“Whatever you build, never forget the hungry people.”
I promised.
It took nine years before I could truly honor those words.
I worked my way from dishwasher to prep cook and eventually became a full-time chef.
I changed restaurants several times, learning everything I could.
My wife, Denise, worked long nursing shifts while I attended evening culinary classes.
We spent six years living in a cramped apartment above a laundromat, saving every possible dollar.
Finally, eleven years ago, I opened my own restaurant.
I called it Rosie’s.
It occupied an old brick building on Grand Avenue that had once been a pharmacy.
There were forty tables, a wooden counter, and black-and-white photographs of my mother hanging beside the register.
Her homemade chicken-and-dumpling soup became the first item on our menu.
I even framed her handwritten recipe above the kitchen stove.
Her spelling wasn’t perfect, but I never changed a single letter.
