The only remaining photo on the interwebs of the Five Spice Cafe, or “Five Spice”, as we all called it, is this crummy one you see above, snapped on a rainy winter morning. The restaurant was located at the ass end of Burlington, Vermont’s semi famous Church Street Marketplace. If you’ve never visited, Burlington is located right on Lake Champlain and on a clear day, if you stand in the right place you’re treated with a sweeping view of the water and New York’s White Mountains right behind it. A gorgeous place to live in the summer. Miserable in the winter.

Burlington’s Marketplace is a three (or is it four?) block stretch starting from, guess what, an old Church at the top of the street. It’s blocked off from traffic, brick lined, and along the sides are lots of restaurants and retail stores. It’s unique in that it features large boulders where people can sit and smoke. In the summer there’s street performers to entertain the tourists.

Five Spice was located at the bottom of all this, in the section past Main Street where the homeless shelter and courthouse were located and this section of Church Street was not manicured like the busier, more industrious part with the expensive rent. Less foot traffic. No trees. It shared the same side of the street as Big Daddy’s Pizzeria and the “club” Rasputin’s, both areas where late night drunken rabble loitered and the police were less apt to frequent.

A sign jutting over the sidewalk promised “Great Asian Feasts” and a purple awning featured a faded illustration of a green dragon wearing white sneakers and sunglasses while playing a saxophone. Another sign in the window said “Dim Sum.” I had no idea what the hell that was. The bulk of my time in kitchens had been spent spinning pies and cooking pasta.

But, I had given up kitchens altogether and had been landscaping all summer, procuring a job through my old buddy, Kevin “Zipper” Zaetz. I rode my bike in every morning at sunrise. Lots of sun, weed smoking, and dirt, but I enjoyed the smell of fresh cut grass and listened to Howard Stern on the radio while weed whacking. There were lunch breaks too, something I had never encountered after spending my entie life thus far in kitchens. In August, a drought hit. Just like that, no lawns to mow. Everything turned yellow.

The landscaping company was owned by this guy, Mel, a mortician, who I called Uncle Fester behind his back due to his chosen profession, lack of hair, alabaster pallor, and general creepiness (he owned a house with a crematorium on site). All the mowing equipment was stored in a large white barn behind Ready’s Funeral Service on Shelburne Ave. Our boss was Brad (who I called Brad Ass). This short, jacked dude I went to high school with. Mel called him “The Lawn Guru” in a strange whispered tone like a fantasy narrator would speak of a legend or mythical deity.

At the time I lived with two girls, Luci and Jenn, in a three bedroom house on Crombie Street. A big place with a front porch and a backyard big enough to accommodate a horseshoe pit and a small vegetable garden. Luci and I had been back and forth for years ever since meeting at an Italian restaurant in town, Trattoria Delia where I cooked and she served. Living with one another was probably a bad idea but we made it work by making a deal with Jenn that while we lived together there would be no hanky panky. Yeah right. I had two cars sitting in the driveway, both unpredictable and unreliable. An old Jetta GLI (1986) and an Audi Quattro 4000 (1987) I kept an eye on for my friend, Clarkie Boy, who was currently in jail for assault.

Still no rain. The days off started stringing together and the money dried up too. I found an ad in the Burlington Free Press. Cook wanted. So I called, spoke to the chef, Mary Ellen, who told me to come down that afternoon and speak with her. The girls worked during the day, so while the sun sizzled everyone’s lawns during the week, I had nothing but free time. I smoked a little weed and took my bike down to the bike path by the lake, around a bit, and then peddled up Main St. to my job interview.

I walked in and told the bartender why I was there. She said to take a seat and wait and asked if I wanted a water. “Sure,” I said. The place was cramped inside, five or six tables packed in against the wall on the right, and every square inch festooned with pictures of jazz greats, framed articles, old cartoons from the New Yorker, shelves full of glasses and knick knacks, little lights, porcelain dragons of all shapes and sizes, and more. There was something to see wherever your gaze leapt. The place smelled funky as hell. A mixture of sour vegetables, fish sauce, chili, and baked in soy.

At the far end of the bar was the kitchen window and a classic swinging door providing access to and fro. Over by the window, a set of steep stairs led to the larger main dining room. A few patrons here and there for lunch service. One cook back there in a ball hat doing his thing.

Mary Ellen pushed through the swinging doors, the bartender moving out of her way. A stout, older woman in a cotton chef’s coat and jeans. A regular style common white apron. Nothing fancy. Short hair. Direct and taciturn. She had a giant brown mole right smack dab in the middle of her forehead but off to one side a bit which was difficult to not hone in on while I tried to look into her eyes.

“You Justin?” She said.

“Yeah.”

“Sit.”

“Ok.” I handed her a folded copy of my resume I had kept in my back pocket. She took a moment and mulled it over.

“I need a cook,” she said. “Looks like you’ve got a decent amount of experience.”

“Yes.” My resume had been doctored up to fill holes.

“And you’re landscaping?”

“Yes, but it’s all dry now and to tell you the truth, I’ve missed kitchens.”

“Well, this place is going to be a little different than anywhere else you’ve worked.”

“Ok?”

“Everyone starts as a prep cook here. Mornings. You think you can handle it?”

“I’ve been up everyday at sunrise for my landscaping job.”

“Good. After a half or year or so we’ll discuss putting you on the line. Come in tomorrow at eight and we’ll get you started.”

“Ok.”

She shook my hand again and went back into the kitchen.