JUST DON’T CALL IT ARTISANAL
WHEN I WAS A COLLEGE KID, I worked as an apprentice in my school’s Buildings and Grounds garage. There, two mechanics named Robin and Spike maintained a decrepit fleet of Econolines and Chevy work vans just enough to ferry the plumbers, electricians, and carpenters around to class-room buildings and dorms. Robin and Spike rightfully had little trust in my ability to fix anything. I was limited to changing out alternators, flushing fluids, and greasing tractor chassis. It was a pleasant place to work. I loved cars and garages, and we could smoke inside. Spike was a wild young upstate New York shit-kicker who groomed a perfect mullet, drank cans of beer by the case, and had a cool side project that brought out the artisan in him. He was crew chief…