Spiced

by Dalia Jurgensen

  “Well, Dolly, the reason I wanted to talk to you,” he started, “is that I’m doing my own place.”

  Finally, he got down to it.

  “I have the space and everything, Doll. It’s on East Fifty-first Street, and it’s going to be Mediterranean. You know, my kind of food.”

  Clearly excited, he went on to tell me all the details. He’d been introduced to his partner, Stan, a former maître d’ of Restaurant Daniel, one of New York’s very top restaurants, by a mutual friend. Joey would run the back of the house, and Stan, who had gathered all the financing and was the owner, would run the front. They’d found a space (and in New York City, opening a restaurant is all about the space, its location, and rent) that had been a restaurant before and were giving it a complete makeover, top to bottom, prep kitchen to dining room. They’d already been working on it for months and finally had a target opening date just six weeks away.

  “So,” he finally said. “I want you to be my pastry chef and help out with some cooking.”

  “I figure,” he went on, “you learned enough pastry at Nobu, La Côte Basque, and the TV show to do the desserts. Plus, I have some ideas we can work on. I’ll help you out.”

  Pastry chef? I’d assumed that he’d want me to cook. I kept listening.

  “And, you already know my style of food and how I like to work, and that’s really important. Frankie’s coming on as sous-chef, so I’d want you to help him out, too.” Frankie and I had overlapped at Layla for just a few weeks, but he had stayed on with Joey long after I left. I knew Frank was not only a good cook but a good guy all around.

  “But mostly you’ll be taking care of the desserts. Like I said, I have some ideas I want you to work on. Like . . .” he explained excitedly. “Like, I definitely want to have a rosewater crème brûlée, and we’ll do the same almond milk ice that we had at Layla. Other than that, you’re gonna come up with the rest of the menu. Your title,” he finally said, “will be Pastry Chef.” He paused.

  Title? I got a title?

  “It’s gonna be a lot of work, Dolly. A lot of work. Openings always are. You’ll be back in the Wild, Wild West of the restaurant world, but I think you, Frankie, and I will make a great team. Plus,” he assured me, “you’re a natural.”

  “What’s it going to be called?” Oddly, it was the only question I could think of.

  “Scarabée,” he said regally and with purpose. I didn’t understand the significance of the word.

  “The name is my partner’s idea,” he explained, shrugging. “And he’s set on it. It’s the one thing he won’t compromise on. I can live with it.” He kept looking at me.

  “So, Doll. I really want you to do it,” he told me. “But I want you to think about it and call me in a few days.”

  Think about it. He said the same thing when he offered me the position of garde-manger and again when he suggested I move up to the grill position. It’s gonna be a challenge for you, Doll, working the grill. But think about it. His challenges had always appealed to my ego. I’d taken the garde-manger job, and I’d worked the grill. But pastry chef? It was an entirely different ball game.

  Despite my prejudice toward pastry early on in my career, I’d been drifting back into the dessert world ever since. Maybe it was kismet. Still, didn’t most people work for many years toward the goal of earning the title of pastry chef? What about all the knowledge and techniques I needed to execute a full dessert menu? Had working at Nobu, La Côte Basque, and even MSLTV, where we did a fair amount of desserts, been enough?

  I contemplated the prospect of returning to the Wild, Wild West of the restaurant world, as Joey called it. Was I ready to give up my three-day work week? Ready to deal with the pressure, once again, of performing at top speed every single day? The long hours?

  The restaurant would be a big step for Joey, and it would surely receive press. What if I disappointed? “Downtown chef opens midtown spot . . . Hires unknown pastry chef who doesn’t deliver . . . Jurgensen’s desserts suck.” But that was the worst-case scenario. What if I was actually good at it? I did have a lot of faith in the quality of my taste buds. I knew what tasted good, and that had to be worth something.

