by Scott Haas
People were having a great time, that was obvious, and no more so than at a four-top to my left where the two couples were polishing off two burgers, a chicken entrée, and the striped bass.
Two back waiters arrived with our first course: a long white rectangular ceramic tray with three recesses in it. The first recess held tiny cubes of Armenian cucumbers resting on a red beet purée. The second had a thin slice of house-cured salmon. The third was citrus-cured halibut with a dollop of trout roe.
We each took a bite. “Wow,” we both said at about the same time. I closed my eyes to try to make the sense of taste more pronounced. “Delicious.”
“Really delicious!” said Madeline.
“How was it?” asked Dan when he returned to clear the plates.
We told him. Earlier, I had mentioned to Dan that this, too, was a request made by waitstaff I did not understand. I could not imagine doctors asking patients after a cardiac catheterization: “How was it?”
At the four-top next to us, the two couples were laughing and talking loudly. The great time did not appear to be due to alcohol but instead seemed to come from the food. They were savoring each bite, eating so rapidly that the talk between them was diminished by their efforts to chew.
“Great textures on the first course,” said Madeline.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said.
“Just like sushi,” she said.
“Except for one thing,” I said. I lowered my voice.
“The fish was warm,” I said. “Raw fish shouldn’t be served warm.”
“Are you going to say anything?” Madeline asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
I did not want to criticize the cooks. Tony was not in the restaurant, and the cooks were feeling more vulnerable without him. Anyway, who was I to complain? I never complain in restaurants, honestly; it’s a night out, people are working hard while I’m enjoying myself, and what’s worse? My complaint or their feelings? It’s just not worth it.
Dan arrived with the next course and explained that it was hiramasa, which is a fancy-pants word for farm-raised amberjack or kingfish. It was served with pickled mango and yuzu. The dish was spectacular: subtle heat, sweet but bracing, and flavors so well woven together that the result on the plate tasted as if it were something to be found in nature rather than assembled in the kitchen.
Dorade with tiny garbanzo beans and a faint brush of curry followed. Then rye-flour rigatoni with boudin noir in a spoonful of sauce topped with a few pieces of arugula that wilted from the heat as we ate them.
“Unbelievably tasty,” I said. “Now we’re talking.”
Miles drifted in: “Blue in Green.”
As we ate, my daughter and I were forming new ties inspired by the food. A great restaurant can do this for people, of course: help them feel their love for one another intensify. I imagined that this was also happening at the table next to ours, where four very clean white plates had been removed from a laughing quartet.
Things took a turn for the worse, though, when the check was presented to them. One couple looked down the list of charges. Then the two couples leaned in, lowered their heads and voices, and had a big discussion. One man called over their server, who came over, listened, nodded her head, and walked away. Then Drew showed up.
Drew listened: shoulders bent in, eyes averted, practically bowing, nodding his head, pouting. He looked sad. Wait, that was not sadness! That was shame.
“Well, have a great weekend!” Drew said as they got up, scraped their chairs, and made their way out.
I caught his eye.
“Drew?” I asked. “Drew, can I talk to you for a second?”
He came over. Now he looked uncannily like Bert from Sesame Street! Drew has a long face and a doleful personality such that apologies come as readily to him as song to a bird.
“What was that about?” I asked.
He nodded his head. He looked as if he felt personally responsible for the problem. “They thought it was too much to pay,” he said.
“But the menus have prices, and they ate everything on their plates! I saw it! They enjoyed the food! I can understand if they sent the food back, but how can they complain about the costs when they knew in advance what they were and then ate everything?”
“I don’t get it either,” he said, “but it’s not my job to get it. I’m here to make people happy.” Drew had not charged them for one of the entrées in an effort to avoid having an argument. “It’s the business.” Drew shrugged and walked to the kitchen to see why several orders for the dining room were delayed.
Madeline and I were had two more courses to go. Two small plates of oxtail pastrami on heirloom carrots topped with what the kitchen had termed “a farm fresh egg” arrived at our table. This dish also proved to be delicious as well as visually appealing when the egg broke and the yolk flowed.
Then we had our final savory course: lamb’s-neck sausage, which looked nothing like one might expect and instead resembled short ribs. It had the firm but juicy texture of the lamb and was stellar because of the play of salt and pepper and the extremely deep flavors that resonated with each bite.
Sally, because of slow traffic at her end of the bar, came by to clear our plates. Her left arm exposed a tattoo from shoulder to wrist. Combined with her haircut, which was a buzz cut on one side and long tresses on the other side, she proclaimed a toughness to the world—a willingness to endure pain and the ability to turn suffering into art. Très cool.
“How was everything?” Sally asked.
“Great,” I said, more intent on satisfying her requirement to comment on the food than on any desire to do so. “Delicious.”
Four new guests or customers sat down at the table that had been left by the people who had complained. Menus were brought over to them and their water glasses were filled. The two new couples looked unhappy, but I figured that in time the kitchen could win them over.
