My life's an episode from The Bear now - and I absolutely love it!

Today is my day off from the van since it broke down, so grabbed a beer and chilling at the beach - wanted to share my story here :)

The first night I slept in my van, parked on a secluded Goan beach, I woke up in a cold sweat. The gentle lapping of waves felt like a ticking clock, counting down to my inevitable failure. What the hell was I thinking?

Three weeks earlier, I was sipping overpriced lattes in a corner office, my life neatly scheduled in 15-minute Outlook blocks. Now, I'm watching the sunrise, sand between my toes, wondering if the ancient generator I bought will start today.

It wasn't some profound moment that led me here. No dramatic speech or midlife crisis. Just a slow buildup of silent screams in meeting rooms, of staring at my reflection in the elevator and not recognizing the guy looking back.

So I quit. Cashed out my savings. Bought a beat-up van that had seen better days in the early 2000s. Drove it to Goa with a vague plan of selling fusion tacos - very random but I just knew I wanted to do this.

Reality hit hard that first week. The van broke down twice. I burned batch after batch of masala. Tourists walked by, noses wrinkling at my amateurish attempts at blending Goan flavors with street food.

I'd love to say I persevered with a smile, but most nights ended with me cursing at the stars, wondering if I could crawl back to my old job without too much embarrassment.

But then came that Tuesday.

I was about to call it quits when an old Goan lady stopped by, drawn by the smell of my latest experiment – a prawn balchão taco. She took one bite, closed her eyes, and suddenly started speaking rapidly in Konkani. I didn't understand a word, but her smile said it all.

She returned the next day with her grandson to translate. Turns out, my taco reminded her of meals her mother used to make. We spent the afternoon tweaking the recipe, her gnarled hands guiding mine, teaching me secrets passed down through generations.

Word spread. Slowly, my van became a spot where locals and tourists mingled. Fishermen started saving their best catch for me. I learned to haggle in broken Konkani, each transaction peppered with laughter and friendly jabs.

It's not all sunshine and perfect sunsets. The generator still acts up. I've had days where I've sold barely anything. The humidity wreaks havoc on my ingredients. And don't get me started on the paperwork – turns out bureaucracy exists even in paradise.

But I'm all in now. There are days I feel like I'm living an episode of "The Bear," you know, that show about the chef who leaves fine dining to run his family's sandwich shop? I'm not in Chicago, and there's no James Beard award in my past, but man, I get Carmen Berzatto on a spiritual level now. Running around like a madman, fixing the van's engine one minute and chopping onions the next. It's chaotic and exhausting, but there's no other choice. This has to work. I'm not just cooking food; I'm cooking up a whole new life for myself.

And then there are moments... Like when a homesick Indian kid teared up tasting my masala fries. Or the night an impromptu jam session broke out around the van, with my pots and pans drafted as percussion.

Yesterday, I catered my first beach wedding. As I watched the couple feed each other my fusion creations, their faces glowing with more than just the setting sun, I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the tandoor.

I don't know if this van will be my forever. Maybe it's a stepping stone to a restaurant, or maybe next year I'll be back in a corporate job with one hell of a story. But right now? As I write this, sand-covered and smelling of spices?

I'm exactly where I need to be.

P.S. To the GV community: if you're ever in Goa, send me a message. I'd love to treat you to some tacos and swap stories. There's always a place by the van for good company :)