Pecado was one of those restaurants with exposed brick, mosaics, hanging plants, blond wood, brass railings, etched glass and ristras of red chiles like hanging firecracker strings. Their best dish was veal with plantains, mango sauce and cayenne pepper, but their most popular was the cocaine they didn't list on the menu. I worked for them, but not as a buss boy. I bought my own car with my own money, which pissed my dad off. I bought my own clothes and food when he gave me this lecture about his role as a parent, and after he realized I didn't need him anymore, he just bided his time. My eighteenth birthday cake read "Get Lost."