my own frenzied pace. “How long prawns?” “Jon, I need prawns in five or we are going to crash and burn.” “Jon, where’s my fucking prawns already?!”
When my prawns are done I tell Jon to start assembling the spoon tree. I am decorating the sushi mirror with dragonfruit, banana flowers, and some funky greens that I found in a Chinese grocery store. I am feeling like a pimp. I have snapper, octopus, and two sorts of tuna sashimi; three different types of caviar; lobster, prawns, local blue crabs, and an untold variety of nori rolls all lined up. The wasabi is molded into a giant green Buddah and sits as the centerpiece. I decide that the sushi spread should be brought out towards the end of the night. People tend to be a bit more adventurous with food after putting down a few glasses of wine. My barman Tom does a good job getting people loose so hopefully we will bring the timid eaters out of their shells and put a bit of daredevil in them tonight. Besides, the owner is seriously questioning my octopus sashimi idea. “You’re not going to serve that are you? Nobody will eat it.” What I wanted to say was, “you just paid $90 for it so we should at least try.”

Jon has spent two incessant weeks building the tree. It was a Herculean effort in a very limited time frame. We had to buy and express ship the spoons two days prior to the event. You could sense his pride in the piece when he spoke about it. And it truly is an aesthetically arresting piece of work. Every single attribute was dutifully measured down to the millimeter. Every faint blemish in the wood methodically sanded out and beautifully finished. Every aspect of its design was given meticulous attention to detail. And for those reasons I went slack-jaw when Jon walked into the kitchen white-faced and stuttered out “the spoons won’t stay in the tree”.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why?”

“The groove isn’t deep enough. They are falling out.”

I can’t be asked to listen to this. “Make it work, Jon. Go back in there and make the damned thing work.”
I thought Jon might cry. I wanted to cry. I just dropped seven hundred dollars on spoon tree construction. I pulled used car salesman tactics to get it to this party. The owner was finally enthusiastic about it, if not enthralled. And now that it is Go Time the tree is rejecting the spoons.

Jon returns.

“Can we tape it?”

“Are you shitting me? Tape?” I go into the living room to survey the situation. The spoons are sticking out of the tree at various irregular angles and are very insecure and unstable. I have a vision already of some maladroit drunken oaf trying to dance the macarena, bumping into my spoon tree, and sending twenty spoonfuls or so of escargot and soy-marinated tuna down the front of the brand new Versace cocktail dress that Ms. Stedman had just bought so she could show off her new fake tits at this ritzy soiree.

We try a few different approaches and figure that the spoons are most secure if we put them in the tree at a 45 degree angle. It levels them out as well. I even think they look better at an angle. All appears to be working out alright but the stress (and maybe the Red Bulls that he has been slugging) has triggered a shit in Jon.
He asks me where the restroom is a I tell him that it is right near the front door. We finish adorning the tree and head back to the kitchen.

Company is starting to arrive and the kitchen is fully engaged. Six burners are going with sauces or reductions, blanching water, stock for cooking prawns, ostrich stuffing for mushrooms, etc. The oven is fired and loaded with various pans. Jon is now whipping egg yolks for a mousse, his whisk moving at the pace of a Cessna propellor. His chef whites are already completely fucked up. He will eventually go through three jackets. Everything is on pace. A selection of cheeses with quince paste, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and lavash crackers is served on a Boos block. Guests are oogling at the spoon tree and asking questions.

Jon asks me again about the restroom.

“It is right there, bro. By the front door.”

“Do you know if there is another one?”

Now I see what is happening. And as I do the owner walks into the kitchen and offers me a glass of wine. Brilliant. “Yes, please.” And perfect timing, I might also add. Then Jon drops an abominable bomb of a question on her.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Is there a restroom that I might be able to use?”

“Sure dear. It’s right by the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am. But perhaps you have one that is a bit more . . . discreet.”

I wish I could convey the look on this woman’s face before she sent Jon downstairs to the kids restroom. I also wish I could convey to you the look on my face. And Jon’s for that matter. The host left to get my wine. Jon left to ruin her bathroom. And I had to leave the kitchen. Six burners running. Shit in the oven. I was in hysterics. I went out the front door and around the side of the house and howled with laughter. I was crying. I was horse laughing. Uncontrollable, stomach pains, laughter.

I have never heard, nor will I ever, someone tell another person in so little words and such polite fashion: “I am going to fucking destroy your bathroom. I am going to raze it. It will be leveled. And the heinous stench that follows this devastation will be so vile and evil that Satan himself will wince in horror and shudder in repugnance. It will be distasteful. Nauseating. Messy. And shameful. Now point me to the proper shitter so that I might not offend your guests.”

When I finally could regain composure, which wasn’t soon, I returned to the kitchen. Jon was already back. My wine was waiting. I had a few sips. Nice wine by the way. It went surprisingly well with the vodka and tonic that Tom already had stashed away for me. A few more sips and then . . . I started laughing again. Out loud and without control. I was wondering about what sort of surveying looks were exchanged between Jon and our host when she returned with my wine and he returned from the ruination of her bathroom. Jon thought I went outside and got stoned off my tits.
It was all I could do to regain composure. Jon was peeling garlic and still operating at a feverish pace and sweating bullets. He looked flustered and nervous.

“Jon.”

“What?”

“Do me a favor. Go talk to Tom. Get yourself a glass of scotch or something. You need to relax.”
“Alright. How are we doing on time?”

“We’re fine Jon. Everything is working according to plan. We are going to look good and we are going to make the host look good. 100%. Go talk to Tom. Ok?”

“Ok.”

“Oh, and Jon . . .”

“What?”

“Be discreet.”

I was in hysterics again. Now he understood what I was laughing at.

More and more people are starting to arrive and things are in full swing. So far the party is a smashing success. People have formed a circle around the spoon tree. Others are gathered around the kitchen watching our dog and pony show. The sushi is being devoured. I joke with the host because the octopus sashimi has all been eaten. And then Christy, one of the servers I stole for the day, whispers in my ear, “Dude. Either that guy is hung like a fucking mule or he is chaffing like a motherfucker!”. I look up to see that she is talking about Jon.
Jon is still moving at full-tilt but he is now waddling around the kitchen like some sort of crazed Emperor penguin fleeing the pursuit of a hungry polar bear. I whisper back to Christy, “I hear that he is hung like a sonofabitch! When you get a minute can you get me a beer from Tom?” She smiles back. I had to throw him a bit of a bone. He is my friend after all. I finish my vodka tonic which is now watery and flat.

Rummaging through the host’s cupboards I find her cornstarch and then I motion for Jon. This is an age old trick that I picked up at an upscale Mediterranean seafood restaurant in Winter Park, Florida. When Jon comes over I hand him the cornstarch and give him the recipe for relief. “Take this to the bathroom that you violated earlier and dump a bunch of it down your pants. Don’t get it on your pants though. And clean it off the floor. Remember, you’re not socially inept. So be discreet.” He laughs and nods and when the coast is clear he heads towards his comfort station.
The party carried on until the early morning. We all booked a room overlooking the beach for the night and smoked some Montecristos once the party winded down. The host set me up with a tin of Iranian caviar for our bagels in the morning. We woke up on the beach, went to Coconuts for bloody marys, or “bloody breakfasts” for those of you in the know. And Jon caught a glimpse of what life in the culinary world was like. I would later get stressed out and suffer panic attacks when he explained and analyzed the event down to the cost of the gas in getting us there.