I have a story to tell.

I will be relentlessly ruthless in my pursuit to complete this story.

It will be the biggest lie I ever tell, and it will be so beautiful and meticulous no one will know that I had no fucking idea what I was talking about.

I will make it as if I lived it, and you will believe me.

You are a seasoned chef, bitter at life because your wife or husband left for someone twenty years younger and twenty times sexier than you, and all you’ll think of is how you relate to that book, and how well I’ve presented the environment of a professional kitchen without once stepping foot in it. You will think about how you miss the golden old days, and how thankful you are that I brought them back, and how you would love to shake my hand and tell me how fantastic it was. And then I’ll tell you that it was all a big lie, and you’ll punch me in the face and think about how your spouse cheating didn’t hurt as much as the discovery that I am a fraud. It will break your heart to know, and you’ll regret finding out. You will never forgive me.

Or maybe you’ll never know, and you’ll live in this sweet little place where, after every couple of pages, you’ll say to yourself: ‘Gee, I really fucking like that guy, he knows what’s up.’

And if you’re not a chef, a mortal enemy of my mind and a person that terrifies me, you’ll wish you were. You’ll wish that you too spent your twenties covered in duck fat, stirring veal stock risotto with your blistered and hardened hand while keeping an eye on herb-crusted lamb chops in the oven. I am not afraid of you.

I will be relentlessly ruthless in my pursuit to complete this story.

I will make it as if I lived it, and you will believe me.

It will be the biggest lie I ever tell.

And it will be beautiful.