The morning after my last night there, I made a brief appearance from my bed to get some blueberry pancakes at Breakfast in America and then quickly returned back to it where I stayed all day.
Then just last night I received my final (measly) check from the chef and a certificate stating that I accomplished my goal of making it in a French restaurant for three months. After downing a glass of champagne, I promptly did the following:
Yep, those are my safety shoes and that's a trash bag.
Can you blame me? Not to mention the fashion eyesore that these are already but with nine months of kitchen wear, tear, and gunk added, they are downright awful. No need to mourn for them. They are now without a doubt where they belong and my feet couldn't be happier.
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