Back of the House

by Scott Haas

  “Can you eat all rabbits? I mean, all of them? Even pet bunnies?”

  TWELVE

  Theory versus Practice

  IT WAS A CONUNDRUM, THAT MUCH WAS CLEAR, AS TONY AND THE COOKS struggled to come to some resolution. In theory, Tony was shifting, or trying to shift, toward a more inclusive model in which the cooks felt able to think independently, propose ideas to him, and in doing so move up the food chain. In practice, neither side was budging much.

  On top of this, a quiet, almost undetectable discontent was becoming evident in the front of the house. Since Meredith had given notice, a kind of fairy-tale atmosphere had developed. Not a happy fairy tale, but one in which the queen left the castle after making love with one of the knights, where all the other ladies-in-waiting and knights did not know what would happen to them.

  In the midst of all these changes, it was summer and many regulars were gone, while in their place were tourists, businesspeople in town for conventions and meetings, and “foodies” who had heard about Tony’s winning a James Beard award a couple of months back.

  “It’s a difficult crowd to cook for,” Tony told me on the hot July night when James went over the edge, Bobby showed his stuff, and waitstaff pulled together. “They don’t know what to expect, and it’s hard to make them happy. We can do it—we’ve done it before—but it’s harder than usual. When we don’t know our guests, it becomes more of a challenge.”

  The first guests or customers had arrived and been seated. In a far corner facing the room, at a choice table, a much too casually dressed couple (Obama T-shirts and baggy old jeans) took their places, held menus out that Chuck had handed them, and started to look nervously around the room.

  “Are they regulars?” I asked, nodding in their direction.

  “Not at all,” Tony said.

  “But you gave them a great table.”

  Tony smiled, sharpening knives, and calling out, over his shoulder, “I need a lobster, bass, and sword.”

  “I’m in the hospitality business,” he said. “There aren’t any VIPs in for this seating, so they get one of the best tables in the house.”

  I watched from the short distance of the kitchen, beside Tony at the pass, as the couple looked over their menus. It didn’t take long for them to put in orders: Fried clams, striped bass.

  “They ordered the same things,” I said.

  “They probably think it’s safer that way. Look, a lot of the features of my menu items aren’t familiar to people coming here for the first time. I designed Craigie that way—that’s how I like it. That’s one reason I won’t serve California wines. Because people might know them. I want them to step out of their comfort zone.”

  I understood the theory, but thought that the practice of keeping great California wines from small or exclusive producers like Peter Michael off the list uninspired. I also thought that if the chef wanted to hear my opinion, he would ask me.

  I took a menu from the clip that held it on the wall, and Tony and I studied it. We were in the middle of service and as we went through the menu, he shouted out orders, expedited dishes, and watched over the cooks.

  The couple at the corner table dug happily into their crispy clams.

  “Tuna sashimi with watermelon,” said Tony. He was proud of his ability to surprise people who then looked to him with added respect because he had changed their ways of thinking about what tastes good. “Oysters with candied lemon. Rigatoni made with farro flour and served with a boudin noir ragoût. Salad of Bibb lettuce with crispy pig ears. Swordfish wrapped in pork belly. Breast of chicken stuffed with chicken sausage. Now, tonight, and really more so since winning the Beard, we have to be on our game. We have to please people who don’t know us yet. Everything we do here is about trust.”

  As we spoke, the cooks to our right and left, as well as directly behind us, struggled to keep up with the pace. Garde manger was falling behind, but Matt went over to help, and the cooks kept up their rhythm.

  “Generation Y,” said Tony. He shook his head angrily. “Always been told they’re special. At home, in school. Mustn’t damage little Johnny’s or little Janie’s self-esteem by saying that they’re doing a lousy job! Wah, wah. They don’t understand: You want praise, you have to earn it. That whole mentality of not wanting their feelings hurt? Complicates things!”

  In practice, I could see that his cooks did not accept criticism well. In theory, they figured that one day they would be chefs. But without criticism, how did they expect to learn the craft?