Moments before our desserts arrived—amaretto ice cream, pistachio crumble, apricot tart, buttermilk ice cream—the four new guests or customers called the server over. After hearing their complaints, she left and then Drew appeared again.
“Nothing appealed to us on the menu,” said one of the two men.
Drew bowed so low and so flexibly that he seemed to be made out of soft plastic.
“I’m so sorry,” Drew said. “I am so sorry.”
“Well, we’ll just have our drinks and leave then,” said the man.
His companions nodded in agreement.
“I am so sorry,” said Drew again.
“Yeah, well,” said the man.
Drew smiled hopefully.
“Well, I do hope you enjoy Boston,” Drew said. “It’s supposed to be a terrific weekend weatherwise!”
The man grunted.
“Table fifty-six,” Drew said after I’d asked him to come over and tell me about what happened.
“What do you think was the problem?”
“Hard to say,” he said.
“Sticker shock?”
“Maybe,” said Drew. “It happens sometimes. We have a reputation for being a great restaurant, and people might come in not knowing what we do or about our food or what things cost. So these people tonight? They’ll have drinks and then they’ll eat someplace else and be angry at us for who knows what.”
Not many people could do Drew’s job, which requires a great deal of humility and self-control. When I praised him for this, he offered that he does the best he can, as he was trained by one of the best in the business: a huge Italian guy in South Beach who knew how to handle difficult guests.
KNOWING THAT PEOPLE EXPECTED THE FOOD NOT JUST TO TASTE GOOD but to make them happy is added stress for a chef. But a chef is attracted to the challenge. Nailing it means a room full of satisfied people looking to the chef as the power who is responsible for giving physical and emotional pleasure.
No wonder Tony had such a complex relationship with his restaurant and food. He was dra
wn to the intensity but made anxious by it, too. When friends who cook well at home talk about food the way people used to talk about their favorite family members, and say they think of one day opening their own restaurant, I think of Tony and others of his caliber: You want to be a chef? You think you have what it takes? The stamina, focus, creativity, and ability to lead? You wouldn’t get beyond the first night.
SIX
The Chef Returns Home
WHAT DID IT MEAN FOR YOU TO WIN A BEARD?” I ASKED TONY WHEN he returned home from New York, and then San Francisco.
“It means I don’t have to go down to New York,” he said, “like I did twice before this happened, as a nominee, hoping to win only to come back home empty-handed. It means that we get calls and e-mails asking for reservations from people who follow this sort of stuff. It means that I get invited to PR events at restaurants owned by other chefs who won the Beard.”
The recognition felt great, but it was not why he did the work, nor did it alter lives in positive ways only. Ironically, it had the potential to make things worse. Tony would have to face guests or customers who followed a trend without knowing his food.
He was wearing the same de rigueur University of Michigan T-shirt, a relic from his student days twenty years ago; knee-length drawstring shorts; and sandals, checking e-mail and messages on his cell phone. With him he had a copy of a book called The Forager, as well as a book about molecular cooking titled The Modernist. He would spend the rest of the morning calling suppliers, reviewing the guest list for the night, and looking at pictures of food while studying new cooking techniques.
“Fucking unbelievable,” said Tony, when he learned that while he had been away one of his hostesses had told Chef Daniel Boulud’s assistant that the restaurant was fully booked the night he had wanted to come in with his daughter Alix, who was graduating from Tufts.
“Can’t happen again. I would have loved to cook for Daniel!”
Tony had contacted Daniel’s office, but it was too late.
“We tried everything,” Tony said in a raised voice. He glared at his computer screen. He sent a text message to his wife. He deleted a voice message. Whatever it took to distract him from what he saw as a missed opportunity to have shown one of the world’s greatest chefs what he could do. And with Alix having finished Tufts, it was unlikely that Daniel would be in Boston ever again. “Fucked up! The front of the house fucked up. I need people at the phones to know who they’re talking to. Fucked up! Totally fucked up!”
Tony had a right to be angry, but the way he expressed outrage was inappropriate outside a restaurant kitchen, military barracks, or locker room.
“My mother is fed up with my anger at this point,” he admitted. “She doesn’t like hearing me say fuck all the time.”
THE ISSUE WAS THAT TONY WAS LOCKED INTO RUNNING CRAIGIE WITH anger, unmotivated to try new and more effective strategies, and unencumbered by negative consequences for his behavior. He could be angry in public, at his staff, without anyone challenging him, which was utterly luxurious.
“Lots went wrong while I was away,” Tony said.
“I guess you heard about table fifty-six,” I said.
He looked up from the list of names.
“No,” he said, “I did not hear about table fifty-six.”
He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and gestured with open palms.
“Oh, Drew was ace,” I said, before going into the aggravated couples who did not want to pay for the dinners they had enjoyed and eaten. “First rate! He handled the situation beautifully. Didn’t take any of it personally. Calmed them down, comped them a dinner. He’s great. Really. That’s not an easy job. A lot of people would have lost their cool.”
Tony tapped a pen onto a pad of paper.
