The habit was as common as it was annoying. Every day someone would walk behind the counter of the neighborhood coffeeshop where I worked. Behind the counter and into the kitchen. I would look up, exasperated, with a serrated knife in my hand that I wanted to plunge into my trespasser’s gut.

But not this time. This time it was Mike, “Big Mike.” We’re talking about four years ago - he was in his late 30’s and still spent too much time fixing up motorcycles that never quite worked. He changed jobs just about as often as he smiled: all the time.

And he was smiling then, towering over me while I sliced cucumbers on a warm, windless afternoon. “What are you making for yourself?” he asked.
“How’d you know it was for me?”
“Because you’re taking your sweet time.” Another disarming, million dollar smile. “I used to work as a chef’s assistant at an expensive hotel in Del Mar. The head chef, he would always tell new employees that they could make themselves whatever they wanted on their lunch breaks. Man, that restaurant had everything: fresh organic produce, dozens of kinds of cheeses, caviar, all the gourmet stuff.”

He went on, shifting from conversation mode to storytelling mode. I peeked around the wall to make sure no one was waiting.

“But this head chef, Dmitri, he always kept his eye on you. And when you were finished making that perfect meal, he’d come by and ask for a bite and he’d say, ‘you kknow, that’s the best thing that you’ve ever cooked here. Why don’t you cook like that for our guests?’ And he was right. A real artist - whether it’s food or literature or music - always creates as if it were for himself.”

By the time Big Mike was done, I had finished making my sandwich: Milton’s multigrain bread toasted lightly, covered witha thick spread of homemade hummus, thinly sliced turkey, roasted red bell peppers, sharp white cheddar, and slivers of cucumber. I handed it to Big Mike, “here you go, on the house.” (I’m sure this was his entire plan from the beginning.)

From that day forward, whenever Mike ordered food, he always asked for the same thing: “whatever you made yourself last.” I was happy to, for he had given me a lesson I’ve taken with me wherever I go.

These days I spend the majority of my time editing what other people write on Global Voices rather than writing myself. The temptation of carelessness is always there - especially at 11 p.m. But then I think of Big Mike and I try to turn that carelessness into conscientious creativity.