Life, on the Line (13 page)

“Sounds good. Don't make them too big; they're getting a lot of food.”

“Yes, Chef.”

I rolled the pasta and worked on the emulsion and garnishes first so we could taste the finished product in plenty of time to make adjustments.

When service started the kitchen was buzzing with energy. Mark looked across the stove at me and gave me a serious nod while his eyes stayed focused on mine. It was his way of saying, “Don't be the guy to fuck it up tonight.”

Chef Keller was typically unflappable. But this table had him keyed up. And nobody wanted to let him down.

The service sped up and the team locked into a rhythm. Chef Keller would call out an order, “Order in, four tasting.”

The cooks fired back the order in unison like an adrenaline-fueled football team on Super Bowl Sunday: “Four tasting!”

We were all on top of our game, and Chef knew it. About halfway through the critic's menu he gave his classic “tell.” Whenever chef Keller was happy and things were cruising along, he would click the heels of his wooden clogs together. The sound must have brought him pleasure, like the clink of two wineglasses during a toast. He would only pull that out when the kitchen was rocking.

I was dipping into the oven to grab a stack of warmed plates when I heard it. I stayed low but picked my head up to see if I could catch Mark's eye across the stove. He was looking at me, giving me the nod again, but this time with a big grin on his face.

After the last course went out, Chef went to the dining room to say hello to the table. Eric, Mark, and I cleaned the kitchen and anxiously awaited word from the dining room. “What did they say, Chef?” we asked in unison.

He smiled. “They liked it. I think they really liked it. That was a big one, guys,” he said as his heels clicked together once more. “Thanks, guys. Go get some rest. That was a long day.”

It is hard to overstate how exciting that day was and how good it felt that we pulled it off so well.

A week later the cover page of the
New York Times
dining section featured a review, by Ruth Riechl, of the meal: IN NAPA VALLEY, A RESTAURANT SCALES THE PEAK.

The article heaped praise on the restaurant and chef Keller, but one line gave The French Laundry the mythic aura that it carries to this day:

T
he praise from Ruth and the Outstanding Chef Award from the James Beard Foundation that followed in May catapulted chef Keller and The French Laundry to legendary, destination-dining status. The phone rang and did not stop. Reservations became impossible to get for lunch and dinner, a total of ten services per week. It became common to have a hundred patrons for dinner and eighty for lunch.

Chef Keller arrived around 10:00 A.M. on the weekends, expedited lunch service, then rolled right into butchering fish or cleaning foie gras as soon as lunch was broken down. The team prepped frantically until service, and most of the staff meals were eaten from deli containers while monitoring sauces as they reduced or garnishes as they cooked.

In addition to the immense pressure brought on by the onslaught of popularity, chef Keller was in the process of opening his second restaurant, Bouchon, and had begun work on
The French Laundry Cookbook.
The man did not stop moving for a second. One day he overheard a cook complaining about being tired and sent him home. “You're tired? Why don't you go home and sleep, then.” That became the running insult that cooks would jab at a yawning coworker or when they sensed a lull in productivity.

While all of the cooks were talented, a core group emerged. Mark, Eric, Greg, and I were the guys who chef Keller would rely on to anchor the busy services, train incoming cooks, or lay on a few extra courses for a special table of guests. There were a few unspoken rules: chef Keller was God; try to be like chef Keller, exactly; the food was perfect or it was wrong; failure was never an option; and “yes, Chef” was the only proper response to any request.

When chef Keller asked us to help in the recipe documentation and plating of the dishes for the cookbook, we jumped at the opportunity. Mark and I arrived at chef Keller's house every Monday afternoon during the month of June to join recipe writer Susie Heller and photographer Deborah Jones. We prepared the recipes while Susie documented every pinch of salt. Then Mark and I would plate the dishes for Deborah to photograph. It was an amazing experience that made us feel connected to the chef and the restaurant. It also gave us a false sense of superiority over the other cooks, and rifts began forming in our kitchen relationships.

