Tomasso's Questionnaire

Italian neighborhood of New York, East Coast big city brick jungle. Grew up on grandmothers lasagna and slices of pizza on the corner. My family runs an hole-in-the-wall Italian bistro, I've worked there since I was a kid after school, running the register, making dough, sweeping and cleaning the kitchen. Warehouses and factories are not far away, billowing out steam and smoke to a dirty coastline. A network of trains and trams screech and crawl through the city on graffitied metal. Cars, cabs, and people billow around the neighborhood, Polazzo park is more concrete than trees, with an old basketball court lined with a fence, a small fountain, and few plots for flowers that bloom in spring or summer. Across a big bridge is the Big City, a land of opportunity, and big names in industry and chef's from across the world train to serve the best food.

I work as a sous chef at a prestigious restaurant, I've been on a few cooking/kitchen competition shows, but have fell short on winning the competitions. My flavors have yet to surpass my head chef and it's holding me back from opening my own restaurant. I make okay money but I'm obsessed with buying the best ingredients and testing recipes at home. The best distributors give out the fresh goods only to those they know and with a huge markup. I have fine steel pans and sharp knives.

I've seen the very magic of food before my eyes, captivating diners, eating until they nearly burst, smells that stun, crispiness that cracks bones. Dining at the highest level is a dangerous experience. 

In a dream or a rare encounter with the mythical, one night walking home after a long shift at the restaurant, I saw a new neon sign in the haze of the city. "The Hearth" shined bright above a wide wooden door, hunger panged in my stomach and I've always been tempted to try any new place in the city. Inside only a few tables were filled with quiet diners, but at the center of the place was a kitchen where a radiant gold fire surged from an oven and licked around the pots and pans. A woman gracefully moved from each station, sauteing, stirring, cutting, flipping, alone at a frantic but calm pace. Hair drawn back into a bun, olive skin, a subtle smirk on their face, unphased by the heat. No sweat and no stress crossed their face, each plate filled and executed to perfection. I sit at a small table, watching on, engrossed by the sheer mastery, only to have my server snap me out of my trance. I'll get some water, and whatever they are having, I point to another table. "Excellent choice sir". I saw steak and shrimp and I knew I had to try whatever sauce soared through my senses. My plate arrived, glistening almost glowing meat, shrimp and vegetables. "Compliments of the chef, for new customers of course". And my first bite sent me into a trance, I saw my grandmother, long sense passed, serving lasagna, I saw a long lost love dance in my arms and then melt into rays of sunshine in the summer, wind blowing as a i cross the big bridge in solitude, I hear in my ear a whisper "A meal fit for a god" and then slowly a small whine, and then a screech, and a roar awoke me, the dull tone of a train operator described my stop, and I stepped off. Dark outside, lamps dot the station, I felt full but with no clear understanding if I really ate anything at all. I didn't sleep well, the next day I scoured the area for "The Hearth" near work but alas it could not be found. I asked friends and colleagues but nobody had ever seen or heard of such a place, let alone of a lone chef running an entire kitchen themselves.

I must find this place, to see the gold flame of The Hearth, I have to feels its heat and cook to perfection. I must make ambrosia. 

In a dream or a rare encounter with the mythical, one night walking home after a long shift at the restaurant, I saw a new neon sign in the haze of the city. "The Hearth" shined bright above a wide wooden door, hunger panged in my stomach and I've always been tempted to try any new place in the city. Inside only a few tables were filled with quiet diners, but at the center of the place was a kitchen where a radiant gold fire surged from an oven and licked around the pots and pans. A woman gracefully moved from each station, sauteing, stirring, cutting, flipping, alone at a frantic but calm pace. Hair drawn back into a bun, olive skin, a subtle smirk on their face, unphased by the heat. No sweat and no stress crossed their face, each plate filled and executed to perfection. I sit at a small table, watching on, engrossed by the sheer mastery, only to have my server snap me out of my trance. I'll get some water, and whatever they are having, I point to another table. "Excellent choice sir". I saw steak and shrimp and I knew I had to try whatever sauce soared through my senses. My plate arrived, glistening almost glowing meat, shrimp and vegetables. "Compliments of the chef, for new customers of course". And my first bite sent me into a trance, I saw my grandmother, long sense passed, serving lasagna, I saw a long lost love dance in my arms and then melt into rays of sunshine in the summer, wind blowing as a i cross the big bridge in solitude, I hear in my ear a whisper "A meal fit for a god" and then slowly a small whine, and then a screech, and a roar awoke me, the dull tone of a train operator described my stop, and I stepped off. Dark outside, lamps dot the station, I felt full but with no clear understanding if I really ate anything at all. I didn't sleep well, the next day I scoured the area for "The Hearth" near work but alas it could not be found. I asked friends and colleagues but nobody had ever seen or heard of such a place, let alone of a lone chef running an entire kitchen themselves.