Life, on the Line (10 page)

I thought to myself, “Holy shit. He's the first one here, and he's sweeping the floor. What kind of restaurant is this?”

“I'm going to set you up with Kevin. He's in the back putting away produce, but he can show you around and get you started.”

“Yes, Chef.” My tryout had begun.

Kevin Kathman was a wiry guy with jet-black hair that he wore slicked back into a long ponytail. He looked like a young Steven Seagal, complete with muttonchops and pronounced, angular features. Along with a cook named John Gerber, inexplicably called “DJ” by everyone, the two made up the morning commis—or prep cook—team.

Kevin, who had almost run me over when I first walked in, came racing back into the kitchen before I could get out the door. “I'm with you,” I said.

“Okay. Come and help me and DJ put away this order.”

DJ was outside removing the papery skin from yellow onions and placing them carefully in a large woven basket. “Hey,” he said, not bothering to look up from his task.

“I'm Grant. Here for a tryout today and tomorrow.”

“Another one,” he mumbled toward Kevin with a slight smile.

I helped organize the produce while cooks started to arrive and walk by us. A few would make sarcastic remarks at Kevin or DJ and the guys would fire back. It was in good fun, but there was an underlying tension to the place. It felt competitive. After the produce was put away I moved inside.

The kitchen had eight cooks in it now, each quietly producing the
mise en place
for their station. I helped Kevin roll and shape a batch of russet potato gnocchi while we quietly chatted. “So, where are you coming from, Grant?”

I hesitated. I remembered chef Trotter's admonishment, “If you don't work here a year, you never existed.” But I could tell that Kevin was sizing me up. “Trotter's,” I said.

“Oh. Trotter's. How was that? How long were you there?”

“Not very long,” I said. “It wasn't what I expected.” Thankfully, that ended the conversation.

We finished up the gnocchi and he put a cutting board down for me right next to his. “We're going to cut some brunoise. You okay with a knife?”

Kevin demonstrated the tiny dice, pushed the pieces over to the far corner of my board and said, “Leave those there for a reference.”

I began cutting the turnip, carrot, and green leek tops into the miniature cubes at a good clip. Another cook approached my cutting board, looked at my work, then back at me. He spoke very slowly, making sure the others around us heard him. “Hi. I'm Josh.”

“Grant is from Trotter's,” Kevin spoke up on my behalf.

Josh immediately looked down at my board, poked his finger into a pile of my carrot brunoise and pulled out a single piece from the hundred that was cut on a slight angle to form an inconsequentially uneven cube.

“Kevin, you had better watch this guy. His knife skills aren't so good.” Josh looked me in the eye and said, “You might want to start over.” He slowly walked away.

I looked at the pile of carrots, dumbfounded. Kevin could see me thinking “What the hell?” and decided to encourage me. “They're fine. They look good. He's just trying to intimidate you. Josh is a friend of mine, but he can be a prick sometimes. He worked fish for Bouley and now he thinks he's a god.”

“Where is everyone else from?” I asked.

“Well, all over the place, really. The poissonnier over there, Phil Baker, is a Jean Georges alum. The saucier, Jeffrey Cerciello, worked in Spain at some place called elBulli. Ron Siegel, today is his last day, but he's from Daniel.”

The kitchen was loaded with talent.

As we finished up the brunoise, Kevin headed over to chef Keller, who was busy cleaning foie gras for torchon, and inquired what he should have me do next. “Have him peel and slice tomatoes for Eric,” he said.

Eric Ziebold was manning the garde manger station, working on the components for a sliced tomato salad. We exchanged introductions and he instructed me to blanch, peel, and slice the Early Girl tomatoes using a deli meat slicer.

I made quick work of peeling them and headed to the slicer.