  I realized that Joey wouldn’t risk his own reputation if he didn’t think I was up to the task. I started getting excited, and ideas kept popping into my head: chilled cherry-vanilla soup with mascarpone panna cotta, chocolate mousse with a white chocolate mousse center, warm pear tarte Tatin with fromage blanc ice cream. I’d always thought the tangy fromage blanc that Drew used in his cheesecake would make a great ice cream. I would have the chance to try it out for myself if I became Joey’s pastry chef. Most exciting was the prospect of being responsible for my own menu, of really having an impact on a restaurant. I’d get to execute my own ideas, my own vision, all with Joey’s lengthy and superlative experience as guidance, support, and safety net. Would there ever be a better scenario under which to take that sort of step?

  Up to then, I’d gone back and forth between the two worlds, sweet and savory. I started out believing that I’d be better suited to working in the savory realm but eventually came to realize that my personality was ill-suited to becoming a chef, to being a leader in that sense. There was less power and prestige in the title of pastry chef, but there was also less pressure, and it was starting to feel like a perfect compromise. We hadn’t talked about salary, health insurance, or any other particulars that were supposed to matter, but before I fell asleep that night, I knew my answer. I was going to be a pastry chef.

  FOURTEEN

  Forbidden Fruit

  Whack!

  I slammed the narrow row of white plastic pyramid molds onto the edge of my stainless steel table—the full extent of Scarabée’s basement pastry station—and crossed my fingers. I carefully lifted the molds to find that only three of the five chocolate mousse pyramids had come out of their molds.

  I’d used the same kind of molds (production molds, they were called; each tray held seven rows of five and fit perfectly on a full sheet pan, making it easy to produce desserts in volume) at La Côte Basque, but there I’d used ovals that were bottomless and topless, which made them easy to unmold: I simply lined each oval with thin strips of plastic before filling the cavities with mousse, froze them, and then pushed each oval up and out. I had picked out the pyramid-shaped molds a few weeks earlier, thinking that a pyramid-shaped dessert would fit perfectly in a restaurant that was, after all, named for an Egyptian beetle. I immediately planned on filling each mold halfway with dark chocolate mousse, then piping in a secret center of white chocolate mouse, and finally filling in the bases of the pyramids with a thin, even layer of dark chocolate ganache made crunchy with crushed, roasted cocoa beans and crumbled halvah, a sesame candy. I had not, however, thought about how I would get the pyramids out of the molds. I started to worry: What kind of a pastry chef was I going to be if I couldn’t even unmold my desserts?

  I had tried brushing the insides of each cavity with melted cocoa butter, which made absolutely no difference. I’m not even sure how I came up with that stupid idea. I thought about lining each one with tempered chocolate, treating each pyramid like a giant individual bonbon, like the ones Jemal used to make. Not only would that take a lot of time (and chocolate), but it would work only if the chocolate was perfectly tempered and I didn’t have enough faith in my tempering skills. Using a propane torch to heat the outsides of the pyramids was out of the question; the plastic would melt. I finally settled on running hot tap water over the pyramids just long enough to warm the mousse, then ran back to my table to—whack!—bang them out. Like most things I came up with at Scarabée, I figured out how to unmold the pyramids through trial and error. Over time, though, I was sure the trays would not be able to stand the beatings. But I would worry about that later. Only one week remained before opening day, and I was determined to prove myself, especially to the owner, a habitual name dropper, who had suggested that his “friend” François Payard consult on the menu. I
had to prove that I did not need any outside help.

  I had been working at Scarabée for weeks already before I started to work on the desserts. Frank and I had been helping Joey with the myriad preparations involved in opening a restaurant. We functioned like cocaptains, and Joey included us in nearly every decision he made, allowing us to see the process firsthand. We met at nine every morning, bringing coffee back to the restaurant, still a construction site, where we spent most of the day. Joey ordered the large equipment (ovens, refrigeration, mixers) and designed the layout of the kitchen and prep area. We had to anticipate what kind of small wares (small tools and equipment) we would need, things I’d taken for granted in previous restaurants. How many sheet pans would we need? Half sheet pans? Whisks? Would we need four-ounce or two-ounce ladles or both? At twenty dollars each, could I make do with just six silicone baking mats? Yes, I probably could. We didn’t want to forget anything: rubber spatulas, fish spatulas, bains-marie, slotted spoons, sauce-pans, sauté pans. Compiling one list was mind-boggling and tedious.

