BY JEREMY BIALKER
“It starts with one.”
ON SUPER BOWL SUNDAY, I arrived at the event at 10am, said hello to the hosts, and set up at my designated, cramped table for a day of sampling this year’s chili creation. Across the room, I spied a chef friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and joined him out back, where participants were smoking and discussing the day ahead. He tapped my arm and offered me his vape pen. I happily accepted, took two big puffs, coughed, and got back inside and grabbed an IPA before the crowd arrived. I’d already had a pint before I left the restaurant, so I was ready to party, as I always did at this event; this was my 10th year participating. The line of attendees stretched around the block; they, too, had been pre-gaming in the February cold. We were all prepared to commune over chili and booze.
The doors opened, and I began my five-hour shift of greeting over 500 beer-slugging chili enthusiasts. I repeatedly described the chili that would eventually win the first-place Judges’ Choice Award. By the time the queue of attendees had dwindled to zero and the awards were presented, I had consumed six to eight pints (two of which were dosed with a THC tincture by the chef standing next to me), plus two shots of whiskey. I was on top of the world: drunk, stoned, and a first-place winner. But my day wasn’t over.
I packed up and returned to the restaurant, visibly a mess. As the executive chef and the GM, I was a walking embarrassment. Someone shuffled me to the bar, where the bartender ordered me food, coffee, and water. I could feel the stares from the other guests as I sat there intoxicated, eating my dinner, metabolizing the alcohol and “Devil’s lettuce” (aka weed), willing myself to sober up. I searched for an excuse to give to my family, who were eagerly waiting for me to join them to watch the Super Bowl, as to why I would be hours late getting home from an event that ended at 5pm.
However, I really didn’t care, because I WAS A WINNER. I had earned my right to be smashed… just as I had earned that right every Friday, Saturday, holiday, food festival, good day, bad day, snow day, and any other day ending in “A-Y” for the past 20 years. I had thought it was normal, simply a part of chef life, grinding away on holidays and weekends while the rest of the nine-to-fivers enjoyed their lives. It was my right to “enjoy a cocktail.”
It was also my right to sleep on the couch. Again.
“The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.”
DURING MY LATE TEENS AND EARLY 20S, I loved a good party, but I didn’t think I had a problem. All my peers partied. We were young and enjoying life! I experimented with drugs, but never developed any habits—aside from smoking a good joint. (But I went to art school; smoking pot felt like a prerequisite.)
I worked in restaurants during college, and after graduation, found myself cooking at a local bar and grill in Glenside, PA. At the age of 22, I was working with well-seasoned 30- and 40-year-old drinkers. Sundays were busy with live bands, peanut shells everywhere, a fire-breathing bar owner, and women dancing on the bar. It was wildly entertaining. Here, I learned to drink. On any given Sunday, the staff did between six and 10 double shots of Jack Daniel’s. Yes, the whole staff, even the cooks. We were a tight-knit family that worked hard and partied harder. I felt like I was a part of something extraordinary. We even spent our days off together, hanging out at some other watering hole. Drinking is embedded in the culture, and I was caught in its intoxicating rapture.
I continued to grow as a cook and soon realized that my artistic talent didn’t end with the visual arts. The restaurant felt like home, and I felt alive behind the line, where I could let my creative juices flourish. I never loathed going to work. So, I decided to pursue a career as a professional chef.
I moved home to Easton to join the restaurant renaissance and met my soon-to-be wife, Sarah, one month later at the Starfish Brasserie in Bethlehem. I met her eyes on my first shift. Yeah, I knew she was “the one.” She became another reason why the restaurant industry was so captivating. Now I could do what I loved and be WITH the one I love. Eventually, we married and together lived the restaurant life, working and going out until last call, until we started a family.
That’s when our life changed, but I didn’t. I worked 60- to 70-hour weeks. And the lifestyle was progressing into a bad habit. Sarah and my young boys were home asleep, as I drank with the staff. Why go home if everyone was sleeping? Our relationship started to suffer.
“One is too many and 1,000 is not enough.”