  “Most of these cooks here will never be chefs,” said Tony. “I don’t know what the exact numbers are, but less than fifty percent of culinary school grads are cooking after ten years. And the percentage of cooks who become chefs? It’s got to be less than five percent. When I tell them what to do, I’m doing them a favor. I’m trying to teach them.”

  Danny ran up behind him clutching a pan in which three big, juicy, cheese-drenched burgers sizzled. I could imagine the flavors of the meat and cheese and onions without tasting them. In theory and practice, the dish was flat-out delicious.

  Tony asked Danny to show him where they stood with orders. They looked over tickets.

  “You stay on that side,” Dakota shouted to Timmy.

  “I am on my side,” said Timmy.

  “The fuck you are,” said Dakota.

  “Guys, guys,” said Danny, “don’t make me come over there.”

  Timmy and Dakota scowled, but got back to cooking.

  After tickets had been counted, Danny zipped back to the stove and began basting the world’s largest pork chop, which was a special for two. Bone-in, luscious, a dark crust formed from the sear in the pan.

  “Man,” said Matt, “that’s fucking beautiful!”

  Danny nodded as he spooned the fat and gravy over the browning chop. The spoon hit the side of the pan four times. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

  “Verbal for two,” said Danny, “One pork for two.”

  Drew, at the pass, his face expressionless, readied a runner to take the pork to table fifty-one.

  Things were going swimmingly. Cooks moving quickly and with precision, no one coming to stand at Tony’s elbow and ask him if what they were working on tasted the way it was supposed to. A restaurant kitchen, even the worst, is a hotbed of commotion that when it is working is a lovely sight: At last, purpose! A sense of purpose that lasts hours! When the crew is moving in sync, at high speed, the only question is: Can I cook the food the right way?

  Except that something was wrong with James. Dakota was the first to notice. He alerted Danny with a tilt of his chin and a whisper, “Danny. Hey, Danny.”

  “Gotta go,” James was saying. “Gotta go, gotta go.”

  James was staring into space. His hands were not chopping or slicing. His hands? His hands were at his side.

  Danny came to James’s side. “Whassup?” said Danny.

  “James,” said Dakota.

  “Four pork, six pork, six pork all day!” shouted Tony.

  “Dude,” said Danny. “James, you all right?”

  “Gotta go,” said James. He was stationary, but agitated. He looked as if at any moment he just might scream, but his face stayed blank. “Gotta go, gotta go.”

  “Hey, Tony,” said Danny. “I need you over here.”

  Tony looked over his right shoulder. He had not seen what was happening, but he did now.

  “Danny, please take the pass,” he said.

  Tony and Danny switched places.

  “Hey, James, what’s up, buddy?” said Tony soothingly.

  “Gotta go,” James said. Out of breath, his voice pausing between syllables. “I gotta go, gotta go.”

  “That’s fine, James,” Tony said. “That’s okay. Can I help? What’s going on?”

  James undid his apron strings, lifted the apron over his head, held the apron in his clenched right hand, and, stepping behind Dakota and Timmy, vanished down the stairs to get his clothing and gear and then, no doubt, ran back up
the stairs and out the back door. “What the fuck?” asked Dakota.

  “No idea,” Tony said.

  James was never seen again, not in the restaurant, not on the streets, nowhere.

  Meanwhile, the kitchen was picking up greater speed and Tony was needed at the pass.

  “Danny, can you take over from where James left off?” Tony said. He was not calm, but he was trying to sound calm.

  Danny took James’s place, and Bobby went over to where Tony directed him, which was next to Danny.

  The kitchen began to rock then, harder and faster than I’d ever seen before. No one said a word about what had just happened. What was there to say? A cook had lost his bearings. All it meant for now was: People had to work harder to compensate for the loss.

  While all this was happening, Tony started in on Bobby.

  Tony yelled: “You don’t cook! You don’t cook! You don’t cook!”

  I squeezed back to where Bobby was working.

  “Do you know what he means when he says that?” I asked him.

  “He means,” said Bobby, “that I’m overthinking things. That I just need to cook faster.”

