Bartlow, left, in Bartolo’s kitchen on opening night in July 2025.

I t is a given that, when you work in restaurants, you work when no one else does. That means missing birthdays, holidays, family functions, concerts, sports events, funerals. Attendance is an exception. Absence becomes routine. Early on in my career, I got accustomed to the unorthodox schedule. I learned to see the upside. I went to the gym around 10:00 or 11:00 a.m. after the early birds consumed every inch of the free weight area and the distracting spin classes finished, stretching out on empty public transit free of the nine-to-fivers, getting errands done without the crowds.

I’d get to work and push through a typical anxiety-ridden restaurant day and look forward to the after hours, usually spent at a bar. The wind-down became crucial. Some nights I drank plenty. Other evenings not at all. There were many nights I was alone and many others where friends and I washed tequila sodas down until that dreaded 4:00 a.m. last call. In the last 20 years of living in New York City, some sort of routine emerged to maintain my mental and physical health. As a former fat kid, my interest in food has always been coupled with a defensive justification of my appearance with my passion. Never trust a skinny chef, they say.

I started noticing some restaurant people who were looking dramatically thinner, although I never knew them to be gym-goers, runners, or anything of the sort. I put two and two together.
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