AS MY CAREER PROGRESSED AND MY PAY AND RESPONSIBILITIES INCREASED, so did my alcohol consumption. My drinks of choice had evolved to strong craft beers and bourbon—or any liquor, for that matter. (FYI: Drinking craft beer and small-batch liquor is a hobby that requires immeasurable hours of commitment.) There were countless excuses to drink throughout the workday: samplings from wine, liquor, or beer sales reps; trying the new beer on tap or new liquors; trying new cocktails; “creating” new cocktails; or simply being “thirsty.”
My undiagnosed alcoholism continued, and I started to question my talent and my leadership. I developed imposter syndrome and felt like a fake. The days began to run together, and my memory started to slip. I was either constantly repeating myself or, conversely, thinking that I had communicated pertinent information to staff or ownership when I hadn’t. I began to hate myself and pledged not to drink every morning, as I woke up with my daily hangover after falling into blackout drunkenness the night before.
Anything or anyone that crossed me, I would drink not OVER, but AT them. You tick me off? I’ll show you—I’m getting soused. I no longer possessed the ability to feel my emotions because I drowned them with booze. All the while, I never missed a day of work, except for a legitimate illness, and continued to fulfill my work requirements at a satisfactory level, even going above and beyond on innumerable occasions. I had created a façade of welcoming positivity, but inside I was hurting, living in a pit of paranoid loneliness that was getting deeper with every drink.
What began as social drinking had evolved into solitary or secretive consumption. Once I started drinking, I could not stop. I saw the damage it caused, and the people it pushed away, but I kept going. It was easier than facing the unrelenting and miserable thoughts in my head.
“First, the man takes the drink, then the drink takes the man.”
I ALWAYS SAID THAT I WASN’T AN ALCOHOLIC because I didn’t drink in the morning, but then I did. It all started with the “hair of the dog” one morning. Pathetically, it became a habit. I then had to maintain that level throughout the day, grabbing small beers or shots of liquor when no one was looking. Caught in a cycle of alcoholic depravity, I was nearing the bottom. I thought an employment change would provide a resolution, and it did—but only for a couple of weeks.
Before I knew it, my old habits returned. I didn’t want to drink, but I couldn’t not drink. The pain ate at my very core. It wasn’t just physical, it was the ache of regret, of memories I couldn’t forget, of choices I couldn’t undo. I started having night terrors and sweating through my sheets. I was haunted by my decisions, the unknown actions of blackouts, and the pain I was inflicting on those I loved. My home life was beyond disconcerting, and I was a shell of the husband and father I once was. Sarah and the boys had had enough. I started attending meetings in a 12-step program. Sobriety would appear for a couple of weeks or a month, but then slip and end up back at day one. I was written up at work for being visibly intoxicated.
You would think that was my bottom. It wasn’t.
One night, I arrived home in a police car after I was found passed out in my car. Nope, not my bottom. My son calling the cops on me after I came home drunk and argued with Sarah? Still not deep enough. Moving out and living with my parents? Unfortunately, that wasn’t my bottom, either, although they did help keep me sober for a good while, and I will forever be grateful for their support.
Who would have thought that getting terminated for drinking on the job (a second time) would be the best thing to ever happen to me? A blessing, actually. Thinking back, it was a cry for help. I needed to remove myself from any job where alcohol was present, and I had done just that. My summer in hell had to end somehow. I had surrendered.
The guilt, bewilderment, disgust, embarrassment, and anxiety I felt the next morning were debilitating. I don’t ever want to feel those feelings again, nor would I wish them on my worst enemy. I keep them close in my memory. That was October 7, 2023, and I’ve been sober since.
“Sometimes when in a dark place you think you’ve been buried, when actually you’ve been planted.”
I ENROLLED IN AN INTENSIVE OUTPATIENT THERAPY rehab program and went to other daily group meetings. I was able to go to therapy in the morning and be with my family the rest of the day, if I wasn’t attending an evening meeting. My anxiety started to fade, the cravings gradually disappeared, and the night terrors subsided. I slowly started to reconnect with my family and was working on myself.
