by Scott Haas
“You introduced him to Chris Schlesinger?” I asked.
“That was me!” Stew said. “Chris hired Tony to work as a line cook at East Coast Grill!”
The third course was brought to our table: miso-and-sesame-grilled hiramasa. It was a stunning, thick fillet of fish with dense flavor. Stew dug in happily.
As he ate, he rhapsodized about Marjorie. I had a hard time picturing the two of them as a couple, but I know that it is impossible to understand any marriage, failed or successful. His eyes lit up, his voice deepened, and he spoke more slowly when he talked about his ex-wife. I wondered if he still loved her. I wondered if he still carried around that hurt. For all his bluster, Stew’s vulnerability made him very appealing.
Our fourth course arrived.
“Spice-crusted striped bass collar with pea shoot greens and Sicilian olive oil,” said our waiter.
He put the plates before us: very beautiful, very flavorful.
“I’m a New York Jew,” Stew continued between bites. “P.S. seventy, the Bronx! I love stories! I’m an out-of-the-box thinker!”
“Smart like Marjorie,” I said.
“Oh, she’s one of the smartest people I ever met,” he said. “She is phenomenal! A great study!”
He spoke at length of his ex-wife’s intellect and talent, and then about himself.
“I’m just a marketing guy,” Stew said. “I could be Larry David. I’m not as brilliant as Woody Allen.”
Our fifth course was a spectacular ragoût of blood sausages, an egg, hen of the woods mushrooms, and corn kernels. The presentation alone was satisfying, and when I began to eat it, slowly savoring each bite, the effect was soothing.
“Amazing,” I said to Stew. “This is so unbelievably tasty!”
“It’s good,” he said. “I like Tony’s cooking.” He paused. “Where was I? Oh, Tony. I was talking about Tony.”
Stew had not been talking about Tony. He had been talking about Marjorie, whom Tony resembled much more so than looking like him, and then himself.
“Tony wasn’t very big,” Stew said, “but he always had very good hands. You know when he was a kid? They drafted him in Little League to be a catcher because of his hands!”
“Did you ever figure that he would one day be a chef? You mention his hands. Anything else?”
“We knew that Tony had some kind of artistic ability we didn’t understand,” said Stew. “Maybe it runs in the family. My grandfather—my mother’s father—he was a cabinetmaker. He made his own tools. He made magnificent statues, too. He carved them.”
“Wasn’t your father a tailor?” I asked. “I saw a photo of him when he was a young man in Lithuania.”
“That wasn’t my father,” Stew said. “That was my uncle. He lost his family in whatever.”
Whatever? I thought. He meant the Holocaust, but being incessantly upbeat, Stew could not even say that word.
Our sixth course arrived. Good thing the portions were small; the richness of the dishes was nearly overwhelming. Plates of veal and sweetbreads and parsnips. Salty sauce, sweet parsnips, dense sweetbreads. It all came together.
“Tony never focused on anything until he started cooking,” Stew continued. “He did it without anyone pushing him.”
“He found his calling,” I said.
Tony had to find something with high stakes that only he could do. With two very successful, driven parents, he needed to prove to himself, and to them, that although academics was not an area where he would excel, nor sports, nor marketing, he could achieve greatness worthy of their respect and pride.
“He did,” said Stew. “Good thing, too! I come from a complicated family. I wanted Tony to be a success. It didn’t matter what he did. When he goofed around at U Michigan his first two years I told him, I said, ‘If you didn’t want to go to college, why didn’t you say something?’ ”
“Complicated family?”
“I have a brother who went to federal prison,” Stew said. “They found marijuana in his house. He was locked up for several years. He was growing it and selling it. Guess how they caught him?”
“No idea.”
“The crazy guy had tapped illegally into a power line to get the electricity needed for all the growing lamps in his basement.”
“Wow.”
“I wanted to see Tony make something of himself,” Stew said. “I helped him any way I could. I did all the electrical work at the first restaurant. The thing is: I can see gears in my head! I love mechanical engineering.”
TONY BROUGHT THE DESSERT OVER—STRACCIATELLA CHEESE WITH melon sorbet—and sat down next to his father.
“Gentlemen,” he said with a bemused look, “how was everything?”
“Delicious,” I said.
“Wonderful,” said Stew.
Stew’s pride in his son was unalloyed at that moment.
Tony propped his chin on his elbow and listened to his father talk about him.
“I took this kid to Little League every game and every practice,” said Stew.
“That he did,” said Tony. “You were a great dad.”
“He was a good ball player,” said Stew.
“Yeah, Dad, but tell him about what happened when I struck out or missed a catch,” said Tony.
Stew looked genuinely surprised.
“What happened?” he asked Tony.
“He would yell at me,” said Tony. “Say I was a lousy player! Tell me I needed to practice more or I’d never be any good!”
“Oh, c’mon,” said Stew, laughing. “I did not!”
“You did!” said Tony. He laughed, too.
“Yeah, well, maybe that did you good, Tony,” I said. “Without your dad’s high expectations of you, maybe you wouldn’t have pushed yourself to become a chef. Maybe that’s also where your yelling comes from.”
Tony shook his head.
