Immigration

Like many restaurants, my kitchen was staffed largely by cooks/runners/dishwashers of Latin American origin, particularly Mexicans from the state of Puebla. This made sense, given that we were cooking Latin-influenced food, but you’ll find Mexican cooks everywhere in New York, from diners to Chinese restaurants to fine dining.

There are many great cultural exchanges to be had from hanging out with Latino cooks, from hearing the latest reggaeton to learning the true meaning of Cinco de Mayo. (Turns out it’s not just about cheap margaritas.) But as you while away hours peeling yucca in the slow afternoon, sometimes the conversation takes a turn for the serious. You ponder aloud: what you’re doing with your life, what your dreams are, who you love, where it all went wrong. You share your hopes for your family, your fears that you’re not good enough, your ambitions to go to college. You tell your life story, how you came to the US and found your footing here. You do all this while crammed into a closet-sized space, with tweezers in one hand and a fish fillet in the other. This is the trench.

In the months between my acceptance and moving to Italy, I spent a good chunk of time learning Italian through as many venues as possible. I went through three levels of Rosetta Stone. I read Italian blogs and newspapers. I discovered some great Italian films (and some pretty terrible melodramatic, sad-violin ones). Then, I stepped onto my first train in Italy, promptly missed the transfer and ended up in Cuneo. It was about 8 pm on a Mon night, and the trains stop running shortly thereafter. Panicked, I tried to ask the guy across the aisle for help, but all the Italian I’d learned had flown out the window. Luckily, he knew enough English to tell me I had 5 minutes left to catch the last train of the night. Clearly, my Italian still had a ways to go.