by Scott Haas
He led us back upstairs and into the bar area where the daily meeting for front-of-the-house staff was under way. Servers and bartenders occupied the corner seats and benches, folding napkins and taking notes. Two GMs ran the meeting. The hostesses attended. Marjorie was there, too; she often was.
The meeting had many purposes: a review of culinary terms on the menu, discussions about problems from the night before, quizzes, tidbits about where staff had eaten, the listing of the VIPs expected in that night.
“Nicholas Gibson has a five-top on fifty-eight,” said Meredith. “He becomes a regular tonight with his third visit, so we’ll send out sorbets. Very serious reservation at twenty-seven. Four-top on the turn at twenty-one or twenty-two.”
Stacks of napkins grew in height on the black wooden tables as the waitstaff listened in silence and folded. Shutters in the room let in a little bit of light. The meeting typically belonged to Drew and Meredith, but Tony would interject periodically and, before they broke up, go over the menu painstakingly with everyone.
Most meetings at Craigie had a frisson to them, but today’s, which was among the first following Tony’s return with a Beard, was surprisingly somber. In response to the mood, or perhaps having helped create it, Tony started talking.
“Things happened here last week when I was away,” Tony said slowly. His voice was low and scary. “Things I find completely embarrassing.” Pause. “I don’t need to go over what I’m talking about. Do I?” Silence. “Okay?” Silence. “Okay. So let’s go over tonight’s menu. Bluefin sashimi, plum for watermelon. Six Duxbury oysters, not winter point. Tails, octo, terrines. Farro rigatoni with goat, not boudin. Squash and lettuce. It’s sword for striper with the guanciale. Steak, bass, pork three ways—tonight it’s confit, rib, belly—chicken, and veg. Pig’s head, whole chicken. I’ve got four orders of beef at sixty dollars, prize to who sells the most. Tastings: hiramasa, cukes, scallops, squid noodles, Spanish eel, halibut, veal. Eights you can add in oxtail pastrami and then we’ll see. Cheeses: Époisses, Due Latte, and Chèvre Mont.” Pause. “Questions?”
“Tony?” Jess stood at his side. Throughout these meetings, the cooks came to Tony with tiny spoonfuls of food to taste. “Celery-apple sorbet with a little bit of Burrata and mascarpone as a bed,” she said.
Tony tasted.
“Wow,” he said. His mood brightened. He wasn’t happy, but Jess’s achievement for the moment contrasted with what he saw as broad failures in his staff from when he had been away. “This is great. Can you bring out a bowl and some spoons so that everyone can have a taste?”
“Sure,” Jess said.
She spun on her heels, took strides to her prep area downstairs, and returned with a bowl of the dessert. As it was passed around, Chuck asked, “How do you want this scripted?”
“Celery-apple sorbet, burrata, mascarpone,” said Tony.
“Tony?” Now Danny was at his side with a spoonful of almond butter. He moved from side to side and scratched the right side of his neck.
“Needs salt,” said Tony, after a nibble.
“On it,” said Danny, and returned to his station to work on the butter.
It was time for the daily quiz.
Each quiz was printed out and every staff member received a copy. Today’s quiz had seven questions and one for extra credit. The quizzes were meant to inspire discussion, raise awareness of the menu, anticipate questions asked by guests or customers, and provide ways for staff to sell the food and wine.
Today’s questions included the following:
Why are we serving bluefin tuna if it is on the “watch list”?
No one knew, so Tony told them that the bluefin had been line-caught in the Gulf of Mexico by small fishermen’s collectives.
Describe two Italian reds at $90 or higher and how you would sell them.
In a smooth, deep voice, as if he were pitching a fully loaded Beamer to a customer in a showroom, Chuck said, “It tastes of wild cherries…it’s kept ten years in the bottle…and it has never been sold until now.”
The waitstaff cheered.
“Excellent!” said Tony.
“Nice,” said Meredith.
Extra credit: List a recent service experience outside work that blew you away and how we can adapt it to Craigie on Main.
A lively discussion about tacos in East Boston and Somerville followed and then, just as the meeting was about to break up, the question of how to get the guest or customer to spend more came up again.
