Read the Opening Scene

Before IC Pasta, there was a sold-out comedy club, a fryer on the verge of mutiny, and a kitchen that taught me how to survive the pressure.

The kitchen is a realm of orchestrated chaos, a symphony where fire and steam dance with clanging pans and urgent shouts, each sound layering into an unrelenting rhythm. But during a sold-out show at my comedy club, that symphony became a battlefield. Less composed concerto, more war drums and bayonets.

Orders flooded in: four Philly cheesesteaks, two pizzas, three nachos, three potstickers, two burgers with fries. Scratch that. Make it one burger and two fries. Then add a double order of wings. Twenty wings plunged into a fryer already gasping for mercy.

Each plate came with its own caveats: no bun on the burger, extra cheese but no jalapeños on the nachos, pizza “well done,” whatever that means. And for whatever reason, this ticket included every drink order for the ten-top.

It was a proper novel.

The printer screamed. Paper curled onto the counter in a relentless assault, orders stacking up like bodies. The weight of the rush pressed against my chest, but there was no time to flinch.

Overwhelming? At first. Then the rhythm kicked in. Orders barked. Confirmations followed.

“Heard!”

Suddenly, we were moving.

The kitchen resembled the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. There was chaos. There were casualties. With one singular goal: feed two hundred drunk, hungry people before the headliner hit the stage.

The kitchen behaves like a military operation, every person a vital component to its success. Burns happened. So did fuck-ups. An obscenity or two got thrown like knives. But it was in that rhythm, raw and relentless, that I thrived.

The heat pressed against us. The air was thick with seared meat, bubbling sauce, and the sharp bite of freshly chopped herbs. Spatulas clanged against hot metal. Oil hissed. Knives struck cutting boards in an unbroken rhythm. It was a cacophony, sure, but also a kind of melody, beautiful in its violence.

Communication was everything. “Behind!” as someone passed with a scalding pan. “Corner!” to prevent a collision. Each call and response was part of the choreography. Part of the ritual. The way we stayed alive.

Tickets kept coming, a nonstop current of demands met with muscle memory and tunnel vision. Hours passed in what felt like minutes. Time in the kitchen didn’t flow. It folded.

Eventually, the adrenaline gave way to something deeper, the kind of flow state that comes only after you’ve surrendered to the heat. There was no room left to think about the size of the crowd or the stack of tickets. There was only the next order, the next call, the next thing that needed doing.

Then, slowly, the battle turned.

The printer paused between assaults. Orders tapered. The beast began to purr. Our movements became smoother and steadier. We had survived service again, bloodied but victorious.

The final ticket was fired. The last plate hit the pass. As we exhaled, silence filled the kitchen like cool water against a burn.

Cleanup began. Pans were scrubbed. Stainless steel gleamed. Order was restored to our theater of war. In that stillness, sweat-drenched and blistered, there was pride. The kind that didn’t need to be spoken. A nod. A wipe of the brow. The satisfaction that comes only from earning your scars.

That night is only one stop on the road into this book. A Spork in the Road follows the meals, mistakes, travel, experiments, and strange turns that eventually led to IC Pasta and the recipes that came out of all of it.