Fall always reminds me of Minneapolis. It’s where I bonded with so many of my best friends, running amok all over town doing fun, spooky, chilly things. It’s where I got my first cooking job. And it’s where I worked as a bike messenger. I was one of the Jimmy John’s sandwich delivery boys, red jersey and everything.

I say Jimmy John’s boys on purpose. There were women on the crew. And we were all adults, chronologically speaking (I was twenty-six). But we were very much boys. No other demographic group exhibits such consistent nonchalance toward their own mortality.

On one wall of the shop there was a phone bank, each with its own touch screen, so drivers, as we were known, could take orders easily. If a customer had ordered before, the screen displayed their address and payment preference. Drivers had screens, too, but ours were populated with dubious descriptions. Eventually, I saw mine: “Sten. His middle name is Odin for Christ’s sake. And he’s still a huge Nordic rookie.”

I had two interviews. The first was a regular interview with the store manager. The second was a bike interview with Altan, the lead driver, to assess my cycling ability and ensure I possessed the appropriate gear. I didn’t fully understand this until later, but the delivery boys were serious. They talked about cycling the way cowboys in movies talk about ranching and horsemanship - as a way of life.

After he was satisfied with my answers, he started telling me about the job. “When you crash,” he started to say, but I cut him off. “I’m not going to crash,” I said. He stared at me for a brief moment, expressionless. “When you crash,” he began again. “It’s important to get back on your bike as soon as possible.”

I loved that job. I loved that it was a race, a series of sprints that was also a puzzle. The shop was on the U of M campus, a place where bikes are faster than cars. Lunch was busy. With only a few of us working, if 20 deliveries came in, we had to know how to group them intuitively. We had a big screen that tracked our delivery times like a scoreboard. In terms of cycling ability, I really was a rookie, but I was athletic and fast, so I did pretty well against the serious cyclists.

I crashed at least several times. So did everyone. Only one of mine was bad enough to warrant an ambulance ride. Luckily it happened in the middle of the day. One of the other guys got hit by a car at two o’clock in the morning, and they just left him. Another driver found him unconscious, bleeding in a ditch. At least it wasn’t January. He was in the hospital for a few days, but miraculously he was not permanently injured. The insurance premiums for that franchise must have been truly astronomical.

I rode for a year and a half. The experience catapulted me out of a dangerous period of lethargy and depression. I was grateful for it. I was also glad when I left. During my tenure I learned that there was a second, unspoken half to Altan’s advice: “When you crash, it’s important to get back on your bike as soon as possible, if you intend to keep doing this job.”

Shortly after I quit, I moved to Seattle. I never considered another courier job. I let the door close and lock behind me, with no regret. But there are many things I intend to keep doing and many things that frighten me.

We’re glad you’re cooking with us.

Cheers,

Sten and Mac

COLLABORATION SPOTLIGHT

Drifters Fish. Speaking of tough jobs, stay tuned this Friday for the second plate of our black cod collaboration with our favorite fishermen from Cordova, Alaska. We’re serving blackened black cod with cilantro pesto rice, radishes, and pomegranate.

PURVEYOR SPOTLIGHT

Trash Bags. Handmade in Minneapolis by retired courier Andy Larson. You will not find a more durable, well-constructed backpack or messenger bag in the world. The target demographic is professional couriers, but don’t let that stop you. He has plenty of options for commuters, daytrippers, and other kinds of travel.