“We want to find the customer’s inner wallet,” Marjorie said.
“How can we figure out how much a customer is willing to spend on wine?” asked Dave.
Dave was new.
“I look at their shoes and watches,” said Michael.
“Doesn’t always work,” said Tony. He gestured to himself. “Look at me: T-shirt, shorts, sandals, but I was out last week and bought a ninety-dollar bottle of wine.”
“So what works?” asked Chuck.
“Cars,” said Tony. “If they drive up, try to check out the car.”
“Good point,” said Chuck, noting it down. All the waitstaff had notepads.
“We don’t want to undersell,” said Marjorie. “We don’t want to leave money on the table.”
A few minutes later, when the meeting ended, Tony went into the kitchen to gather the cooks for their daily meeting.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he said. “Now! Stop what you’re doing!”
Outside, the cooks took up places around Tony. I sat off to the right, next to Timmy, whose tattoo-covered arms included a big scaled fish.
“We have a bit of a situation,” said Nate.
Nate had just shaved his head. He shaved his head every couple of months. No one knew why. He looked grave, pensive, and frightened.
“What kind of situation?” asked Tony.
“The sour cream,” said Nate.
“What about the sour cream?” asked Tony.
“It went bad. I saw it. Just now I saw it,” said Nate. He spoke like a man in a crisis. Short breaths, gulps of air, eyes cast down at his hands restlessly turning a pocket notebook in circles. “What are we gonna do?”
“Nate, are you asking me that in all seriousness?” said Tony.
Nate nervously pushed back his eyeglasses with his right index finger and then looked at his feet.
“Okay, Nate,” said Tony. The other cooks began to giggle. “You see that alley across the street…So you get to go through that alley and go to Star Market and get sour cream.”
“Now?” asked Nate.
“No, not now,” said Tony. He laughed angrily. “When we’re done. Fuck!”
“He could go to the food co-op down the street,” said Dakota.
“Where’s that?” asked Nate.
“Dude, down the street!” said Dakota. He slapped his knees twice. “Dude! Dude! Dude! Do you know anything?”
“I don’t hang out in this neighborhood, okay?” said Nate.
Dakota, who enjoyed being the kitchen clown, was laughing hard now. “Dude, it’s a right turn, keep walking, and about half a block down, there it is. Big sign. FOOD COOPERATIVE.”
“I don’t know if I’d find it,” said Nate. “I have a terrible sense of direction. Tony? Is Star Market closer?”
Timmy volunteered to get the sour cream.
“Thanks, man,” Nate whispered to Timmy.
I had expected Tony to follow his usual routine next, but instead he said, “I understand that Scott dined with us last week.”
All the cooks looked at me very attentively.
“Let’s have your full report,” Tony said with a big grin.
“My full report?” I asked.
“Full report,” said Tony. “C’mon, everyone’s waiting!”
“First of all, I enjoyed everything,” I said. “Everything was delicious.”
“Details!” said Tony. “Details!”
“Okay,” I said, flipping through my black notebook. “Ah, he
re we are! Great textures on the cukes, subtle and smoky salmon, curry went well with the dorade, thought the rye-flour noodles were spectacular and wish you had more pasta on the menu.”
“No more pasta,” said Tony. “Fuck you. We’re not an Italian restaurant.”
“Just a thought,” I said.
“Not a good one,” said Tony. “Go on.”
“You heard Chef,” said Danny. “Go on!”
“Fine,” I said, laughing, “sorry I said anything.”
“You bet you’re sorry,” said Tony.
“Loved the egg and pastrami,” I continued. “Lamb’s-neck sausage: Great! Beautiful desserts, and I don’t even care about sweets.”
“So,” he said, “a perfect dinner? No mistakes?”
“Well…”
“Yes?” said Tony.
“You asked, right?”
The cooks leaned in, their expressions unvarying, curious and respectful, not angry.
“The raw fish was warm,” I said as fast as I could. It sounded as if I had said, “Theraw fishwararm.”
