There was a kid from my hometown who had it all figured out at twenty-one. Charm, dreams, a family who loved him. He was also speeding down 4th Street at 90 miles per hour with his headlights off and three police cars in pursuit.
That was May 25, 1983.
I know this kid well. Knew him, anyway. He thought he was invincible. He thought he was smarter than everyone in the room. He thought the rules were suggestions written for others. In short, he was a twenty-one-year-old male, which is to say he had the wisdom of a golden retriever and the confidence of a dictator.
The blue lights caught up. Don’t they always?
He spent that night on the cold concrete floor of the Forrest County jail. Scared. Alone. The fluorescent lights buzzed all night. No pillow. No blanket. Just a twenty-one-year-old kid who had finally run out of road.
That kid was me.
I woke up to a life in pieces, and the next day found myself in a rehab facility in Jackson. Then a halfway house in Omaha. Two thousand miles from everything I knew, surrounded by strangers who understood me better than anyone back home ever had.
One of those strangers was a halfway house counselor with a sixth-grade education. On paper, he had no business telling anyone how to live. In reality, he turned out to be one of the wisest men I’ve ever known. He didn’t lecture. He didn’t preach. He just sat down across from me one afternoon—I was three months sober, still scared, still certain I could figure out how to drink like a normal person—looked me in the eye, and said eight words: “You never have to live that way again.”
I didn’t believe him. But I heard him.
That man literally saved my life.
I don’t share this story to impress anyone. There’s nothing impressive about a DUI, a wrecked life, homelessness, and a family left wondering what went wrong.
My father died when I was six years old. My mother raised my brother and me on a public school art teacher’s salary. I was no cakewalk. Looking back, I don’t know how she did it. And I spent those years before the DUI making her life harder in ways that still sting when I think about them. Her face when she visited me in rehab is something I carry with me still. The fear. The grief. The love she couldn’t turn off no matter how hard I’d made it.
I share this story because that night—that mess, that bottom—turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Forty-three years ago, this May.
In the early days of sobriety, I just tried not to drink. That was the whole job. Wake up, don’t drink, go to meetings, go to bed, repeat. Before I got clean, I was resigned to the fact that I likely wasn’t going to live to see 30. But the truth is, the way I was living, I likely wouldn’t have seen 25. I didn’t have grand visions of restaurants or books or newspaper columns. I didn’t dream of traveling the world or raising a family or starting a nonprofit. I was just trying to survive until the next day.
I learned to tell the truth—first to myself, then to others. I learned that ego had been running the show for years, and ego makes a lousy driver. I learned that life is problems, and a successful life is problems well handled. Not avoided. Not outsmarted. Handled. Most importantly, I learned to let God run my life. He does a far better job than I ever did. His will, not mine.
After I got sober, I did my best to make amends for the harm I’d caused in those early years. I’m still doing it. I’m committed to my family above all else—except the recovery that makes me capable of being there for them in the first place. Without that, I’m no good to anyone.
Over the years, I’ve hired hundreds of people in recovery. Dishwashers, line cooks, servers, managers. One was a doctor—a surgeon, actually—who had lost everything and needed a place to start over. He washed dishes in one of my restaurants while he rebuilt his life. Watching him find his footing reminded me why any of this matters.
My children grew up with a father who was present, sober, imperfect, but there. That’s not nothing. For a kid who figured he’d be dead by 25, it’s everything.
I wish someone had told me back in 1983, “Robert, sit down and make a list of what you think your best life could be going forward. Dream big. Dream bigger than anything you could imagine. Relationships. Purpose. Peace. Write it all down—the wildest, most impossible things you can picture for yourself.”
If I had, I would have undershot it. Every single line.
And I’m not talking about material things and monetary things. I’m talking about the things that truly matter— the relational things and the spiritual things.
That’s not bragging. That’s gratitude.
I don’t take credit for any of it. The principles I followed weren’t my invention. The people who guided me showed up when I couldn’t find my own way. And there’s a power greater than me— God— who did the heavy lifting when I finally got out of the way.
I still make a mental gratitude list. Every morning. Some days the list is long. Some days it’s short—family, breath, sobriety, another chance. But the practice keeps me grounded. Keeps me from forgetting where I came from.