  “C’mon, Bobby,” Tony yelled again. “Two pork belly! In the window! Get them in the window!”

  The bellies cooked, Bobby raced to get them to Tony at the pass.

  He was not in the clear yet. Danny berated him: “Bobby! Pretend you fucking care! Some of us care!”

  After this, all through service, Bobby kept up with the orders. He did not talk back, question what he was told to do, or look hurt or upset. He had to show the chef that he could get the job done.

  Later, after service was over and surfaces were being scrubbed down, I asked Tony if Bobby was okay. He had been screamed at all night.

  Tony laughed.

  “Ask him,” he said. “Hey, Bobby!”

  Bobby came running over.

  “How was your night?” asked Tony.

  “Best yet,” he said with a smile. “Best so far.”

  “See?” said Tony. “Bobby thinks he had a pretty good night.”

  A couple of days later, I brought up the topic of Tony’s father again, but in doing so omitted his name. “So, Tony, when do I get to meet him?”

  Tony looked up from pink invoices. Dakota was standing on the other side of the counter holding a deep stainless-steel bowl of daikon broth and waiting for Tony to taste it.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Tony said, putting his hand out to me. “Meet who?”

  “Meet your father,” I said.

  “This is too thick,” Tony said to Dakota.

  “Add water?” asked Dakota.

  “Chicken stock,” said Tony.

  “Got it, Chef,” said Dakota.

  Dakota danced off to find stock.

  “You want to meet my father?” Tony laughed. “Why do you want to meet my father?”

  “I met your mother,” I said. “I think your father is part of the story at Craigie. I mean, you hardly ever mention him. Issues, right?”

  “I can arrange it,” he said. “Why don’t I arrange for you to have dinner with him here?”

  “That’d be great,” I said.

  Tony laughed again.

  “Issues! What kind of issues?”

  “Anger issues,” I said.

  “Oh come on! I’m not an angry person!” He laughed even harder than he had the night we left the bar, and then fell onto the counter and slapped it with his palms.

  “Anger issues!” he said. “What a fucking shrink!”

  “You don’t get angry at your cooks?” I asked.

  “Of course I do,” Tony said between laughs. “Anger issues! The cooks deserve it when they don’t do their jobs! You sound like my mother!”

  Danny walked over to us.

  “Fucking shrink,” said Danny. “I suppose I have anger issues, too. Want to meet my father?”

  I could see their point. Anger came so naturally to them, the emotion was as fundamental to their work as having good knife skills, that an outsider telling them that they had issues seemed ridiculous.

  “Anyway,” I asked, “how are you going to arrange this dinner?”

  Tony typed on his iPhone.

  “Up to you now,” Tony said. “Stewart, meet Scott; Scott, meet Stewart.”

  I stayed at the restaurant for a few more hours, interviewing and observing the cooks and front-of-the-house staff, and by the time I left, Tony’s father had e-mailed me: “My busy super tennis dad schedule keeps me pretty busy, but Wednesday at seven could work for me. Stew.”

  ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, THE RESTAURANT WAS JAMMED. IT WAS EARLY September. The kids were back at college and regulars had returned from holidays. The place had familiar rhythm.

  As usual, I went over to stand by Tony at the pass. He was sharpening knives, crossing off tickets, and shouting orders.

  “I guess I’m the first to arrive,” I said.

  “Oh, he’ll be here,” said Tony. “Just you wait and see.”

  Moments later, a tall, lean man wearing eyeglasses, grinning broadly, strode in. He had a black cap on: U.S. Tennis Open 2011.

  “Hey, Tony!” Stew said. “Good to see you!”

  They shook hands.

  “Dad,” said Tony. His voice was more reserved than it had been with me. “Hey, how are you? Good to see you!”

  Tony introduced us.

  “So were you at the U.S. Open?” I asked.

  “That I was,” Stew said. “I’ve been many times! Great seats! Love it! Started going forty years ago! Stan Smith! Bob Lutz! John McEnroe!”

  “My parents used to go back then, too,” I said.

