“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I can’t taste anything. My sense of smell is completely gone.”

“I do understand that, Mr. Colivington. What I’m telling you is that there is nothing I can see in either your symptoms or in any of the tests that we’ve run that explains it. You haven’t had an illness in the last six months, you haven’t traveled outside of the country, CBC and platelet count look good, no recent vaccines or changes to your meds rules out interactions with stabilizing agents or contraindications. You report no injuries, no head trauma, no loss of conciseness. Your allergy panel showed a mild reaction to cat dander, which you say you’ve had since childhood. I’m at a loss as to what this might be, provided that you’ve been truthful—“

“I have been one-hundred percent truthful.”

“Okay. Then all I can advise is that we wait, see what happens, what changes. Without something more to go on, I’m stumped. You don’t appear to be in any danger—“

“I’m a chef!”

“I mean immediate physical danger, Mr. Colivington—“

“I’m in danger of not being able to pay my rent, which puts me in danger of being homeless.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that. I wish I could, but I can only treat what presents itself. Why don’t you go home, get a notebook, track your daily routine, what you eat, chemicals you use, changes in your symptoms, or anything, even if you think it’s not related. Give me as many data as you can and I’ll run it by some specialists I know at Stanton General that owe me a couple favors.”

Gardner did what he was told for three weeks straight, but nothing in his life could help the now team of doctors figure out what was wrong with him. He was out of vacation time, and had to make a choice. It wasn’t a difficult decision, even if it was a tough one: He quit.

“Come back as soon as you’re feeling better, G,” the restaurant owner assured him, “You always have a spot here.”

She was being nice. As soon as she found someone new it would be over for him. Not her fault, just the nature of the business: as competitive as a major league sport; as ruthless as war; as lucrative as managing a gas station.

Maybe this was a sign, a direction from God or The Universe or Oprah that he needed to do something else with his life. He suddenly felt open, new, ready for a challenge. What else could he do…? What did he want to do…? He liked riding his bike, playing Call of Duty with his friends, D&D, and going to small-venue punk concerts.

…nope. Nothing there screamed “new career!”

He’d thought about being a teacher for the semester-and-a-half he spent at community college before switching to Culinary Arts. Couldn’t be that bad, right? Teaching booger-eaters how to paint or count or sing memory songs. But he’d also have to do the lame crap that came along with it: Get up early, shave, stop cursing, wearing Dockers, tucking in his shirt, wearing shirts with buttons. And, worst of all, talking to parents!

Nah… I’m good, he thought.

It was his buddy Tater that finally brought him out of his depression-rut.

“Why don’t you just open your own restaurant, bro?”

“Dude? Have you not been paying attention? I completely lost my ability to smell or taste anything! How am I going to open a restaurant when I can’t taste the food, when I don’t know if something is off because I can’t smell it?”

Tater, without losing a beat, looked at his friend and said, “I dunno, Colivington, just make food for people who don’t care how it smells or tastes. Just give them lots of it. And make sure there’s bread. Like, tons of bread. I love bread at restaurants, when it’s all soft and warm ‘n stuff. Love that, man. Do that.”

Gardner’s first reaction was to smack his dumbass friend on the back of the head and tell him to hand him the “Help Wanted” section. Then it hit him: Why not…? What if I did make a restaurant for people who have no concern over the quality of the food? Who care neither for how it tastes nor how it smells, as long as it looks nice on the plate and they can have as much of it as they want for a low cost?

It took 18 months for him to get the funding, hire and prepare, decide on a them—Italian being the obvious choice, since “lots of bread” was apparently vital to his potential Tater-esq clientele—before finally opening.

He had Tater to thank for the inspiration, but like every stoner friend, Tater also came up short… a lot.

“I told you to get stencils for the sign! All I needed were the letters in my first and last name, Tater. How hard is that?”

“Dude, I got most of them.”

“Most of them! What am I going to do now?”

“I’ll figure something out. Gimme the letters you have.”

Gardner called up his friends and family and told them to bring their friends and family to join him for the opening of his own place. His own restaurant. He’d defied the odds and turned a disability into a life-changing opportunity. No longer would he report to anyone else, he’d be his own boss, play by his own rules. He gave Tater a check for a thousand dollars, a thank you for helping him realize that worrying about taste and smell was overrated, that the real magic was to be flounder in quantity and affordability.

“Well, if you’re here,” he said to the crowd, “you’re probably family.” The crowd laughed. “So, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out to our grand opening.”

Gardner took an oversized pair of scissors from Tater and, to smattering of claps and cheers, cut a large red ribbon as Tater pulled a drape off the newly-stenciled sign.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to: Olive Garden!”