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Now, with the doors of Calypso Café securely closed, it’s just Randy and me, alone in the establishment. We’re seated across from each other, and he has already presented our first course of the night: a beautifully arranged carpaccio of beetroot with goat cheese, candied walnuts, and arugula, all drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar. The presentation is nothing short of artistic, a testament to Randy’s culinary expertise. And his face? Bathed in the candle’s soft glow, he looks even more handsome than usual, if that’s even possible.
So,” Randy begins, breaking the silence that had settled after our pleasantries and savoring our first bites, “what do you want to know about me?”
There’s one question that’s been burning in my mind ever since that first night, the night passion consumed us and we surrendered to it completely. I remember tracing the lines of his tattoo with my tongue, curiosity mingling with yearning.
“The tattoo on your arm,” I say. “What does it mean?”
Randy pauses, giving the question the weight it deserves. He slowly sets down his fork and glances at his forearm as if seeing the tattoo anew. “Before I came to this town and started working here, I lived in a sober living house in New York City,” he reveals, pausing momentarily to let the significance of his words sink in.
“I didn’t know that,” I admit, pressing a hand against my heart, which feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. Randy, with his usual confident posture and imposing presence, suddenly appears in a different light. To me, he’s always seemed larger than life—almost as if he existed on a different plane from the rest of us. But now, even though he’s still so otherworldly, I feel as if I can reach out and touch him.
“Hardly anybody does,” he says quietly. “And now you do.”
I mirror his half-smile, an attempt to lighten the gravity of the confession.
The atmosphere feels heavier, laden with significance, as he gently runs his finger over his tattoo. “I was a raging drunk,” he confesses, “until I lost every last bit of dignity I had.”
As Randy’s finger lingers on his tattoo, it’s clear he’s navigating through a sea of memories. “The thing is,” he continues, a distant look clouding his eyes, “that wasn’t my first attempt to tackle my addiction. When you’re famous, even if you find yourself waking up in the gutter, there’s a part of you that still believes you’ve made it. You think you’re at the pinnacle of happiness and health. And I was on top of the world, Gina. I was a two-time James Beard award winner and a Michelin-starred chef.”
A heavy silence falls between us, during which I find a lump forming in my throat. The urge to kiss him, to pull him back from the precipice of his past sorrows, is overwhelming.
His voice barely above a whisper now. “Sometimes it felt surreal, like an out-of-body experience, when a room full of my peers would applaud me for a meal that inspired them. But their praise… it never healed me the way I hoped it would.”
Leaning forward, a pressing question forms on my lips, driven by a mix of curiosity and concern. “What led you down that path? Do you know?” The depths of his experience feel so foreign to me.
Randy meets my question with a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I finally understand.”
My silent attentiveness seems to open the door for him to delve deeper, which he gratefully does.
He shares a pivotal moment from his childhood. At the tender age of ten, he endured the unimaginable loss of his parents in a head-on collision on the interstate. They were returning home from a rare date night in Boston. Subsequently, at eleven, Randy found a new home with Steve’s family. His life took a turn as he adjusted to a parenting style vastly different from what he had known with his own parents.
“My uncle’s philosophy was that toughness equated to strength, that being hard was what made you a man. My dad couldn’t have been more different.”
This revelation sheds light on Steve’s own struggles, hinting at why he often seems so hard on himself. I remember something happened one day—though the details are fuzzy now—I think he forgot to place an order. He berated himself, saying, “I’m such a bonafide idiot.” I was taken aback by that. Instinctively, I responded, “You’re not an idiot, Steve. You just forgot.” But he looked at me as if my words couldn’t penetrate the negative narrative he had about himself. I want to share this memory with Randy, but I hesitate, not wanting to interrupt him.
Randy’s gaze shifts away, a shadow of pain crossing his features. “I was just a kid, suddenly without the world I knew. It was as if my uncle and aunt couldn’t recognize that. Who demands an eleven-year-old to ‘suck it up and be a man’? But that was my uncle’s way: you bear it all, silently, ‘like a man.’”
Noticing his use of past tense, I probe gently, “You keep saying ‘was’?” It’s a subtle question, but I know Randy will grasp the depth of what I’m asking.
“He passed away three years ago, esophagus cancer.”
I find myself softly responding, “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. Todd was a tough guy—that was his name, Todd. But I loved him, even if it was hard to live under the same roof. That’s why, at fifteen, I packed my bags, hopped on a train to New York City, and vowed never to come back. The problem was, I didn’t realize that running away doesn’t leave your demons behind.”
I’m suddenly unable to continue eating my salad. An overwhelming sense of anxiety and sorrow washes over me as if I’m feeling Randy’s emotions at eleven and again at fifteen. This wave of empathy brings tears to my eyes and to the edge of spilling over.
Frozen in place, I listen as Randy describes his initial days in New York City, scrambling for a way to survive. He managed to secure a spot in a hostel with the little money he had but knew he needed to find work quickly. His days were filled with visits to various restaurants, offering his services as a dishwasher. The stumbling block, however, was the need for identification.
“I couldn’t just show them my school ID—or at least, I thought I couldn’t at first. After a month or two, I realized my uncle wasn’t going to take any steps to bring me back home. To him, if I was man enough to run away, then I was man enough to fend for myself.”
Randy’s voice carries a hint of resilience as he continues. “I won’t sugarcoat it—things were tough. But Todd did give me access to some money from my parents’ trust. That helped, but I still needed to work.”
He shares with me that it was Chef Roy Leland who finally offered him a job in his kitchen.
“You mean the Chef Roy Leland, renowned for his elevated American cuisine?” I ask.
His expression lights up with pride as he confirms, “The one and only.”
