After the Second Glass

I can usually predict the exact moment it's coming.

The first course disappears and someone has just admitted they almost didn't come tonight. The room is finally beginning to relax.

Then someone asks "So... what do you do?"

It's fascinating, really. Not because it's a bad question, but because it's such a small one.

Imagine spending your entire life becoming someone, only to be reduced to the answer you give at networking events. We don't mean to do it. We've just gotten really good at mistaking introductions for identity.

The funny thing is, I already know something you don't. The answer you're about to give me isn't who you are. It's who you've practiced being.

I've watched it happen hundreds of times at Ensemble. The first thirty minutes are a performance, people sit a little straighter, they mention the impressive client, the recent promotion, the company they started, the places they've traveled, it's all very polished, very successful, very... forgettable.

Then something beautiful happens. The wine disappears, the food keeps coming, someone tells an embarrassing story, someone laughs so hard they snort, someone admits they're scared of getting older, someone confesses they're thinking about quitting the job they just spent twenty minutes convincing everyone they loved.

And just like that, the performance ends.

That's the person I came to meet. Not the title, the business card, the carefully rehearsed elevator pitch. But the human being underneath all of it.

People think I became a chef because I love food. That's only half the story. Food is just the alibi. I'd use anything if it got people around a table. Coffee, books, travel, music.

The meal has never been the destination. It's simply the invitation, because somewhere along the way I realized I'm not in the business of cooking. I'm in the business of creating moments where people forget they're supposed to impress each other. That's a much rarer thing.

Especially now, as we're living in a world where everyone has become their own publicist. Every conversation feels like a subtle audition. Every accomplishment gets polished before it's shared. Every introduction sounds suspiciously like a LinkedIn bio. We've become incredibly successful at being impressive.

I'm not convinced we've become nearly as good at being known. Hosting interrupts that. A good table doesn't care what your title is. It asks something much more dangerous. Who are you when nobody needs anything from you? Who are you when there's nowhere to be tomorrow morning? Who are you after the second glass of wine?

That's the version of you I'm interested in. The one that laughs a little louder. Stays at the table a little longer. Stops editing every sentence before saying it.

The one who remembers that before there was a career, there was simply a person.

Maybe that's what we've been starving for all along. Not another reservation, another promotion, another title. Just another place where it's finally safe to stop performing.

So the next time you're sitting across from someone new, skip the résumé. Ask the question that can't be answered with a job title. You might meet the most interesting person at the table.

And if you're lucky, maybe you'll meet yourself.

-Chef Jan-Mitchell Avilés