Micky, my boyfriend and now chef of my restaurant, opened with a team of three. One: himself. Two: a nerdy kid who had just finished high school and dreamed of opening a high-end diner. Three: Kyle, an amply tattooed 20 year-old cook who had put in some jail time.

The pimply high school grad was the first to go. We knew he was starting college, but he had promised he would work with us in the mornings, before his afternoon classes. He called Micky to change his mind: school was hard. We went back to Craigslist.

Building a Team

Our bartender had a chef neighbor. Actually two chef neighbors--a Venezuelan gay couple that were cooking together at a New Jersey restaurant and looking for a change. Miguel came in to talk to Micky and started a few days later. He had plenty of experience, an endearing accent, a contagious laugh, and a joyful attitude.

I liked Miguel. "You look gorgeous today!" he would tell me, and what girl doesn't like to hear that. Miguel would worry about Micky: "He hasn't eaten anything today, not one thing," he would whisper to me. "Tell him to eat!"

I told him to eat, and Miguel told him the same. But Micky would often go all day--fourteen-hour days, more or less--consuming only the grape juice I brought him and a few cups of coffee. Already skinny, he began to look emaciated.

The pimply kid had a friend in culinary school. Fred came in once, then twice, then became our whiz-kid intern. Every time I walked through the kitchen, Fred was leaning over Micky, watching him cut sheets of gel into ribbons or remove the pulp from corn with razor-like focus, firing questions.

We were busy. Summer turned into fall, and the garden was full of people who wanted to eat short ribs and be outside.

The kitchen was small, but there was room outside for tables and chairs and boxes of tomatoes the colors of the rainbow. It wasn't so bad, shucking corn in the garden, watching the sun set behind the magnolia.

Down One

Miguel was more experienced and older than the rest of the kitchen staff. Still, Micky took offense when Miguel didn't want to clean. It was a tiny team, and everybody cleaned, Micky included. Micky is crazy about cleaning (a good attribute in a chef, trust me!), and sometimes the cooks would still be scrubbing and mopping hours after service, beers in hand.

I'm sure there were other reasons that Miguel gave his two weeks. After he was gone, Micky missed him bad.

Dropping like Flies

Fred had an amazing opportunity to work at an old age home. Not an amazing culinary opportunity, but an amazing financial opportunity. They would pay his tuition and then some.

Micky offered Fred money to stay, then more money, but our budget wasn't near big enough to foot tuition bills. We said goodbye to Fred, the superstar intern, and missed him even before he was gone.

Arrests and Other Drama

So Micky was down to himself, Kyle the young tattooed cook, and our dishwasher (also young, also tattooed). His 14-hour days became 16-hour days. He interviewed like crazy, but finding competent people proved incredibly difficult. One promising employee pulled a no-call no-show on his second day. The other had his post-service, pre-cleaning beer and started to spew obscenities at Micky and the dishwasher. So for now, it was Micky and Kyle.

Until Micky got a call on Monday, the day our restaurant is closed. "This is Kyle's brother. Kyle got arrested. He can't come in tomorrow."

Micky loved Kyle, and cared about him, and was worried. We tried to reach his mom, but couldn't get through to her. We called his cell phone but it rang and rang.

Worried and all, we had to open on Tuesday. There were reservations. And so I dug up my chef's coats and clogs from corporate restaurantland, and called some extra FOH staff to cover for me. If we couldn't find kitchen staff, I'd be the kitchen staff.

Next week: What happened to Kyle, and tears shed over duck sausage.