Cooking Up Hard Lessons

In early 2004, I found myself back in Oregon, desperately seeking a fresh start. The previous two years had been a dark period, driven by a hopelessness that made otherwise unimaginable choices possible. Alongside Ed, a sociopath whose nature was as ingrained as a shark in water, I had been pulled into a life of crime.

It was in Los Angeles that we reached a breaking point when we found ourselves entangled with criminals far more dangerous than us. Alongside our illicit activities, Ed and I had also developed a mildly successful legitimate venture creating business card CDs. These unique mini CD-ROMs featured flash presentations that auto-ran upon insertion. Despite our success, the increasing danger from our criminal associations made staying in Los Angeles untenable. Fearing for our lives we decided it was time to focus solely on our legitimate business. I suggested Maine as our destination, not only for its lower cost of living, which would help grow our business, but also because I had previously lived there and still had contacts.

Once in Maine, as I attempted to reintegrate and find some normalcy, I watched Ed begin to manipulate and exploit people I respected—friends who had meant a lot to me. This was a turning point. Witnessing the harm he was causing to people I cared about snapped me out of the fog of despair. Realizing that this was not the life I wanted, nor the person I wanted to be, I knew I couldn’t just stand by. Moved to action, I exposed Ed's true nature to everyone I knew and boarded the first Greyhound bus back to Oregon.

Back in Oregon, I reunited with my brother and our friend Mike. The three of us, along with Ed, had all been involved in criminal activities at one time. It was my brother who initially introduced me to Ed. By the time I returned, Mike and my brother had already severed ties with us a year earlier, choosing a different life—a decision I was now ready to embrace myself. Arriving with no money and no recent work history, my prospects were dim, yet there was a newfound hope in me.

Soon after my return to Oregon, my father passed away. He was a respected geologist and part-time paleontologist, and his loss affected me deeply. My mother and I flew out to his home in Pennsylvania for the funeral. After the service, as the evening grew chilly, we gathered around a fire in the backyard. Half-drunk, I shared my doubts about the future with my mother. She suggested I consider culinary school, reminding me of my lifelong love for cooking—a passion kindled ever since I made a burnt yet undercooked chicken dinner for my family at the age of six.

She mentioned a particular school she knew from daytime TV ads. Having not watched television for years, I was unaware of these commercials' manipulative nature. To me, her suggestion seemed like a legitimate and sensible path to a new career. My grief, desperation to lead a legitimate life, and my trust in her advice left me unquestioning. If only I had seen the advertisements that inspired her to mention this career path, I might have been more discerning.

The day our plane landed back in Oregon, I immediately began searching online for the culinary school my mother had mentioned and arranged a meeting with a recruiter. Still emotionally shaken from my father's funeral and unfamiliar with the culinary industry, I walked into the recruiter's office the next day, unprepared for the manipulative sales pitch that awaited.

The recruiter started our conversation by asking what I wanted from life, to which I candidly recounted the recent funeral. Seizing on my vulnerability, he adeptly used terms like "proud," "successful," and "accomplished," while giving me a tour of the school’s impressive facilities. He emphasized the inclusion of a suitcase full of culinary tools, conveniently omitting that its cost was embedded in the hefty tuition fees. He also promised guaranteed employment and a quick career start, claiming these would help me swiftly manage any incurred debt, skillfully preying on my urgent need to rebuild my life.

My time at culinary school was a mixture of genuine learning and excitement tempered by the institution's more calculated practices. I was initially enchanted by the promise of the program and the engaging nature of the classes. From practical cooking techniques to an unexpectedly enjoyable rudimentary writing class—mandated as part of the federal loan requirements—I accumulated many fond memories and valuable lessons. The enthusiasm of the instructors and the camaraderie among students enriched my experience, making each day at the school a day of discovery.

However, the structure of the courses often left much to be desired. The accelerated nature of the curriculum meant that complex subjects were barely skimmed rather than thoroughly explored. For example, our baking class spanned just a few weeks—a period woefully inadequate to cover a discipline that ideally requires years to master. This superficial approach was a recurring theme across various modules, where the depth of learning was sacrificed for breadth.

Additionally, the school employed tactics that were designed to maximize their financial gain from students' federal loans. Whenever I received a grade less than a B, they were quick to suggest I retake the class, extending my loans and ostensibly improving my GPA. Following their advice, I finally graduated with a 3.92 GPA after a year and a half.

When it came time to do my internship, it was at a well-known restaurant, but the experience was nothing more than six weeks of slavery. I did nothing but prep work, and wasn’t paid for it. After the internship, they placed me in a grand total of one job which was a temporary position doing prep work and shucking oysters at a private party run for the teachers of the school itself. There I was, a graduate with honors, standing at an oyster bar, shucking oysters for my drunk instructors for four hours at $8 an hour.

Despite the school's promises, no meaningful job opportunities emerged from their employment office, which was staffed by a single elderly lady. Frustrated, I began searching for jobs on my own, only to discover that my degree and the school itself were not respected within the industry. It was a harsh lesson; only after I removed the school from my resume did I start to find work, though I had to start from the lowest rungs of the ladder. It took many years and relentless effort to climb my way up to a management position, a journey marked by hard work and perseverance rather than the support of my alma mater.

A year later, the school was sued in a class action lawsuit that asked for both the year that I attended and the year after me to be defined as a class. The judge threw out the year that I attended, making it so that I could not sue as an individual. Several years later, the lawsuit concluded, and everyone who had gone the year after me got their loans canceled and everything they had paid up until that point returned to them.

It's 20 now years later, and I still owe more than $30,000 on the loans. My paychecks have been garnished for years now to pay it back, a constant reminder of the predatory practices that preyed on my vulnerability and naivety at a difficult time in my life.

Learn from me: if you’re considering a career in culinary arts, be cautious about where you choose to study. Many culinary schools use aggressive marketing to lure students with promises of quick career advancement and guaranteed jobs, but often leave them with heavy debt instead.

Before committing to any culinary program, start by working in the industry. Positions like a prep-cook, dishwasher, or line-cook will give you a real sense of the work involved and allow you to learn on the job. This experience can help you decide if this career is right for you, and you might find opportunities to learn from experienced chefs who can mentor you.

If you prefer formal education, look into culinary programs at community colleges. They are often more affordable than private schools and are well-regarded in the industry for their comprehensive, accredited courses.

If you’re set on a specialized culinary school, consider the Culinary Institute of America (CIA). Known for its rigorous standards and as an independent, not-for-profit college, the CIA has a strong reputation. Graduates are highly respected, and training there is considered prestigious, though it can be expensive.

In short, choose a path that offers real value and can genuinely kick-start your culinary career without burdening you financially. Choose practical, real-world learning opportunities over promises that sound too good to be true.

P.S. I’ll share more about my past life of crime in a future story. Stay tuned.