  Once the nitty-gritty of equipment was taken care of, we moved on to more exciting things like menu ideas and talked through every item, every garnish. We would have nine appetizers and nine entrées, Joey said, but we needed to balance the heavy dishes with the light, with foie gras at one end of the spectrum and a plain green salad at the other. We hated the generic mesclun salad—it was boring and unchallenging—but we knew that some people always expected it to be available, so we put it on. Joey had the same philosophy with the entrées, so we begrudgingly included an entrée for those customers afraid of straying too far from the familiar. We referred to those unadventurous diners as “the chicken people.”

  Entrées decided, we wrestled with the menu wording: smashed vs. mashed, pan seared vs. pan roasted, housemade vs. homemade, crusted vs. coated. Written presentation was everything; if something didn’t sound good, it wouldn’t get ordered, no matter how delicious.

  I labored over the desserts, wanting to create a varied menu that included something for everyone. Joey’s idea for a rose petal crème brûlée meant there would be one custard. I wanted something frozen, a warm fruit dessert, and something light, like a fruit soup. I didn’t want anything too generic or any overlap—if raspberries appeared on my chilled mango water with raspberry cream granita, then they would appear only on that dessert. And I had to have something chocolate; every dessert menu must have something chocolate, preferably something rich and decadent because that’s what people want in a chocolate dessert. My desserts had to be simple; my skill level and experience demanded it. At that point, I simply had not yet amassed a giant tome of recipes to draw from like Glen and Jemal had, nor had I grown truly proficient at a lot of the more advanced techniques, like tempering chocolate. After working for only two pastry chefs, there was so much I did not yet know. But that didn’t mean quality and taste had to suffer.

  Once the kitchen was completed and in working order, we peeled off the protective plastic coating that covered every stainless steel surface, cleaned off any dust, and unpacked the small wares. Finally, I started bringing my dessert ideas to fruition. I obsessed over every garnish, asking Joey and Frank to taste each version over and over. Was the cranberry compote I made to garnish the warm pear tarte Tatin sweet enough? Should I candy organic rose petals to go with the crème brûlée? Should I use more black olives in the focaccia? After a few attempts (my time at MSLTV proved to be invaluable for teaching me how to keep track of changes while developing a recipe), I came up with a great focaccia, one that turned out to be good enough to be served nightly.

  It was hard work, and we spent every day, all day, working together. The restaurant became our existence and its success our only goal, while everything else in our respective lives took a backseat. It was exhausting and exhilarating; I actually felt that my contributions to the restaurant were important, that my ideas could impact its success. We worked so hard on every tiny detail in the hope that by the time diners finally sat down, their experience would be flawless, the food effortless.

  “Doll,” Joey said, surveying my tray of unmolded pyramids, “those look amazing! You were right about those molds.”

  “Thanks, Joey,” I answered, not mentioning my trials with getting them out. I wanted him to think I knew what I was doing.

  “We got less than a week left, Doll. Why don’t we clean up and get out of here, enjoy what’s left of the night? Frank’s already on his way out,” he offered.

  I didn’t argue. I knew that once we opened, our free time would be reduced to nil. I cleaned up, and we left the restaurant together.

  “Hey, Doll,” said Joey as we headed to the downtown subway. “You wanna see a movie tonight?”

  We’d been spending so much time together that I was no longer intimidated or afraid of my boss. Maybe we actually could become friends, or work friends at the very least. A movie sounded great.