Tony had a grateful look on his face that it took me several moments to understand. Yes, it was an error, a significant one, but it took place when he had not been there, which proved that had he been there it would not have happened! It fit his theory: Without him, no Craigie!
“Say more,” Tony said.
“Raw fish should be served cold. At least that’s how we think of raw fish like sashimi. You associate warm sashimi with fish that’s been left out on a counter or isn’t fresh and might have an increased risk of bacteria. I’m not saying it’s true, but it’s a perception.”
“Valid,” said Tony, nodding his head.
“Ever see a female sushi chef? You won’t in Japan. This isn’t what I believe, and I think it’s a typically sexist move in male-dominated Japan. I mean, is there a more sexist country on earth? One cabinet position goes to a woman and that’s the Family and Child Ministry or something like that.”
“Sushi, Scott, sushi,” said Tony. “Focus!”
But I was nervous; it didn’t seem fair to the cooks who had made so much effort.
“Dude, get to the point,” said Dakota. “Dude!”
“Well, in Japan,” I continued, “the men in charge are convinced that women’s body temperatures are higher than men’s and if they handle the raw fish, it will get warm and be ruined. I don’t think it’s true, but I do think that they’re right about raw fish: Don’t serve it warm.”
Whew, I thought.
“That’s such a good point,” said Tony. “That’s exactly the kind of criticism we need to hear. Specific and something we can change.”
I smiled shyly, turned red, and went back to the page in my notebook where I had been writing the day’s observations. I knew that what I had said was correct, but I was embarrassed by having said it. I hoped that the cooks would not be upset by my comments or mad at me.
Instead I saw a different reaction on their faces: I had told Tony, their boss, that his food was not perfect, and I had lived to tell the tale.
“Let’s hear what people have left to do,” said Tony.
“Dress the bluefish, slice the sockeye,” said James.
“I slice the fish,” said Tony.
James didn’t say anything. He had his usual blank look, as if he’d heard the words but was not sure what they meant.
“How many times are you gonna make the same mistake?” asked Tony.
Silence.
“You need to start doing things my way,” Tony said in a raised voice. “How long have you been with us?” He shook his head. “Don’t touch the fucking fish!”
Tony continued down the line.
“Jill?”
“Capers, dried watermelon, toasted hazelnuts.”
“Super prepared,” said Tony. “Nice job.”
“Thanks!” said Jill.
“And I love the jacket,” he added. Her jacket was covered with big red blotches.
“Yeah,” Jill laughed, “it’s me against ketchup!”
“Nate?”
“As soon as I get the sour cream…”
Tony laughed and cut him off. “Bobby?”
“Olives, lemons, peppers,” Bobby said.
“Dakota?”
Dakota always carried with him a notepad that fit in his back pocket. He took it out, flipped through its pages, and read, “Cut whelks.”
“That’s it?” asked Tony.
“Yeah,” said Dakota. His grin made it difficult for people to be angry at him. “Why? Is there something else you want me to do?”
“No, you’re good, D,” said Danny. He laughed and then whacked him on the right shoulder. “You’re good, you’re good, you’re good.”
“Cool,” said Dakota.
“Matt?” said Tony.
“Well,” said Matt, leaning forward on his elbows, which he had planted on his knees, and then sitting back and spreading out his arms and hands. He had the posture of someone telling a campfire story. “We’ve got this really gorgeous fish that just came in. Wait till you see it. It’s fucking beautiful. Big, fat piece of the most beautiful tuna I’ve ever fucking seen. You think you have time before service to show me how you’re gonna cut it up?”
Tony looked up. “For sure,” said Tony. “Won’t take long. Okay.” He made as if to stand up, but Danny put up his right hand.
“Hey, Chef,” he said, “just want to keep you up to date: I’m cutting up bones for the marrow and brining a baby pig.”
“Awesome,” said Tony.
As usual, the meeting ended with the cooks getting up slowly but then running across the street and into the kitchen as Tony or Danny exhorted them. This afternoon it was Tony:
“Are you jacked? Are you stoked? Are you pumped?”