With every stroke across the slicer the tomato juice would run down toward the bottom of the blade then violently spray at me. I sliced thirty tomatoes, seasoned each layer with minced shallots, olive oil,
sel gris
, and black pepper, then meticulously stacked them back together so that they would appear to be a whole tomato. In the process, I looked like an ax murderer, my chef coat covered with tomato-juice splatter.

Chef Keller walked by, looked me up and down, and deadpanned with a wry smile, “Hey. Next time why don't you try to get a little more tomato all over yourself?” He paused a few beats for effect and smiled again. “Go change your coat.”

I couldn't help but smile, even though I was embarrassed.

This place felt different. It felt good.

The day progressed into service, and I ended up camping out next to chef Keller, mainly observing. He was expediting and working the canapé station at the same time. It wasn't a particularly busy night, at least compared to the pace I had experienced at Trotter's. Plus, everything here felt calmer and more methodical. Chef Keller would move slowly and gracefully as he placed giant slabs of foie gras in a hot pan, turn back to expediting, and then turn back to the stove only at the very moment when the liver was ready to be flipped. He was able to carry on a conversation with me while working multiple pans on the flattop and serving as air-traffic control to the rest of the cooks in the kitchen.

“Why did you write me a letter every day?” he asked.

“I wanted a job, Chef,” I replied.

He smiled. “So you thought that would do it?”

“I thought that might get me here, and I knew if I could get that far, then the chance of landing a job was good.”

“So why did you leave Trotter's?”

I let out a sigh and tried to think of how to put things politely. “It just wasn't for me. It's a different place.”

“Different than here?”

“Way different, Chef. Way different.”

I sensed that he knew that before asking and wanted to see if I recognized the differences between the two kitchens. It was fine that I didn't articulate what exactly was different.

No chef should bad-mouth any other.

He finished sautéing a spoonful of julienned abalone, drained them on a towel, and seasoned them with salt and parsley. A brioche crouton was sautéed in the fat that had rendered off the foie, and after it was golden brown and crunchy he placed it in the dead middle of the oversized plate, gently laid the foie gras on top along with a few pieces of Meyer lemon supremes and fried abalone. A cordon of sauce was poured around and a pluche of chervil crowned the top. He moved back a half step to view the plate in its entirety, as he did with every plate before it left the kitchen.

Just as he finished, a front-of-house member ducked in the kitchen and said, “Chef, up on ten.” That meant that someone at table number ten had gotten up from the table for whatever reason, probably to use the restroom. Chef Keller glanced at the tickets and, realizing that it was the table where the foie gras was headed, calmly picked up the plate and handed it to me. “You like foie?” he asked.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Abalone and foie gras, with a Meyer lemon and lemon gastric. Surf and turf, get it?”

If a diner gets up from the table, the food at The French Laundry doesn't go under a heat lamp somewhere. It gets thrown out and the process starts again when the diner returns to his seat. This time, however, chef Keller gave me the plate.

A few of the cooks shot me wicked looks as I ate the dish standing next to chef Keller. Apparently, I figured, this doesn't happen very often.

Chef Keller approached me after the service was over and cleanup started. “You can go home; you don't have to stay and clean.”

“No, Chef. I want to help. I'll stay until the end.” He smirked and walked away. Clearly that was a test.

The next day was largely the same. I felt a bit more comfortable and less self-conscious. I was able to observe the cooks in action. They were good—really good. They didn't talk amongst themselves. They all just manned their stations with their heads down, meticulously working through the prep. There was no chaos in the kitchen, no yelling, and no fear on the faces of the staff. Everything was calm, quiet, and deliberate. At the end of service, before cleanup, chef Keller pulled me aside and asked to speak with me. I followed him to the patio-like space in the back. “So, Grant, you want a job?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“When can you start?”

“Well, I have to find a place to live and move out here, but that shouldn't take too long.”

“How about mid-October? We have a few cooks leaving around then. That should give you plenty of time to find a place and get situated.”

“That sounds great. Thank you, Chef!”

