You can see in Chef’s eyes that he hasn’t seen natural light in years. There is something certain in the fluorescent white of the kitchen. There’s no room for doubt. Your plating is sloppy, or it isn’t. The scallops are overcooked, or they aren’t. There is no room for nuance.
Chef works from open to close every day. When I asked him why he did this, he didn’t even move his eyes from the cutting board, and he said to me: “Listen here, this isn’t passion or virtue or anything admirable. It is pure vice. For a long time, booze did it for me. Until it made things worse. I tried the meetings and all 12 steps, but I fell off the wagon like it was covered in Vaseline. The only thing that has worked is to make sure my hands are never idle. Idle hands find bottles.” Ever since he said that, I’ve paid attention to his hands. They are calloused, cut, and burnt. They remind me of this tattered leather Bible that my father used to keep in the back pocket of his jeans. My Dad became a born-again Christian to solve his own problems with idle hands. Every day I came home, he’d be on the front porch tracing a shaking finger underneath a verse. Chef’s Bible-hands never stop: they’re julienning carrots, meticulously wiping pomme puree smudges from a plate’s rim, or trimming the jagged edge of haphazardly torn tape labels.
Jimmy OD’d on a Saturday. We were mid-service, 400 on the books, before the news got to us. At the time, we had this guy named Michael—one of those fresh-out-of-culinary-school-head-still-firmly-up-his-ass types—and Chef refused to call Michael “chef.” Chef called everyone back-of-house “chef,” even the dishwashers, and it pissed Michael off. Chef told him, “Michael, Foie Gras is burnt. Re-fire it now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chef, may I?” I tried to get his attention.
“Not right now, chef. Michael, there better be a Foie Gras in a pan right now.”
“I seared that first one perfectly, Chef.”
“Chef,” I said, “It’s Jimmy.”
“Michael. Re-fire it now. Chef, what about Jimmy?”
“Nah, man—”
“Jimmy OD’d.”
“Again? Jesus, when is he out of the hospital?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking—”
“No, Chef, Jimmy won’t be coming back.”
“Heard, chef.”
“—about. In culinary school—”
And before Michael could even finish, Chef walked to Michael’s station, packed all of Michael’s stuff into his knife roll, and dropped it by the backdoor onto the floor. Michael kicked, grunted, and cursed but eventually picked his roll up and left. Chef never said another word about Jimmy. He just told me I was on sauté now. I seared a scored piece of Foie Gras. Reserved the pan drippings. Deglazed the pan with grapefruit juice and scraped the fond with a wooden spoon. Simmered until the juice reduced by half. Added Chardonnay, orange zest, rosemary, and the reserved pan drippings. Then, off the heat, added butter. Then passed the Foie Gras and the sauce to Chef for him to plate.
Caleb J. Browne 