The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [12]
Bobby saw something being resolved. A decision had been made on the oyster question. "Can you ask the chef to make me some of that sauce with the shallots in it? What do you call that? Mignonette! I want mignonette sauce. It's like . . . red . . . red wine vinegar and shallots . . . and some black pepper. The shallots — you gotta chop 'em up real small. Can you do that?"
"Mignonette," repeated the waiter, thinking visibly. Which would be worse, thought Bobby: telling Eddie fucking Fish, known gangster associate, that he couldn't have the fucking mignonette with his oysters — or approaching a rampaging prick of a three-star chef in the middle of the lunch rush and telling him to start hunting up some shallots and red wine vinegar?
"I'll have to ask the chef, sir," said the waiter. "But I'm pretty sure we can do that for you."
By the time he started in ordering his entree, Eddie had kept the waiter at his elbow for five full minutes, the rest of the poor man's station shooting daggers at him from their tables. Eddie, oblivious to Bobby's discomfort, began the tortuous process of grafting together elements from different menu items, designing an entree for himself, figuring out the way it should be served, instead of the way everyone else was getting it. Only fools, as Eddie liked to say, settled for less.
"The hanger steak. How is that prepared?"
"With saffron cous-cous, sir," said the waiter. "It's pan-seared, then roasted to order and served with a reduction of Cote de Rhone, demi-glace and caramelized whole shallots. It's very good." The waiter's offer of an opinion doomed that selection. Eddie wasn't having any.
"And the tuna?"
"That's grilled rare . . . served with roasted fingerling potatoes, braised fennel . . . and a citrus herb reduction," said the waiter, the first hint of frustration creeping into his voice. It made no impression on Eddie. The poor bastard could hop up and down holding his crotch, get down on one knee and bark like a dog — it wouldn't make any difference to Eddie, who seemed to slip into some kind of a fugue-state when ordering from a menu.
"Okay . . . Okay . . ." pondered Eddie. "How about . . . let me . . . get . . . the . . . the monkfish. The saddle of monkfish."
"One monkfish," repeated the waiter, gratefully, the clouds beginning to part, one foot already pointed towards the kitchen.
"But . . . let me have that with . . . with the sauce from the hanger steak," said Eddie. "And like . . . the roasted finger potatoes. That sounds good . . . And what came with the tuna? What was the vegetable with that?"
"Uh . . . braised fennel," stammered the waiter. Bobby saw the light go out in his eyes. He got it now. He understood, finally, what was happening. Eddie was never letting him go. All hope was gone. This vicious, malevolent little creep wasn't going to be happy until his whole station was up in arms, until his other customers were so pissed off they tipped ten percent, until the chef was pushed to the point of murder. Chefs blame waiters for the sins of their customers, the waiter was probably thinking —and this chef, when he saw Eddie Fish's order, was going to unscrew his head and relieve himself down his neck.
"Forget the monkfish," said Eddie, changing tack, "Let me have the turbot instead. Yeah. I'll have the turbot. It's fresh?"
"Yes, sir," said the waiter. "It came in this morning."
"Then I'll have the turbot. Grilled . . . with the balsamic reduction and baby bok choy from this pork dish here . . ."
"Yes, sir," said the waiter, picturing his imminent dismemberment in the kitchen.
"Wait!" commanded Eddie, as the waiter began to turn away. "Before you bring the fish . . . could you lemme have a Caesar salad?"
"I'm sorry sir," said the waiter. "We don't have - "
Eddie was not deterred. He'd expected this. "It's simple. You tell the chef, take some egg yolks . . . and some garlic. Fresh garlic . . . and some anchovies . . ."
It went on like this . . . and on. It always did. Bobby had known Eddie since college. Nearly twenty years — and every meal was like