Dolores, My Agent of Chaos
Or: How I Became the Michelin Star of Misery Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/0989.
Yachting Culture – Galley Chronicles
For over two decades, I’ve had the pleasure of being represented by a woman named Dolores—a crew agent who, if I’m being honest, has the placement instincts of a GPS with a vendetta.
Dolores and I have a special bond. I like to call it “employment trauma bonding.” While other chefs were being placed on dreamy 80-meter Feadships with walk-in coolers and a crew gym, Dolores had a gift—a supernatural ability to find me yachts where the galley was in the engine room, the freezer was in Croatia, and the owner believed “organic” meant not screaming at the staff before lunch.
And guess who she always sent to these culinary hellscapes?
Me.
Because apparently, I’m not just a chef—I’m a miracle worker with a spatula and rhinoceros skin.
Every time I got a call from Dolores, I’d brace myself. Her voice was always the same:
“Raffie, darling! I’ve got a fabulous opportunity for you. Lovely boat. Just needs a little structure, a tiny bit of love… oh and by the way, the last five chefs quit or dropped dead, one was medevaced, and the guests only eat meat but want vegan food. Can you start tomorrow?”
And off I went. Like the Saint of Sinking Programs. Fixer of Fridges and Broker of Broken Morale. I’d turn roach motels into five-star pop-ups, feeding 12 psychologically disturbed crew and 10 guests while the stewardess sobbed and the Captain mispronounced “ceviche.”
But somewhere along the foie gras and the fire alarms, I began to wonder:
Why me?
Why was Dolores always shipping me off to culinary rehab jobs while sending the young, Nordic, six-pack-sporting “chefs” with a Gordon Ramsay DVD collection and an Instagram filter to the plush gigs with decent salaries and crew who didn’t throw plates?
So one day I asked her. I said:
“Dolores, is it because I’m not 24, white, and built like a Swiss Army Knife?”
She laughed, took a sip of her triple-filtered premium vodka, and said:
“Oh Raffie, don’t be silly. It’s because you’re so good, they need you more.”
Translation:
“Yes, but I’m not going to admit it because I’m currently booking Sven on a yacht where the biggest crisis is too much caviar.”
Still, I have to hand it to Dolores.
She kept me working.
I was never unemployed.
Emotionally unstable, sure.
But never unemployed.
So here’s to Dolores—the queen of crew placement roulette, the woman who taught me that no matter how bad the job, I could survive it, elevate it, and still look fabulous doing it… with sweat, burns, and at least two unpaid invoices.
And Dolores, if you’re reading this:
Thank you.
But next time, maybe send me to a boat with a functioning oven and a crew who doesn’t worship keto like it’s a religion.
With love,
Chef Raffie
The Sultan of Salt and Survival
Veteran of Galley Warzones
Survivor of Dolores’ Job Safari
And Still Stirring with Style and Gusto!