“How about your father?” Tony asked me. “What was he like when you struck out?”
“The opposite of your father,” I said. “My father would blame the umpire and say he was blind, or he would put down the game and say that it was stupid and unfair.”
Tony’s father looked at me. Our dinner had lasted three hours.
“You could write a book about me,” Stew said.
II.
THE SAVIOR’S BUTCHER AND OTHER TAILS
All of us have kids and spouses and pets and hobbies, but that’s not where we live.
They operated on the principle that you weren’t ready for a task until you admitted it was beyond you.
FROM YOU THINK THAT’S BAD, BY JIM SHEPARD
THIRTEEN
Shadows
SEVERAL DAYS AFTER DINNER WITH STEWART, I WAS BACK IN THE RESTAURANT on a Tuesday afternoon. Staff meal had just been served at the pass: rice from South Carolina that Matt had explained was an heirloom heritage variety recently said to have been rediscovered; stewed, smoked pork shanks; and long-braised collard greens. It was leftovers from a benefit dinner held the night before when Tony had cooked with Sean Brock, another James Beard award-winning chef, from Charleston.
Danny handed me a plate and told me to dig in. He needed to insist: I felt part of Craigie, after a year, and not part of Craigie. I was not an outsider, but where did I fit in?
“Crazy good, dude,” said Dakota between bites.
Fist bump to me, back to his plate.
I had come to Craigie to try to understand what motivated Tony. As an outsider, I had observed that the intensity of his anger was not just about working in the restaurant, but related to not being an academic star but being expected to excel in school; striking out at bat and being told it was his fault; having a father who competed with him; and growing up in a wealthy community of high achievers but having very little clue, until his early twenties, of what he needed to do to accomplish comparable success.
I now understood that Tony was trying to define himself by cooking food that could not be categorized. Which made sense: He was not easily named, either. His
food reflected that amorphousness.
When the family meal ended, cooks came forward to clear away the pass and bring the pots and plates and flatware to soak and be scrubbed clean. The kitchen returned to its state before service: shoulders bent in, everyone focused on the station in front of them. Nothing abstract: no future, no past.
Then Tony ran from the bar area into the kitchen shouting: “Let’s go! Let’s go! Everyone stop what they’re doing!”
He ran to the top of the stairs.
“Everyone upstairs! Now! Move it!”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Bunny’s birthday,” said Tony.
Every staff birthday was celebrated at Craigie with a song and cake.
“Hey, Bobby,” said Tony. “Your turn.”
“My turn?” Bobby said.
“We always choose a different cook to lead each singing of ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” Tony said, giggling. “Today’s Bobby’s turn!”
“No, I can’t,” Bobby said, backing away, walking in reverse toward the stairs leading down to prep. He was laughing, but he didn’t think it was funny. Like many cooks, Bobby was shy and awkward with people and more confident around food. “No, no, I can’t!”
“Chef didn’t ask you, Bobby,” said Danny. “Now get back here and fucking sing!”
Bobby sang.
When the cake was cut, I watched from a distance and heard the laughter and saw the happiness that comes from feeling lucky and working hard and being part of something larger than oneself.
“Hey,” said Tony, running up to where I stood apart.
He handed me cake.
“I wanted to make sure you got a piece,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Welcome to the family,” Tony said.
When he said that, I felt a rush of sentiment. I think of myself as an outsider and take pride in observing rather than joining, so when a knot rose in my throat, it was surprising. Just like almost everything that happened at Craigie: The improvisation forced me, and everyone else, to explore and accept personal dimensions that had been hidden by habit. Tony made people change their habits, their likes and dislikes, their tastes in food, and ultimately how they viewed themselves. That is powerful cooking!
Shortly after the birthday celebration, I said to Tony, “I want to shadow your staff. In the hospital, residents and medical students and interns work with the doctors by following them as they take care of patients. So here at Craigie I want to work with a number of your cooks for the next four months. I’ll do everything they tell me to do.”
“That’s fine,” said Tony at once. “I just want you to take ownership of your work—Work hard!”
“I’ll do it!”
He put up his hand: High five!
“Who do you want to start with?” Tony asked.
“Santos,” I said. “He’s low in rank, but he’s here all the time. He’s indispensable.”
Tony laughed. “Excellent choice,” Tony said. He laughed some more.
“What’s so funny?”
“Santos is going to beat you down!” Tony said. “He’s tough! You are gonna be his bitch!”
Tony explained that a typical day for Santos started at nine A.M. and ended at eight P.M., six days a week, but I said that I did not need to be with him for eleven hours each day for twelve out of fourteen days to understand and appreciate the psychodynamics associated with his work. Instead, I proposed a few days for several hours for two weeks.
Tony agreed.
Afterward, I would work with Bobby, Jill, and Dakota. While doing so, I would carry around my notebook and write down everything of interest.
Tony went to the top of the stairs and motioned for me to follow him.
“Santos!” Tony shouted.
“Yes, boss?” came a voice from below.
“I got someone for you,” Tony said.
Tony’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at me as I heard Santos’s footsteps thud up the stairs. Santos moved heavily for a small man.
“Santos is going to fuck you up,” Tony said.