  “Your parents are probably closer to my age than your age,” Stew said.

  I did not understand the logic of Stew’s comment. Tony saw my puzzled look, rolled his eyes, and smiled.

  “So, Dad,” Tony said, “where’d you eat in New York?”

  “Where’d I eat?” Stew said. “Oh, here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Yeah, but where?” Tony asked.

  “I told you,” Stew said. “Nothing special. Some Chinese place. Whatever. Wherever.”

  I could see that Tony was disappointed that his father did not share his passion for food, but he also looked relieved. Food was Tony’s world, not his father’s. Still, it was a shame that he did not appear to appreciate how much it meant to his son.

  “After dinner on Sunday, a friend of mine took us to meet a friend of his, a famous writer, I forget her name,” Stew said. He looked at me. “I hope I’m not offending you. I’m not saying you’re not a good writer.”

  Again, I did not understand his logic.

  Meredith came over to us.

  “Are you ready to be shown to your table?” Meredith asked.

  We were led into the bar area to the corner table that the cooks and servers called “The Hot Tub” because of its shape and size.

  The whole way over, Stew talked rapidly and with great animation. He had the vigor of a man half his age. I did not have to ask him anything. He did all the talking. He oozed with charm and reminded me of Larry King in looks and voice. He towered over Tony.

  “Back when Marjorie and I were married,” Stew said, “we lived on Rosalie Road in Newton Center. Among our neighbors were Jonathan Kozol and Bernie Katz.”

  “Oh, I know Bernie,” I said. “He was one of my mentors. A great psychiatrist!”

  “That’s right,” said Stew. “I figured you might know the name. Anyway…”

  The waiter arrived with menus and took our drink orders.

  “Anyway,” Stew continued. The man was a great raconteur, from an age when people entertained one another with jokes and stories, when individual lives had more dimension. “Anyway, Bernie and I bought a racehorse…”

  “Would you like to order off the menu?” asked the waiter when he returned with our drinks. “Tony suggested that he cook for you, but it’s up to you.”

  “I’m happy to have him cook fo
r us,” said Stew, “as long as he doesn’t send out too much food.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Excellent choice,” said the waiter, scooping up the menus and returning to the kitchen.

  “Where was I?” asked Stew.

  “Racehorses,” I said.

  “Right,” he said.

  From racehorses it was off to Stew’s early life on Madison Avenue. I still had not asked him anything.

  “You know that show, Mad Men?” he said. “That was me! That was my life! I was cute, tall, and good looking!—I’m taller than Tony and his brother—and I dated supermodels and stewardesses! It was pretty wild, let me tell you!”

  Our first course arrived. Three precise amuse bouches: cured fluke with carrot frond broth; cauliflower and cilantro with smoked corn purée; and house-smoked bluefish rillettes with huckleberries.

  “Wow!” I said after taking bites. “This is so powerful and delicious! Each one of these is very distinctive.”

  Stew wolfed the food down without comment, but he ate everything.

  “I was among the first Jews to be hired by a big marketing firm,” he said. “Dunbar. They came over on the fucking Mayflower.”

  “Now, Marjorie,” I asked, “does she have a background in marketing, too?”

  He ignored my question.

  “Marjorie went to the University of Michigan,” Stew said. “Going there was a tradition in her family. That’s why Tony ended up there: He didn’t work that hard in school. He was a C+ student, not that smart.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” I said.

  “He didn’t apply himself,” he said.

  The waiter returned with our second course: raw slices of bright red tuna with ponzu, a little bit of shiso and red onion, and tiny cubes of dehydrated watermelon. Delicious, of course, with great textures.

  “Here’s my relationship to cooking,” Stew continued. “I was between companies and doing freelance marketing consulting. I met Madeleine Kamen. Heard of her?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Famous cookbook author.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Madeleine hired me to market her. I made her famous.”

  “This was before chefs were celebrities,” I said.

  “Just the beginning of that trend, right,” he said. “Then, after the divorce, I joined a men’s group. Chris Schlesinger was in it. When Tony finished college and didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life…”