The Six-Year Itch, Scratched.

A “business decision.” It’s a very formal phrase to hear when you’ve spent the better part of six years managing a place where the most pressing issue was whether a customer’s burger should have a side of fries or a side of existential dread. I expected a different kind of ending, something more fitting for the environment – like a dramatic shouting match that ends with me storming out the door saying how they will fail without me. But no, it was a proper, corporate ejection.

And so, here I am, fresh off my six-year tour of duty, no longer the maestro of mismatched plates or the master of making sure everyone gets their ranch dressing. They called it a “business decision,” which is a far more polite way of saying, “We’ve decided to move on from the person who served as the designated adult between our staff, toxic owners, our customers, and our drunk general manager.” It’s the highest form of professional ghosting. One minute you’re the culinary commander, the logistical genius orchestrating a symphony of cooks and dishwashers. The next, you’re a civilian, free to roam the aisles of the grocery store without checking the clock, a ghost haunting the Gordon Food Service store.

This new chapter is a bit like having a restaurant with just one table and one guest: myself. My new “banquet” is a single serving of cereal. The “kitchen” is my own, and it is, ironically, it’s bigger and better equipped. I’m finding a whole new appreciation for the simple act of not having to think about food in terms of how many pounds I need or how to fit 25 tables of eight in a room not designed for that many people. The only “business” I have to attend to now is the serious work of discovering what happens when you don’t set an alarm for 4 a.m. to go oversee set up for a quinceañera. My former employer may have made a “business decision,” but I’m calling this a “sanity decision.” A decision I was apparently too busy to make myself.