Because I remember that kid on 4th Street. Lights off. Ninety miles per hour. Running from himself.
He wasn’t free. He was trapped. Trapped by a bottle, by drugs, by his own ego, by the lie that pleasure was the same as happiness. It took a cold jail floor, a rehab bed, and a halfway house two thousand miles from home to show him another way.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling—with a bottle, with a pill, with whatever has its hooks in you—there’s help. The national helpline is 1-800-662-4357. They answer twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If you call them and don’t like what they have to say, call me. I’m serious. 601-270-7129. Fair warning—if it’s 2 a.m. and you’re three sheets to the wind, I’ll ask you to call back in the morning when your head is clear. But call back. I don’t mind talking to people who are struggling. I’ve spent over four decades doing it. People were there for me when I needed them. People are still there for me. That’s how it works. You keep what you have by giving it away.
And that kid who thought he’d never see 30? He’s 64 now. Married. Father. Grandfather to the best dog on the planet—a title I award with complete objectivity and zero bias. He’s written fifteen books and over 1,300 newspaper columns without missing a single week. Though to be fair, some of those columns were about bacon, so the bar for profundity was not always high. He’s watched his son become a chef and his daughter become a talented designer.
He’s grateful. Every single morning.
That’s the whole story. Not the success—the gratitude. Not the accomplishments—the people. Not what I gathered—what I gave away. I give credit where credit is due: To God, my friends in recovery, and the principles we follow.
Forty-three years ago, I was racing toward oblivion with my headlights off.
Today, I can see the road.
Onward.
Potato Gratin
Potatoes are the one vegetable I could never give up. Fried, roasted, mashed, or scalloped—doesn’t matter, they’re always on the table in one form or another. This gratin is my favorite way to make them feel a little more special. It’s rich, creamy, and just decadent enough to make it feel like you’re putting in some extra effort.
There’s a good bit of cheese in this recipe, but that’s exactly how it should be. The combination of sharp white Cheddar, gruyere, and Parmesan gives it the perfect balance of nuttiness, creaminess, and tang. And using Yukon gold potatoes instead of russets makes a big difference. They have just the right amount of starch to get creamy without getting mushy. This dish is a showstopper on the holiday table, but I’d eat it on a random Tuesday without hesitation.
Serves 8 to 10
Preheat oven to 375° F.
Ingredients
2 tablespoons unsalted butter plus a little to butter the baking dish and parchment paper
1 small yellow onion, halved and very thinly sliced, about 1 cup
2 teaspoons fresh garlic, minced
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 teaspoons vegetable seasoning (see recipe page ***)
2 cups Bechamel sauce (see recipe page ***)
1 cup heavy whipping cream
4 ounces sharp white Cheddar cheese, shredded, about 1 cup
4 ounces Gruyere cheese, shredded, about 1 cup
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, grated
3 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and patted dry
In a large skillet over medium heat, melt the butter. Stir in the sliced onion and sauté for four to five minutes, until the onions have wilted. Stir in the garlic, salt, and vegetable seasoning, and continue cooking for one minute.
Whisk in the Bechamel sauce and heavy cream and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat and stir in the white Cheddar, Gruyere, and half of the Parmesan. Hold the sauce warm while slicing the potatoes.
Lightly butter a 9×13 casserole dish. Using a mandolin or very sharp knife, slice the potatoes into 1/4-inch circles.
Spread a thin layer of the sauce on the base of the casserole dish. Shingle a layer of potatoes atop the sauce. Add another layer of sauce, spreading evenly to coat the potatoes. Continue this process, making sure to reserve enough sauce for the top layer.
Sprinkle the top with the remaining Parmesan cheese.
Cut a piece of parchment paper large enough to cover the surface of the casserole dish. Lightly butter the side to be placed on the potatoes. Secure the parchment by wrapping the dish in aluminum foil. Pierce the surface of the foil four to five times with a sharp knife.
Place the casserole on the center rack of the oven and bake for 35 minutes. Remove the foil and continue cooking for 15 to 20 minutes, until the potatoes are fork-tender.
Remove from the oven and let rest for 20 minutes before serving.
(Robert St. John is a chef, restauranteur and published cookbook author who lives in Hattiesburg, Miss.)
