Softies is for no one
Diana’s boyfriend brings over burn gel to the bar at Be Bright Coffee, where we just finished another pop up. Her forearm had touched the bun griddle. I look at my chicken pox right arm, littered with oil scars, and think, why didn’t I put burn gel on any of these?
Sam and I are exhausted, but we still have to unload our equipment in his Buena Park garage - a 1.5 hour drive. My windshield is covered in grease-fog from parking right next to our canopy. If this much is on the car, how much more is on my face?
Six hours and a shower later, I inhale an 11pm burrito at Avenue 26, crouched next to the lamppost closest to the al pastor spit. I tip $5 because I feel 정 with the employee getting blasted with meat smoke, before realizing that he neither knows nor cares that I too am a griddle boy.
Back home, I let myself lose a staring contest with the bags of dishes I brought back. They can wait until tomorrow. Finally in bed, I rub my feet together (weird habit) while gunshots and/or fireworks go off in Arts District, where you find very little art. I chuckle thinking about how I wound up here: on a vibey Floyd mattress frame with an Aesop oil diffuser humming along, all next to a commercial storage rack stacked with hotel pans, Diamond Crystal salt, and gallons of mayonnaise.
It’s a common theme in my life - things make sense and no sense at the same time.
I’m confused as to what Sam and I are trying to do. It’s a barely-relevant burger pop up, yet Softies is taking over every corner of my room and mind. There’s no money in it. Our follower count is unimpressive. I’m so tired. I’ve noticed that tired is more tired when you don’t know what you’re tired from.
I feel unmoored, as my best friend used to say. A boat, she’d write, with no anchor.
All this? For what, and for whom?
I started going back to church after five years of stubborn pride, insisting that I don’t need God anymore. It’s too cheap of an answer to be told that His love is free, and that I don’t need to work or produce or be something to earn it. This, in my calloused mind, breeds complacency and monotony. Why should anyone just be loved for no reason? But I’m growing tired of my Sisyphean bullshit, so a 9:30am Sunday service with Stephen and David sounds pleasant.
The pastor says that until you know you are loved, nothing will satisfy the hole in your heart - why don’t you come rest in His presence?
I feel a familiar tug in my body. The emotion seems complex but it’s just feeling understood for a brief moment; a short respite on the long journey of rotting.
I want to think God is speaking to me but I know better than to be so self-absorbed now. I’m willing to go along with the premise though: rest sounds nice, albeit a bit unfamiliar.
It makes sense why people ask about Softies after church - no one knows me or the bags of trash I hide, and it’s a polite conversation starter. My answers are always the same - ah, thanks! No, we’re not thinking about a brick and mortar yet. Come anytime! No pressure though. You’re not missing out on much *awkward smile*.
Their intent is harmless and they don’t actually care, but these strangers reinforce my belief that I need to be somebody in order to be worth noticing.
All this? For what, and for whom?
Zach’s email sits in our inbox - he asked us to be a permanent vendor at Smorgasburg starting January 2024. It’s a big deal, at least in our world, but we can barely handle one event per month, let alone every Sunday.
Sam asks, can you politely decline? This is the sane, logical answer, but I ignore his text. Pop-ups don’t just get asked to do Smorg. They apply, interview, and earn a spot. I’m a bit scared to say this though. It wasn’t in our plan.
What was our plan? …Right, it was to have no plan - to scratch our itch to cook, while making some side cash. Diaper money, Sam called it.
My brain starts doing the toxic thing it does - calculating the opportunity cost of manipulating a person/scenario to feel important and lovable (that sounds harsh, but it’s honest, and worrisomely subconscious). I think this would be a good thing for Softies… but really, I think this could be a good thing for me. An opportunity to be somebody, and a ‘fuck you’ to anyone who ever made me feel worthless.
My meeting with Sam is three hours long. In my usual long-winded way, I sell him on saying yes to Zach:
I know it makes no sense. But wouldn’t we rather know if this business is something, sooner than later? I can take lead. I want to work hard for something now…
Sam is a good friend and brother in this way. He accepts my monologues with grace.
Okay Josh, I trust you. You drive.
Did you know narcissism is a shame-based personality disorder? For too long, I’ve tried to appear confident and different, not because I love myself, but to fend off the pain of rejection and abandonment.
All this? For what, and for whom?
My answer has always been for me, and my shame, and my pride.
I fucked away my dream life using this mantra, and have desperately wanted a reset. But attempting to clean myself up has only made me messier. I wince thinking about all the people I’ve hurt because of my selfishness, because I know how it feels to be on the other side. How do you un-fuck yourself for the sake of those around you?
The pastor at church is right - nothing will ever fill this hole except God’s love, which is actually your own self-love, which is actually not being so hard on yourself. You can’t expect this love to come from others. I know because I’ve tried, and those people and things have left - and rightfully so.
Softies is dangerous for me, because I want to use it in this way. I want it to fill the hole. I want the Eater and Infatuation write-ups, and for chefs to know us. I want to get sent free Le Creusets. I want so badly to be somebody because I’m tired of feeling disposable.
But whenever that impulse kicks in, Softies asserts itself, saying that it won’t let me use it like that… it reminds me that true work is all done behind the scenes, to no fanfare, at 6am in my onion-scented apartment. In these moments I am an absolute nobody. It has saved my life in this way, by making me so undeniably small.
This would have made me sad even a few months ago, but I understand now: being a nobody is liberating, because in nothingness I don’t have anything preventing me from finally giving everything a try.
It took me a while to learn:
All this? For nothing, and for no one.
This industry is a paradox because it is an act of service, yet it so easily becomes self-indulgent. It’s kind until it becomes kindling for arrogant fire. I have no authority on this matter, but I think hospitality can only remain pure if you make the work the subject, not the people. It’s counterintuitive, but removing the people removes any possibility of using service for validation.
Can I care about Softies, even if it does nothing for my fears and insecurities?
I think I can. My life can’t be about ego-injections anymore; they are too addictive, and lose their potency too quickly.
Of course I don’t like having chicken pox arms, or a storage unit as a bedroom. Of course I’d like to try being in love again someday. I’m acutely aware that there are easier ways to make money and more convenient ways to live. I could complain and feel sorry for myself, that my grand search for meaning has led me into a greasy 10x10’ canopy.
I don’t care anymore. All I want to do right now is make the best burgers Smorgasburg has ever seen, for no one but the burger itself. Softies is not “hype” or “dope” - it is gritty and gross (Exhibit A - my skin; Exhibit B - the smell). It’s the furthest thing from cool, but being uncool is quite attractive to me now, because it shows that we care more about the work than its potential fruits.
Softies is for no one, because I think this is the only way that it can really be for everyone. We’ll try really hard to stay true to this, so that you can enjoy what Softies is supposed to be - a burger.
…I think burgers, of all fucking things, are becoming my anchor. As usual, life makes sense and no sense at the same time.