Before he took off, Matt came over to me and said, with his wonderful grin that explained it all, “I like the hours here. I love what I do. And you know why? Because I don’t have to deal with the normal shit like everybody else. I don’t like the normal shit.”
SEVEN
Some Words About the Food
AFTER NINE MONTHS AT CRAIGIE, I HAD earned Tony’s trust. I had also learned a great deal about how he made decisions. Tony knew that his guests or customers not only could afford to pay top dollar for the luxury of eating out, but they wanted to. He was different from most chefs in that way, having been a member of the upper middle class from childhood: Feeding the very well off was the same for him as cooking for family and friends. He was a member of the club. His affiliation added to his confidence and gave him a psychological advantage.
This emboldened him. The risks Tony took in his cooking were nowhere near as great had he been working class and alienated from his customer base. Having grown up in the same circles as his guests or customers, he was better equipped psychologically to anticipate their reactions to his food. He could take more “risks” knowing that what appeared to be risks to critics and outsiders were safe bets with people whose psychologies he knew intimately.
He was not afraid of reactions to his restaurant. If guests did not like his food and service, they needed to open their minds. This approach may sound arrogant, but it wasn’t. It was a natural extension of Tony’s choice upbringing, which provided him with the social information and self-respect needed to execute his highly personal cuisine, establish pricing, and provide fine dining that was informal. When he opened at his first location in West Cambridge, Tony had gone door to door in the Brattle Street neighborhood asking people what they wanted.
“ ‘What kind of restaurant do you want here? What are you looking for in dining?’ They wanted the food they’d had in Paris or Marseilles,” Tony said. “The food they’d enjoyed in Provence: Bistro food! Gutsy food! Not just a good roast chicken, but chicken stuffed with sausages! Pork belly! Offal! Bones!”
“You knew before you opened your doors that you’d have people waiting,” I said.
“People in West Cambridge have more sophistica
ted palates than in Boston. They travel,” he said. “Three nights a week we still have the principal of a certain private school there who comes in to eat six- or eight-course tasting menus with his wife!”
“He must love your food.”
No wonder the cost of private education kept rising; at $900 a week for three dinners out, and about thirty-six academic weeks a year, the head of school was dropping $32,400 per year to eat at Craigie, which was almost, to the dollar, the cost of sending one child to his school.
“People in West Cambridge are not afraid of trying new things!” Tony said. “Lamb’s tongue. Beef tongue. Lots of mustard sauce! Sounds delicious, right? But other chefs were afraid to put it on their menus because they thought guests wouldn’t be willing to take chances.”
Tony sold out every order.
“Look, many other chefs don’t appreciate the fact that our guests travel. Our guests know food. They’ve eaten strange and delicious food in the best bistros of France. Why dumb down the food? All I’m doing is serving the food people love to eat!”
The psychological and social advantages that Tony had over most cooks and chefs because of his upbringing meant that he did not have to wait to gain confidence strictly from personal achievement. Whatever obstacles he had—anger, organization, planning, focus—were related to being a confident, suburban, well-schooled, smart individual who was adored by his mother. Growing up white, male, and affluent meant that he got away with more than most people.
What did Tony do with these valuable cards he had been dealt? He did not need to worry about impressing anyone with his food. He was born lucky, and his food tasted like it had been cooked by one lucky guy.
In contrast to Tony, a working-class chef at a fancy restaurant cooks meals that cost far more than he or she can afford for a clientele that historically has regarded him or her as the help. To succeed in the business, these chefs must get over both the insecurity and resentment implicit in that social-psychological imbalance. The rise of celebrity chefs, the inflated sense of ego, came about, in part, as a defense against the pain that most cooks who slave away in upscale restaurant kitchens experience at work and at home.
Most line cooks never become chefs. Line cooking is a young person’s job because of the physical demands, stress, and low wages. Famous chefs like Emeril Lagasse, Mario Batali, and Bobby Flay are the lottery winners, and while they give hope to the dreams of line cooks, they are also part of a delusion that misleads many into attending culinary school imagining that when they graduate, they will be chefs. But who will invest money with a young cook, who is deeply in debt, to open his or her own restaurant?