A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [122]
‘Listen, man, my friend’s a chef, and he really loved your book. He’d love it if you dropped by his restaurant. It’s right down the street.’ I’d heard about the place. Let’s call it Restaurant X, a fairly swanky new joint a few blocks away. I’m always more comfortable in the company of chefs and cooks, so I figured, What the hell, maybe a few free snackies.
When I swung by, much later, the chef joined me and two off-duty shooters at my table. He was eager to send out some amuses-gueules and some drinks. A fairly young guy, in only his second or third chef’s job, he was amiable but clearly stressed out, getting crispy from the pressure of opening a new restaurant, dealing with an overwhelming initial rush of business, and the responsibilities of managing a large crew. Nothing new there. We all have that look, to one degree or another. When he invited me in to see his kitchen, I gladly agreed. I like taking the tour through restaurant kitchens. (I’d been away from mine a long time – and I missed it.) He showed me a hot line of new Jade ranges, gleaming counters, an ice-cream machine and pasta maker, then took me through the walk-in, where he’d conscientiously organized and segregated the meat, fish, dairy, and produce. He introduced me to his cooks, the usual posse of pierced and decorated scamps, most in the final stages of kitchen breakdown.
The chef opened the door to his office and beckoned me in, as if to show me around – the familiar cluttered desk piled with invoices, schedules, old copies of Food Arts, Restaurant Hospitality, faxed résumés, equipment manuals, stashes of saffron and truffle oil – and asked if I’d sign a grease-stained, food-smeared copy of my book, which I was all too happy to do. The greasier the better. Somebody shoves a book to be signed in my direction, and it’s covered with food? I know it’s for the home team. But when I looked up after scrawling my signature, the chef had closed the office door. He was sitting behind his desk, head in his hands, teary-eyed. ‘What do I do? . . . I don’t know what to do . . .’
I sat there, stunned, while a total stranger (I didn’t even know his last name) cried in front of me.
‘What . . . what’s the problem, man?’ I asked.
‘My sous-chef,’ he said, blinking away tears. ‘He’s . . . my best friend. But . . . he’s like . . . talking behind my back. He’s leaning on the cooks real hard. Yesterday, I had two cooks walk out ’cause a this guy! That’s why I’m working the line tonight. I was supposed to be off . . . But I’m working the fuckin’ grill ’cause two of my staff walked out. No notice, nothing.’
I felt my blood starting to percolate, simmer, threaten to boil. ‘You tell this prick to lighten up?’ I asked.
‘Yes! I told him,’ said the chef, clearly pained by the situation. ‘He’s my friend. My best friend. We came up together. I told him . . . I told him . . . But he just ignores me. He knows better . . . He says that to the cooks! I say one thing? He says another. The cooks can’t take it anymore. I’m gonna lose all of them if something doesn’t change.’
‘You should fire the cocksucker’ was my suggestion. I didn’t have to think too long about it, either.
‘I know . . . I know. I should . . . But . . . I just can’t,’ he said, rubbing his face.
‘Listen. Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘Just so we both know what we’re talkin’ about here . . . You’re the chef, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your sous-chef, your underboss, is talking treason behind your back . . . disobeying your orders, causing discontent, disgruntlement, desertion . . . possible mutiny among the troops?’
‘Well . . . yeah . . . I guess so. I mean, maybe he doesn’t mean to. He’s just trying to – ’
‘This guy’s a fuckin’ lone wolf! He’s a loose cannon! He’s gotta go!’ I snarled, surprising myself with how viscerally involved I suddenly was in the chef’s problem. ‘I don’t care if he’s your bestest, dearest, closest buddy since you were babies. This mutt has gotta go. The sous-chef’s number-one job is what? To make the chef look good. At all times. He’s not there so