Restaurant Kid, Aspiring Writer

Not looking to be known as a traditional food writer.

There was a point earlier this year, the first time that I had the opportunity to pursue writing full-time when I wanted to be recognized as a “food writer.” Not as someone writing on the side while working in the industry, but as an official food writer. That’s always been the dream.

I remember standing behind the host stand of Olive Garden in Portage, MI, my patience wearing thin on the customer chatting to me who asked the age-old question, what on earth are you going to do with a useless degree like creative writing, as though my own family hadn’t posed the question a dozen times. My answer was simple—write about food. Oh, you want to be like Samantha Brown on the Travel Channel then, or like Molly O'Neill when she was at the New York Times. Their useless bramble continued as I led them to their table, where they would, unfortunately, become someone else’s problem.

I had chosen the degree for my love of the craft, knowing I could rely on my restaurant experience for funds if things didn’t work out. Plus, there was an entire semester dedicated to studying abroad, and I had just secured my tickets to Prague, where I would study novel writing under the fabulous Robert Eversz. Little did I know that my 400 pages would be dissected into the “good parts” (the pages that contained lengthy descriptions of food and scenes that took place in or around restaurants) and the bad, which was everything else. A good lesson, to be sure. And what a beautiful city to be in to sob about it and wash down the new reality that I was not, in fact, a prodigy novel writer who would publish her debut novel on a study abroad trip, down with a pint of Pilsner Urquell.

Then, there was the real aha moment—that happened in the closet that Ian lived in during our junior year (no exaggeration, his room was a mattress inside of a closet). He had just gotten back from grabbing us Bucharest, and I was reading Fluff Piece by Molly Wizenberg in the latest Bon Appétit. The intro to her homemade marshmallows recipe still has me in a chokehold. It was downy and sweet, and between my teeth, it put up only a wink of resistance before melting away. There had been signs all along, but that was the clincher: I was going to marry this man. It’s bookmarked for me in each of my browsers, and after reading that piece, I dove into her other works, loving that there was a food writer who actually went through the experience of not only working in a restaurant but running one.

X number of restaurant jobs later (including every position in front of house to beer sales, to managing both large-scale and more intimate teams as a general manager for some awesome spots that finally got the national attention), a marketing position as a copywriter with a focus on food and beverage, to building out our own business that focuses on providing restaurants and hospitality-related businesses branding work—I dove into freelance writing full-time and finally considered myself a writer. Not that I didn’t write before that. Special shoutout to J’adore Detroit, who published my weekly series “Badass Women in Detroit’s Hospitality Industry,” and to the various Eater Detroit editors who allowed me the space to share stories about my favorite farms, restaurants, and people who are changing the industry for the better. But those pieces were written in a sleep-deprived haze, after closing down the bar or in the blearyness of a fresh pot of coffee that my husband, Ian, put on for me before heading out the door for his normal 9-5s.

I say when I consider myself to be a writer, but let’s be honest, it’s been a year where the deadlines have become far more daunting than any other. I overthink everything I’m writing and how readers and the industry will perceive it—down to every photo included in a listicle. I’ve worked the busy brunch shift, where people kept insisting on ordering the steak we hadn’t served in years, and that clearly was not on the menu, all because it was left on a list that was supposedly updated and pushed out to the public. Cue me crying, kicking, and screaming in all caps via email, begging the editor to update it so the godforsaken nightmare would end—on repeat every week for two months before someone finally responded and used one of the dozens of photos I had previously sent the publication for this exact reason. So yes, I overthink every aspect of my work, and even with that hyperfocus, I still mess things up.

When a deadline is looming, I become nostalgic for the adrenaline-induced fury of being in the zone (think the polar opposite of being in the weeds), and how naturally that came to me when I was writing while working in the industry. Or how I would create a piece when I was in a rage-induced frenzy after having to prove to upper management that accounting was funneling money elsewhere since Budweiser and Miller Lite were listed on the same invoice when they, in fact, come from competing distribution companies.

Anyway, all of this to say is I’m here and trying! And writing more. Especially since there are so many stories I want to share that often don’t get picked up by local media. And I’m itching to get back into writing creatively. So feel free to send feedback, or heck, let’s meet up and grab a beer to talk about it— and if you’re here to actually read this newsletter, you’re crazy, thank you, and I love you.

Also, special shoutout to the bar regular who used to teach me guitar chords, and said that one day, if I ever were to write about the industry, I should call whatever it is the other side of ketchup. I still remember your laughter, each wheeze in time with the gentle squeaking of that classic red diner bar stool, as you pointed at the condiment caddy, which I was indeed standing on the other side of.