After service each night the cooks gathered around chef Keller's workstation. We would go through menu changes and orders for the following day, or discuss VIP courses that had to be created. At one point Mark and I suggested that we would be happy to come in and work the service on our stations in the morning as well, replacing the AM cooks.

“You really think you guys are better?” chef Keller asked.

“Well, Chef,” I said. “I think we could do a better job, yes. I think the night would go smoother given all of the special dishes going out tomorrow.”

“I agree, Chef,” Mark said.

Chef Keller expected this level of arrogance from Mark, but was both surprised and disappointed that it had seeped into me. He turned directly to me and said, “What happened to you?” It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice to me, and the question cut deeply.

 

Mark and I pulled into our parking spot on the street and got out of the car with a protein shake in one hand and our blue aprons in the other. “I feel a bit off today,” he said. “Might be a shit day.”

We changed into our coats and headed for the kitchen. It was Saturday and the AM team was about to start a busy lunch service. Mark headed toward chef Keller to check on the status of his PM station with AM
chef de partie
Kirk. He seemed to be gone for a while, and I glanced at the empty cutting board next to mine wondering what was taking so long. A few minutes later Mark came storming back over, grabbed his knives, and turned to me: “Um. I'm leaving.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I just got fired.” He walked toward the back door.

“Dude. What the hell? How are you getting home?”

“I'll walk. It's nice out.”

“It's ten miles, man. Let me give you a ride.”

“No. Only one of us needs to get fired today. I'll be fine. Happy Fourth of July. I guess the fireworks came early.”

Mark had trained me on the garde manger and fish stations before moving on to cook meat. Not only did he take the time to train me well, but he watched over me closely, supporting me when I was slipping. He was the reason I moved from the commis position to the line. He had tenacity, confidence, and the respect of everyone in the kitchen. Nobody fucked with him. He backed up his arrogance with extreme discipline and pure talent. We had become close friends and roommates, and I looked up to him like a big brother. When Mark walked out the back door I felt vulnerable. Together we felt like an unstoppable team. We pushed each other to do better—faster
mise en place
, more VIP options for Chef to choose from, who could be the guy who is so together and ahead that he can walk to Ranch Market at staff meal and buy the other guy a sandwich and a Gatorade?

It turned out that Mark was wearing black jeans that day. No jeans were allowed, and when chef Keller noticed Mark's clothing choice, his mention of the jeans sparked a comment about acting privileged and above the law. Neither of the chefs felt like backing down that day. When chef Keller asked Mark if he had an attitude and Mark replied yes, Thomas told him to take his attitude home and not bring it back.

 

My parent's marriage hit ground again.

I called home one afternoon to speak with my mom and see how she was handling a new separation when my uncle Jim answered instead. I heard the voices of my mom's sisters in the background and figured they were over at the house for dinner.

“Hey, it's Grant. Can I talk to my mom?”

“Grant, I think it's best if she gives you a call tomorrow. She isn't feeling well right now. Everything is fine; a bunch of people are with her. But she'll have to call you tomorrow.”

I found out the next day that the separation from my dad had taken a more insidious turn—my mom had swallowed a handful of painkillers. I wrote my dad a letter explaining that if he didn't treat her with respect, then we no longer had a relationship. I never heard back from him.

My relationship with my father was crippled, my mother's life was a mess, and I was halfway across the country and couldn't help in any meaningful way. My parents were heading for divorce and my fantasy of one day opening a restaurant as a family had vanished. My relationships at the Laundry, after Mark was fired, fueled a new sense of displacement.

 

Cindy had moved to Sacramento for the summer of 1998 to fulfill an internship obligation for the law degree she was completing at Notre Dame. Our relationship had been a long-distance, on-again, off-again affair since we graduated from high school. In theory this was going to be an “on-again” time. The reality of my working in the restaurant industry did not mesh well with the home life she wanted in the long run, but she was willing to give it a try. We settled into a routine of making a day-a-week commute between Napa and Sacramento. That worked for a few months before my work demands got in the way. I was more aware of the sacrifices I was making, though, and I started to entertain thoughts of living a more ordinary life on a schedule that would permit me personal time.

