Chef Tom, as I called him, was an imposing figure. He wore the typical chef’s whites and black-and-white houndstooth pants, but it was the huge black work boots, shaved head, silver hoop earring, and massive cross necklace that made him look like such a badass. He looked like he belonged to a motorcycle gang. His skull was perfect for his lack of hair—bumpy in all the right places—reinforcing the idea that he wasn’t to be messed with. It also helped that he was well over six feet tall. He reveled in the fact that people were scared of him and let that tactical advantage work for him—but never took it too far. He rarely raised his voice, but could kill you with a look.

When he spoke to me, his voice and a twinkle in his eye seemed to imply that if I were to respond in just the right way, we could head to the supply room, lock the door, and get down to business. Would he have acted on such an impulse? No. But I do think it was a release for him, since he was essentially trapped in his marriage.