  I met him at a small independent theater downtown, and afterward we walked for a few blocks, enjoying the warm summer evening. When I felt his hand on my back a few times, I chalked it up to subtle chivalry; he had four older sisters, after all. I thought nothing of it when he invited me up to his apartment for a Heineken and we sat on his couch and let out some of the frustration that had been building up over the previous weeks. We complained about some of the owner’s decisions. We thought he spent far too much money on an interior designer, money that might have been better saved as working capital to get us through slow times, if they came. I complained about his insistence on listing every menu item in French first, with a translation below. He thought it lent an upscale feel. I found it not only pretentious but also tedious. Who wanted to sift through all that French to find out if they wanted striped bass or snapper? And he wore acid-wash jeans and cowboy boots. Who was he kidding?

  Somehow, amid the laughter and the exhaustion, Joey’s strong hands were rubbing my shoulders. Somehow, we were kissing. Somehow my shirt came off, and he carried me into his bed. I woke up the next morning at daybreak and sneaked out before he woke up so I could shower and change clothes at home before heading in to work.

  I never thought anything like that would happen. He was my chef. My boss! Sure, I thought he was handsome, but I didn’t want to date him. Did I? Then again, I hadn’t stopped him that night, either, and I’d had a million reasons to do so. I put it out of my mind and figured we had an unspoken agreement to simply pretend it never happened.

  “I hope you’re okay about the other night, Doll,” Joey said two days later as we were leaving work. Doll. Somehow my nickname took on a new subtlety since we’d slept together. I looked up at him.

  “Yeah, sure,” I answered, with all the nonchalance I could muster. “I’m okay.”

  “Good,” he said, “because I really like working with you, Doll. I’d hate to mess that up.” I took that to be definitive: It was just something that happened, a tiny bump in the road of our professional relationship and our potential friendship.

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  “I mean,” he went on, “I’ve always found you really attractive.”

  Maybe it was more than a bump? Why did he have to add that? I tried to ignore it.

  “Thanks,” was all I could muster.

  That was the end of the conversation. We returned to business as usual. We talked about food, made decisions, worked on menus, prepared for the opening and the crucial first weeks. I let it go, determined not to let it interfere with my work.

  FIFTEEN

  Seeing Stars

  She sidled into the kitchen, casually making her way over to the expediter station, where Joey stood taking command of the kitchen. It was Camille, the twenty-year-old French coatcheck girl at Scarabée, in her usual “uniform”: snug, low-cut shirt and even snugger black pants. She walked right up to Joey, practically wrapping her lithe body around him. She coyly posed whatever question she’d come up with as an excuse to leave her coat-check post and come back to the kitchen, where
the real work happens. Joey’s eyes remained fixed on the dupe slide, which held the order tickets for every table seated in the dining room. As expediter, he was at the helm of the kitchen, funneling ordering information to the cooks, but he was also a liaison between the waiters and kitchen and all special requests or questions had to go through him and only him. The cooks had to remain focused on their pickups, and the waiters had to wait for his direction before taking food out of the kitchen. If there is a linchpin in a busy kitchen, it is the expediter. Joey listened to Camille while he continued to manage the dupes: crossing out appetizers as they left the kitchen, noting times, “spiking” tickets when a table’s order had been completed.

  Camille stood close to him—too close. Her eyes fluttered up at him as she waited. Eyes still on the dupes, Joey cracked a slight, wry smile, and I watched him mouth the word okay, which transformed Camille’s expectant face into a wide grin. She turned and pranced out of the kitchen, her full, perfect ass the last of her to go. I realized with a sudden pang of nausea that Camille and Joey had slept together. Worse: They’d been sleeping together.

  “Fuckin’ hot!” said Vinnie in a loud stage whisper.

  We’d been open only six weeks and already the line cooks were comfortable in their new setting, each one taking on a role. Vinnie, the heavily accented Brooklyn native, was the only cook adept enough at his job to not only notice and comment on every female who entered the kitchen but also simultaneously put up twelve perfectly executed entrées. He had a smart, streetwise answer for everything and everyone, aside from Joey, for whom he had great respect. The rest of the cooks idolized him. I didn’t need any verbal confirmation of Camille’s hotness, but I was helpless. I could no sooner shut up Vinnie than I could ignore him.