“I think it's time for me to leave, Chef. I just don't feel like I'm mentally in it right now.”

“I agree,” he said.

“What do you think? Should I move on?”

“I can't make that decision for you, but it seems like it might be the best thing.”

“I want to leave on good terms. I don't want to jeopardize the time I have spent here or put my relationship with you in danger. I'll give you as much notice as you need.”

“How about two months?” His words rang in my ears—it sounded like I had quit.

 

“Two days left, old man; you're going to miss me,” I mumbled quietly to DJ as we stood shoulder to shoulder prepping.

“You know, I didn't think you had it in you to leave. I thought you might follow your bro Mark out the door, but figured they would pull you back in. What are you going to do, Spanky?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe wait some tables and try to make some real money. Have some free time. I'm just not sure yet.”

“I told you—crash and burn. I knew you would fry out.” DJ was making fun of me, but I knew he was sad to see me leaving. “Hey. A friend of mine told me about a winery job that's open if you want to give that a shot. Seems like a good gig, too. It's a small place run by an older guy. He basically wants help so he doesn't have to do everything by himself. I was considering it myself. You know it's just a matter of time before TK fires me or I implode.”

When I accepted the job at the Laundry I had the unrealistic notion that I would be able to find the free time outside the restaurant to learn the wine trade. Surrounded by vineyards and the core of the American wine industry, there was no escaping that Napa meant wine and that my culinary education should include an immersive experience in the vineyards. Once I began working fourteen-hour days, however, it became obvious that that was never going to happen. Outside of work I barely had time to lift weights, wash my clothes, and try to catch up on sleep.

The job sounded perfect.

The next day DJ slid a c-fold towel across my cutting board. In blue Sharpie it had written on it: LA JOTA. BILL SMITH. 965-4327.

I called Bill the following day to learn about the position.

“I understand that you've been at the Laundry for two years, so I know you're not afraid of work. Still, I need to see if I like you before I bring you on—we'll be spending a good amount of time together. Can you come up and visit the winery for an interview tomorrow?”

The thirty-minute drive up the valley to La Jota was stunning. After turning off Highway 29 onto Howell Mountain Road the foliage became dense with manzanita and redwood trees. It was a peaceful, quiet world that was so close, yet I didn't know it existed.

I pulled into a narrow blacktop driveway with the address hand-painted on a white board. As I slowly drove up the road to the winery, an oncoming truck approached and a hand appeared out the window, waving me over to the side of the drive. The truck pulled up next to me and the driver rolled down the window. A small man with big, saggy cheeks and white hair that stood out against his tan complexion flashed me a huge smile. “Howdy. You Grant?”

“I am.”

“I'm Bill. I thought I'd be able to sneak out to the store for some coffee before you got here.”

“Sorry, I'm early. I wasn't sure how long it would take to get up here.”

“No worries. Let's go back to the winery and drop your car off and then we can go together. We'll head to St. Helena and get one of those good lattes. They don't serve any caffeine in Angwin.”

I wasn't sure what that meant, so I just smiled and nodded. Bill turned the truck around and I followed him back to the winery. I knew from DJ that Bill was an older man, but I was surprised to find that he appeared old enough to be my grandfather. I wondered why he was still working so hard.

We made our way back down the valley to grab a coffee while we chatted. Bill went over his story: He was in the oil business in Bakersfield and did well for himself but disliked the location and the work. He loved food and wine, so in the midseventies he decided to buy some land in Napa and try to make his own wine. He bought La Jota, a small winery that had fallen into disrepair and had not produced any wine since Prohibition. Bill planted most of the twenty-five acres with the Bordeaux varietals of Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc, but his affinity for Condrieu led him to plant a small amount of Viognier as well. In 1982 La Jota made its first commercial vintage.