And now for something completely different.

Gary Kasparov, Sting and some well placed parcels in the middle of Times Square.

It was the year 2000. I was a waitress in a very cool little boutique restaurant in SoHo called The Cub Room. It was a wonderful place, with amazing food and an incredible staff of people, until that is… they hired the manager from hell.

A Frenchman by the name of François. (Cue menacing music).

At first, he seemed ever so charming. Making jokes, hanging out with the staff as we enjoyed our shift drinks. He was playful and flirtatious and generally a joy to be around.

It’s worth noting that I was very good at my job, and I took great pride in what I did and in particular in what I knew about our food and our extensive wine list, but I was by no means, arrogant about any of it. I’ve always struggled too much with confidence to ever manage arrogance, but I digress. My point being that I tried very hard during each and every shift to do a good job. But, I’m also a bit of a goofball, so it was also equally important to me to try to have fun whenever possible. The Chef at that time, a man whose name escapes me, was just like me. So, when in the middle of a shift he asked me to taste a sample of one of the evening’a specials, and then made a joke about lord knows what while I was taking a bite, it made me laugh. He made me laugh all the time. This was nothing unusual. But it was at that precise moment that François walked in.