“Drew comped them a dinner?” he asked. “I didn’t hear about that.” Had Tony been in the restaurant that night, he would have gone to the table and smoothed things over. It was not the comp that bothered him. He had left Danny in charge, but handling customers or guests on the floor was not in his sous chef’s repertoire of skills.
“He comped them one dinner or two?”
“One,” I said.
“He comped them a dinner,” he said.
“So, Tony, anyway, what do you think of the situation between Meredith and Ted?”
“That’s been brewing for a while,” he said. “It’s the number one rule, and she’s breaking it. My GM is breaking the rule. Look, things happen, but she should have known better than to sleep with someone she’s supervising. She’s his boss, for fuck’s sakes!”
“It’s better than if he was her boss,” I said, trying to be helpful.
“That’s for sure,” Tony said, “but it’s still not okay.”
Since I had started coming into the restaurant and established a presence as a decent listener to the restaurant family, staff had confided in me. I did not tell Tony everything they said, but when asked, I acted as a go-between.
Tony lowered his voice. “Listen,” he said, “I’m happy to talk to you about how totally and utterly fucked up it is for my general manager to be in a relationship with the bartender, but that’s a conversation we should have outside the restaurant. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Tony closed his laptop.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said, “I want to show you something. Get my mind off how fucked up my life is.”
We went down the narrow flight of steps. Then we turned left, where we saw sous vide equipment, a small oven, a large walk-in, a cooking station for making ice creams and pastry, and two long slabs that served as slaughterhouse surfaces used to break down the carcasses of mammals, birds, fish, and seafood. We walked past Jess, who was working on a dessert of dark chocolate, pistachios, and preserved cherries, and met up with Santos.
“Santos, you ready?” asked Tony.
“Ready, boss,” said Santos. “Hey, boss?”
Santos wore his usual wry smile.
“Yes, Santos?” said Tony.
“It’s my anniversary today,” said Santos.
“Happy anniversary, Santos,” said Tony.
They laughed.
It was one of Santos’s running jokes. Every day was either his birthday or anniversary, or his girlfriend just had a baby, or he needed a medical leave of absence. It was how he related to Tony, especially, and the rest of the staff.
Santos was often the first one at the restaurant each morning: signing for deliveries, then making stock and butchering; working with fellow Salvadorans Gabby, Jose, Juan Francisco, and Alex, on their cleanup chores, which included all the pots, pans, utensils, plates, bowls, cups, saucers, and flatware plus every inch of cooking surface, the floors, the windows, and the bathrooms. He had a great work ethic, but he still loved to joke about a different Santos, the one who had something to celebrate every day, needed time off, or was due for a raise.
“How about it, Santos?” said Tony.
“On it, boss,” he said.
Santos headed to the walk-in at the end of the prep area and returned with a very large, dead animal. He carried it with both arms, crooking the stiffened legs above his elbows, and placed the skinned and bloody carcass onto a white slab.
Thud!
“Goat,” said Tony.
It looked like a dog. It was enough to make me want to stop eating meat.
“How do your vegetarian cooks, like Mary, deal with this?” I asked.
“They deal,” Tony said. “You get used to it.”
“It’s just a goat,” said Santos, but I could see from his expression, growing a little bit sadder, that he was beginning to see it as the living creature it had been.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” said Tony. “I’m going to do half of this, Santos. Please watch because I want you to do the rest.”
“Got it,” said Santos.
Tony reached for a long, steel Japanese blade, as sharp as a razor. He cut the goat open from its neck down to below the belly. He put his hands int
o the cavity and pulled out the lungs, heart, liver, and kidneys. I heard snapping and tearing. He cut around the shoulders and over the back and through the butt.
“We’ll make sausages,” said Tony. “We’ll make a ragu for the pasta, we’ll use the ribs, we’ll use the organs, we’ll cut the rump into little pieces and figure out what to do with them in a tasting menu.”
This was why Tony had become a chef: to think creatively about ways to make delicious food. Conflicts on the floor, food sent back, cooks who didn’t understand him? All that was secondary to the thrill of creating.
“Got it, Santos?” he said.
“Got it!” said Santos.
“Thanks, brother!” said Tony.
No anger, no questions, no problems. Whatever insurmountable difficulties had brought Santos to this kitchen from El Salvador gave him the strength to handle a boss like Tony. He had seen much worse.
“I love butchering,” said Tony. “I honestly love everything about my job.”
“Even the cooks?” I asked.
“Dude,” Tony said, and laughed, “I love the cooks most of all!”
But unlike the best teachers, Tony could not focus on the potential and uniqueness of his cooks, who were essentially his students. He saw their flaws and what got in the way of their success. Identifying closely with them made it even worse. His anger was directed as much toward himself as toward them.
He told me, “I wouldn’t make their mistakes! Why can’t they do things the way I do them?”
Tony did not understand adequately that not one of his cooks was like him, that they had varied skills and weaknesses, and that it was his job to differentiate between them.
“You good, Santos?” he asked.
“Good,” said Santos as he made his first cut.
“C’mon,” Tony said to me.