Kitchen Confidential_ Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly - Anthony Bourdain [70]
I finished a sentence and smiled at the two men, pleased with myself at how things had gone so far. When boss man asked how much money I was looking for, I took a chance, said 85,000 dollars plus family health plan - I was a happily married man after all - and the guy didn't blink, he just jotted the number down on the corner of my resume with a sharpened pencil and said, 'That's do able.' I kept the conversation moving, more than anything else trying to avoid the obvious - that sure, goddamn right I could do the job! I could train a schnauzer to knock out a few hundred broiled steaks a day, wrap a few spuds in foil and make floury clam chowder for customers who smoked cigars while they ate. This gig would be ridiculously easy for me practically free money. I didn't say this, of course. That wouldn't be good.
I was closing in on the position. I could feel it. I cleverly volunteered that my personal approach to cuisine was appreciation of fine ingredients, that too much froufrou on the plates, food too sculpted, excessively garnished like that of many of my peers, was a distraction. Owners usually like this rap. And by saying it, I had inoculated myself against the 'I'm too good for this place' issue. Oh yeah, I assured them, all those squeeze-bottle Jackson Pollock designs on plates, the carved veggies and the frizzled this-and-thats, they detracted from the natural beauty of fine ingredients - a time-consuming and costly indulgence that satisfied only the chef's ego. 'Good food, honestly prepared,' I repeated, 'doesn't need that silliness. If the ingredients are the best, and they're prepared conscientiously, you don't need it,' my tone implying that there was something less than masculine - even gay - about dressing a hunk of meat up like a goddamn birthday cake.
This was going down very well - until suddenly, things took a strange and confusing turn. The owner leaned in close, and with unexpected gravity, lowered his voice and asked what was clearly the Big Question. His blue eyes searched the inner recesses of my skull as he asked it, his thick brogue and a passing delivery truck obscuring the words. I didn't hear. I asked the man to repeat the question, suddenly thrown completely off my game. I listened intently this time, feeling suddenly at a disadvantage, not wanting this guy to think I was hard of hearing - or worse, having trouble with his accent.
'I'm sorry,' I said, 'What was that?'
'I asked,' said the owner, slightly irritated, 'What do you know about me?'
This was tough one. The man had seemed strictly business the whole time so far. What kind of an answer was he looking for? How did he expect his future chef to answer such a question: 'What do you know about me?'
Did he want his ass kissed, I wondered. Was he looking for something along the lines of: 'Oh, yes! Of course I've heard about you! How could I not? Why, every schoolboy in America is aware of your heroic trip from Scotland in steerage, your resolute climb up the ladder, how you worked your way up from piss-boy to magnate and created this fine, fine steakhouse, where the food is legendarily good. Why . . . why . . . I've got your bio tattooed on my chest as a matter of fact! You . . . you're an inspiration, I tell ya! A childhood fucking role modell' Was this what he was looking for?
I thought not. It couldn't be that. I had to think fast. What could this guy want? Maybe it was just the seriousness of the enterprise he wanted acknowledged, something