Dinner with Kevin

So I met a man last night.  A really smart and sophisticated man.  We met because I was invited to an exclusive charity dinner on Landsdowne, and he greated me at the door.  He was tall with gray hair and he had very light blue eyes.  His name was Kevin. 

Kevin and I chatted throughout the evening.  We had lots to talk about and he was one of the more interesting men I had met that evening.  A true gentleman, I guessed he was from the posh side of town.  The event revolved around cooking a gourmet dinner with celebrity chef Donna Dooher of the Mildred’s Temple Kitchen.  Together, with our kids, we worked on a scrumptious Moroccan chicken tagine.  To accompany this dish, we prepare couscous and a lovely kale salad.  Gigantic chocolate chip cookies were slated in as dessert.

Kevin worked in the background prepping items in the kitchen.  He worked with the speed and focus of a true professional.  When we were through with a pot or pan, he would scrub it like a master.  No complaints.  Just smiles.  It was a pleasure.

When we had finished preparing the dinner, our children began to strategize how to serve their 66 guests.  Who would serve the salad, who would scoop the couscous.  This under 10 set came together, and in their aprons and white hair nets, lined up to dole out their fresh feast.

Kevin stayed in the far end of the kitchen, working to clean the space back to its original state.  After all, dinner for 66 plus had just been cooked.  As he worked, we chatted and the conversation was easy.

5:30pm grew closer and the kids were anxious to start serving.  The garage door like wall went up and there stood a line of 66 men waiting for their supper.  These men were all ages.  Some as young as 24 and the oldest at 82.  They were white.  And black.  Hispanic and asian.  They were hungry and they were grateful. 

As the children filled their white ceramic plates, these men said thank you. Riley was handing out the couscous and it brought me to tears.  She was 8 years old and she weighed about 42 pounds.  But that night she was proud.  She was like a mini adult.  She knew there was work to do, and she stood on her empty black milk crate and did it!

I wondered if the men would recognize this foreign dish.  Roasted chicken, chickpeas, squash and tomatoes.  The dinner was so fragrant, that my mouth wouldn't stop watering.  Only one gentleman looked at his plate with displeasure.  But then he learned what it was and he said “thank you”.  I’m not sure why I was so emotional?  Dare I blame it on PMS?

Their dining room was lovely, full of manly chatter.  Plates and forks were clanking.  Everyone seemed happy.  The cookies were a big hit and they quickly were washed down with the hot coffee we had set out for them.  Jug up?  Do you know that term?  I didn’t.

Maybe it’s because I was never a brownie or a girl scout.  Jewish girls in NJ/NYC didn’t do that sort of thing.    Or maybe it’s because I was never homeless??

Yeah, that’s probably it.  Last night, my girl and I cooked a lavish dinner to serve to 66 local homeless gents in our city.  It was an experience that I can’t stop thinking about.  I don’t think I’ll be able to forget the memory.  Ever. 

As I watched the group eat, I felt a sense of pride.  My little girl had used her two hands to help people in need.  We were fortunate to raise her in a privileged home and I felt glad she had a chance to see how others lived.

A highlight of the night happened because our chef had been stuck in traffic earlier in the evening.  We had the fortunate chance to tour how the unfortunate live.  Riley and I inspected their bedrooms with our mouths open.  66 men in a room.  The spaces were remarkably clean given the masses of humanity living there. Bunk beds and a simple blanket.  They each had a small locker and not much else.  But these guys were appreciative.  They had an indoor bathroom and three meals a day.  These 66 were off the city streets.

But I want to get back to that man I met.  Kevin remained quite as all the others ate.  He pushed carts of coffee into place.  He gathered extra cutlery for the children.  When the kids were finally seated for their dinner, I asked Kevin how long he’d been working at the shelter.  His responses gutted me.  He said, “I don’t work here, I live here.  And I don’t believe in a free lunch”.  Kevin was responsible for getting all three of the group’s meals together each day.  Kevin was fully employed by the shelter.  He also was the in house landscaper.  Their space was beautiful and in tiptop shape.  For that Kevin was proud.

At the end of the evening as Riley and I waited for our UBER car service to bring us back to our warm and privileged, highly designed home, we chatted with Kevin.

I learned that he and Fernando, another gentleman from the shelter, had started a landscape business.  They use hand tools to keep other peoples yards lovely.  So far they have a dozen clients.  I asked for his card and promised that we’d become #13.