Here is a story I wrote on the eve of my marriage. It was meant to reflect on the journey which got me there.
There was once a Teacher Chef whose former students were among the greatest chefs in the world. No one knew the secret to his training. The Teacher Chef would never give interviews and the students kept a monk-like silence about how they were taught. One day a young Student walked into the Teacher Chef’s kitchen with the desire to be a great chef. “The training is difficult and will go on as long as needed,” the Teacher warned. “But by the end of it, you will love food and you’ll pursue culinary perfection for the rest of your life. Are you sure you want to do this?”
The young Student, who knew only that he wanted to be a great chef, nodded in agreement. The Teacher nodded back and led the student to classroom which had a view of the kitchen through a large window. Inside the room was a desk, a pencil and a notepad – nothing else. He opened the door and the student went inside and sat. The Teacher did not enter the room. Rather, he closed the door and locked it.
The Teacher then went about his business as if the student was not there, preparing meals for his restaurant. The student sat in the room and took notes, recording everything the Teacher did. The day went on and the evening shift ended. The chef closed up shop and went home, leaving the student behind. The confused Student sat in that darkened room, now filled with the smells of a day’s worth of cooking, and wondered if the Teacher had forgotten him. His stomach growled. When was he going to be let out?
Days came and went, then weeks. The Student pounded on the glass and yelled for help, but the Teacher seemed not to notice. He would come in, cook all day for his restaurant, close up shop, and leave. Over time the student began forgetting what food felt like in his now shrunken belly. The pain in the his gut was all he knew, all he could remember.
One day the student awoke to find a small morsel of turkey in the cell with him. He ate it eagerly. But with his stomach reminded of what food felt like, his hunger doubled over – erupting like a flaming geyser up his spine and into his brain. He spent the rest of the day beating on the glass in savage anger and scratching at the walls looking desperately for a way out.
How long had it been now? Months? Years? The Student’s mind began playing tricks on him. Sometimes food would appear on the floor but it would vanish when reached for. Sometimes he’d see food, but rats would ferry it away. He frequently saw a meal which would turn to sand in his fingers every time he touched it. Even knowing it was an illusion, he could keep himself from reaching.
The Student had long since given up on taking notes one what the Teacher did, instead writing about his torment and his hatred for this chef. He could no longer lift his emaciated arms to pound on the glass. His voice was too weak to yell insults. Resigned to his fate, the student lay down on the floor and wept himself into darkness.
He awoke. Out of blurry eyes he saw the shape of the Teacher’s shoe. The famous chef stood above him, calmly reading what remained of the student’s notes. “Not bad,” he said to the boney figure of his pupil. “I think you’ve got the idea. Come on into the kitchen and work with me.” The Teacher picked up his student (an easy task) and carried him into the kitchen.
At first the student couldn’t perform any worthwhile cooking. Everything he made tasted great to him, but to others it seemed too harsh, too bitter, or just plain off. But over time the Student healed and things got better. Eventually he learned how to make meals in a way that would please his Teacher. Slowly, the days trapped in the classroom faded into memory.
After a long day of work, the Teacher Chef stopped the student on his way out and asked, “Your time in the classroom. Why was that necessary?”
“Because no one loves food like a starving man,” the student replied. “To him, every day with sustenance is another miracle.”
“Indeed,” the Teacher Chef said while hanging up his apron. “But you’re not hungry anymore. You're not a starving man.”
“Am I?," He asked. "I’m not dying on the floor of your classroom, but there’s no going back. I can never-,” the Student paused, “I can never not be the Starving Man.”
The Teacher nodded and said, “If I give you your own restaurant … I’ll want you to cook to my standards always, so that everyone will see the passion you have for each meal. Do you promise to do this?”
The Starving Man replied, “I do.”
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