I learned that alcohol wasn’t the problem. The problem was me, and it was me that I needed to work on. I took two months off from work, replacing work and drink with therapy, meditation, reading, and family. Eventually, I took jobs as a substitute teacher, teaching 6th, 7th, and 8th graders, and landscaping with a good friend who has since passed. Sweating and working the land with my hands grounded me, and complemented the therapy I was already doing.
For the first time in many years, I felt a feeling of self that wasn’t shrouded in gloom and paranoia. I was full of hope, and I was seeing results from the hard work I was putting towards my sobriety. Alcohol no longer defined me. My actions did. I was satisfied to simply be alive, healthy, and sober. Everything else would come in time.
I found myself returning home from an eight-hour shift and jumping right into working in my own yard. The work was hard, but stress-free. No baggage. I was trying to lighten my load, not add to it. Drop the rock, they say. Rid yourself of all unnecessary baggage. Remember how I used to be, but don’t dwell on it. Slow… down. Live with integrity, honesty, and purpose.
In June 2024, I received a job offer from a food distribution company. I now work in sales, helping restaurants drive profits and improve efficiency. I’m still surrounded by food, chefs, cooks, and business owners, but not alcohol. It’s a challenging job, especially after working in restaurants for 25 years, but my knowledge of food products and the industry enables me to connect with my customers.
It is a career path I had thought about in the past, but never had the guts to make the jump. Would I enjoy it? Would I be good at it? Could we afford a career change after working so hard to make the salary I had earned? I knew, without a doubt, that I would never succeed in sales as an alcoholic. I’m grateful to have begun my new career with a clear mind, void of outside temptation.
Sarah and I will be celebrating our 19th wedding anniversary on October 14. She says she loves the man I am now more than the one she met in 2003. I can honestly say that her faith in me, even after the pain I put her through, is what drives me to stay sober every minute of every day. She knew my genuine self, deep down.
My boys are relieved they will never see Daddy “acting funny” again. My family provides the greatest support of my sobriety. We talk openly about alcoholism, addiction, and my drinking days. My boys understand why it’s necessary for me to leave to go to a meeting or help another alcoholic. They know I’ll return and I’ll be sober. And they know about the dangers of addiction, and they know that addiction does not discriminate. I’m grateful that they have learned that drinking isn’t always a party and have experienced its dark side firsthand.
I don’t blame the restaurant industry for turning me into an alcoholic. My addictive personality fed from the chaos, revelry, and late nights that the business often entails. At times, I do miss the thrill of working the line on a busy night and the high fives that follow, but as a sober chef, I’m now able to prepare dinner for my family and enjoy their company sober. I remember every moment. I continue to work on my sobriety daily. If it’s not the primary objective in my life, I lose all that I hold dear, and I’m not willing to take that risk.
“I chose sober because I wanted a better life. I stay sober because I got one.”
RESOURCES FOR RECOVERY
Local rehabilitation facilities that have some great success include Brookdale Recovery in Monroe County and Caron in Berks County. brookdalerecovery.com; caron.org
Armchair Expert Podcast. I enjoy this podcast. Actor Dax Shepard is a 20-year+ AA member and is very open about his recovery. He includes mental health topics in his episodes and has always been a fan of therapy for everyone. We all have our issues and it’s best practice to discuss them with others instead of keeping them inside. armchairexpertpod.com
Another podcast I catch once in a while is The Way Out | A Sobriety and Recovery Podcast with Jason and Charlie. It features guests who tell how they approach recovery and stories of how they used to be, how they are now, and how they got sober. It’s pretty similar to an AA speaker. wayoutcast.com
The Burnt Chef Project offers support, information, and education to help hospitality workers “burn the stigma of mental health in hospitality.” Their resources are available worldwide and many of them are free. theburntchefproject.org
It’s also been proven that spiritual connection aids with recovery, whether that’s through religion, yoga and meditation, or your own connection with nature, the universe, music, etc. Moments of reprieve throughout the day are important for reset, grounding, and spiritual connection.
Read more stories from In the Weeds
- Breaking Free from Hustle Culture, One Pastry at a Time: Melanie Lino, From Lino
- The Path to Citizenship is Paved with Food: Cristian Gonzalez, the Shelby