We shook hands and walked back into the kitchen to finish cleaning. And that was it. I was hired. I had no idea what I would be doing; I didn't ask what the position was; and I had no idea what my salary would be. I never asked.

I didn't care.

M
y dad and I loaded up the car with my few belongings and a cooler stocked full of snacks and caffeine. Then we set out to drive the thirty-six hours from St. Clair, Michigan, to California nonstop. I made arrangements to rent a one-bedroom apartment on the north end of Napa. It was furnished, so all I had to pack were clothes, cookbooks, and my knives.

My dad was curious why I was moving all the way across the country to work at a place that I knew little about, that had no national reputation, and that was in such a small town. I could tell he was worried that if this turned out like Trotter's I would be home again in eight weeks.

“I think this will be different, Dad. The food was perfect. And it was funny; it had a sense of humor. Chef Keller was the first one in every morning and the last one to go home. And he cooked!” I explained how rare this seemed, not just at Trotter's but also at the three-star restaurants in France.

We made it to Napa in record time, taking turns driving the whole way. My apartment was in decent shape, so we stocked it with groceries, took about ten minutes to put away all of my clothes, and sat down on the couch.

“Now what?” I asked. “Maybe we go to a few wineries? Explore the valley a bit?” I figured this would be my last chance to do that for a while, and my dad had never been out here.

“Sure. But you know, I was thinking. After hearing you talk about the Laundry the way you have, I would love to see it. To eat that food. It sounds magical.”

“Man, Dad. I don't know. I think they're pretty busy. I wouldn't really feel comfortable asking for a reservation and actually eating there before I even started working.”

“I understand,” he said. “Let's head up the valley and see what we see.”

I felt bad. I certainly had rocky moments with my dad, but both of my parents had been unbelievably supportive of my career. They put me through culinary school, moved me to New York, Grand Rapids, Chicago, and now Napa, and helped me pay my travel and living expenses in each city, allowing me to focus on the work.

And now, for the first time, my dad expressed an interest in learning more about fine dining and where I would be working. The last thing chef Keller said to me before I left was, “If there's anything you need at all, just give us a call. We're here to help.” Chef Keller had known me for a mere two days, but his generosity seemed genuine.

I contemplated all of this for a few moments and then called the kitchen phone. Chef Keller answered. I explained that my dad had moved me out here, that he spent his life owning and working in a small restaurant in St. Clair, and that he really wanted to see where I was going to work. I sheepishly told him that I felt terrible calling and asking for a favor before I even started, and that while I didn't expect to get a table, out of respect for my father I had to at least try.

“I'll call you back in thirty minutes,” chef Keller said. “What's your number?”

“I don't have a phone yet, Chef. I'll have to call you.”

“Sure. Understood. Make it an hour then.”

We sat around for an hour, dozing off a bit from the long drive, then I picked up the phone and called the kitchen again. I felt terribly uncomfortable as I was put on hold for a few minutes before chef Keller picked up. “Grant? You're all set for seven P.M. See you then.”

 

We arrived at the restaurant and found a parking spot on the street right out front. Just like my mom, my dad saw the place and was surprised by how humble it looked. He seemed downright disappointed.

“Wait until we get inside the courtyard,” I countered. “The ivy growing on the building is just turning red and the herb gardens are awesome.”

We walked down the gravel-lined path that led to a lush garden courtyard. The flourishing honeysuckle and rosebushes created a wall around the property, almost hiding the charming stone facade of the building and the view into the serene kitchen. In the center of the courtyard was a baby Meyer lemon tree surrounded by a circular herb garden. The sun cast a golden glow from just over the mountains on the west side of the valley. A few people sat in the far corner of the garden, sipping glasses of champagne.

“Wow,” my dad said while looking around. “This is beautiful. Just beautiful.”

We walked in.

A statuesque woman with dark hair and large green eyes was standing behind a podium and greeted us in a soft voice. “Welcome to The French Laundry.”