“Yes, boss?” asked Santos.
“Scott is going to work with you,” Tony said to him. “You’ll be his boss, tell him what to do. He will do anything and everything you tell him to do. Okay?”
“Okay, boss,” said Santos.
“Good luck,” said Tony, and then he returned to the kitchen while I followed Santos back downstairs.
Wordlessly, Santos walked to one of the two walk-ins and withdrew a large stainless-steel tray that held two large fish. Then we went to the prep area where on one side butchering took place and on the other side desserts were being prepared by Mary and Rachel.
Santos, his back to Mary, his head bent over the fish, which he had now placed on a cutting board, said something to her in Spanish. He put on surgical gloves and toweled the fish dry. I caught, “Work, boss, this guy.”
“What’s he saying?” I asked Mary, who was convulsed with laughter.
“He wants to know why you’re following him around,” Mary said.
Santos had not understood what Tony had told him to do. I wondered just how often that might have occurred. I asked Mary to tell Santos in Spanish what Tony had said to him in English.
“Oh, said Santos, beginning to cut off the head of one of the fish. “So for the couple of weeks I’m this guy’s boss!”
“That’s right,” said Mary. “El Jefe wants you to be his Jefe!”
Santos nodded his head and continued cutting the fish. Now he slit open its belly and separated the body from the spine.
“What’s the name of the fish?” I asked.
I held the cutting board steady for him.
“I don’t know,” said Santos. “See this ice?”
He showed me a tray of ice beneath the first tray that had held the fish.
“Yes,” I said.
“It keeps the fish cold,” Santos said.
He took a pair of scissors and began snipping the thinnest pieces of fish away from the bone.
“Sexy, huh?” said Santos.
Then he opened a drawer from the chest below the cutting board. The drawer was a mess. It held a hammer, knives, and crumpled-up towels. Santos took out a pair of tweezers.
“Touch this,” Santos said. He indicated the part of the fish that had been below the head.
“Okay,” I said.
“Lots of little bones,” said Santos.
He began to pull out each bone with the tweezers, working fast and meticulously. The entire process took about twelve minutes.
“So nice,” said Santos. “This fish? One of my favorites.”
Having cleaned the fish and broken it down, Santos set to work on the second fish. I took the tray that had held it and put it in one of the sinks. It was all I felt capable of doing. The work was humbling.
When I returned to Santos, Tony was beside him. He had his hands on his hips, and he was scowling.
“Santos,” said Tony, “you are not cutting the fish close enough.”
Tony held up the fish’s head, which had been tossed in a white bucket used for garbage, and showed Santos how he had left on about an inch of product.
“This is why Pasternak cuts most of his own fish,” Tony said. He was referring to Dave Pasternack, the chef at Esca, which is arguably the best Italian fish and seafood restaurant in the country. “This is an experiment at Craigie. Normally I cut my own fish.”
“I know,” I said.
Santos did not say anything. His expression did not change, either.
“Listen, Santos,” said Tony, “you have to push up with your knife. You’re pushing down.”
Tony illustrated.
“No waste carne,” Tony said. “That’s fucking dinero. If it’s in the basura, it’s a fucking problem.”
Santos nodded his head. He did not appear to be in the least upset.
Tony saw the open drawer.
“And clean up your space, Santos! It’s a fucking me
ss,” he said.
Tony walked away. I felt embarrassed for Santos, but he still showed no reaction. He went on cutting the fish. When he was done, he threw away the spine and the head.
“And now the dinero into the fucking basura,” Santos said with a big laugh. “Now you take the trays upstairs to wash.”
I stacked four empty trays and carried them up. Santos showed me how to tilt them and place them in an industrial Hobart washer. I lowered the levers on both sides of the square machine, and seconds later with a loud whoosh and a cloud of steam, everything was clean. I waited until the trays were cool enough to handle, and then I carried them back downstairs, where Santos showed me how to put them into racks.
Then we returned to the walk-in.
“That’s a different fish,” I said, when Santos took a large metal tray out from a shelf in the walk-in.
“Striped bass,” Santos said.
We headed back to the prep area. As cooks ran past us, turning this way or that, they shouted, “Corner! Corner sharp! Corner! Corner sharp!”
At his workstation, Santos took the fish off the tray and placed it on the surface of the cutting board. I held the tail while Santos placed a thick meat cleaver at the point of the gills and then slammed a hammer onto it so that the head came off. The black gills fanned out as he hit the fish. Dark, clotted blood, nearly black, plenty of it, began to pool around the head. The sound of the hammer coincided with the cleaver and the flesh and the wood until it was musical.
“I need towels,” said Santos.
I got him towels.
When I returned, Tony was at his side.
“Mas o menos or mas todos perfectos?” Tony said to Santos. He was shouting at him.
Santos continued to waste product.
“Santos,” Tony continued, “part of the problem is your knives. You need to sharpen your knives! You’re using dull knives.”
Then Tony went away again. Santos got a deep plastic tray filled with water and put a few earth-colored sharpening stones in it. He sharpened his knives on the clean surface of the stones. It took him as much time to sharpen the knives as it did to cut the fish.
