Back of the House

by Scott Haas

  “We’ve dealt with allergies,” said Tony. “We’ve cleaned toilets. We make things happen. So here’s to 2012!” He waited for the family to quiet down. Then he said, slowly, his voice so low that you had to listen closely, “Every year we write a new chapter.”

  AS MY TIME INSIDE CRAIGIE WAS NEARING THE END, KAROLYN AND I ARRANGED to meet. I invited her to my home and made us breakfast, figuring that the intimate setting would make it easier for her to talk openly about Tony.

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to talking to me,” she said breezily.

  “I didn’t want to intrude,” I said.

  “You’re not intruding!” Karolyn said.

  We had fresh-squeezed orange juice, rye toast, Swiss yogurt, Amish butter, and a pot of Vietnamese coffee. Like the cooks I had fed before Christmas, Karolyn was grateful to have someone take care of her for a change.

  “Strong coffee,” she said after taking a sip. “It has a faint taste of chocolate.” Karolyn has a wide face, and her hair was brushed back so you could see her forehead. She looked like the kindergarten teacher she had been: honest, kind, and nothing hidden about her. The overall effect was calming.

  “It seems the perfect combination,” I said, “for a chef to be married to a kindergarten teacher. He lives in a world of madness. That you’re grounded must be very important to him.”

  “Tony is actually surprising,” Karolyn said. “He’s more pragmatic than I am.”

  “You have to be practical when running a restaurant,” I said. “Still, it’s not like running a kindergarten class and soothing little kids, is it?”

  “No,” she said, and laughed. “Look, I can relate to his madness. That’s why I’ve always had a restaurant job.”

  Then she asked me a question: “Do people lose their instincts when the chef is in charge?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Do they ever learn to be in the groove?” she asked. “In the kitchen, on the floor. They don’t act independently.”

  “Some do,” I said.

  “Sure,” Karolyn said. “Danny is a sled dog. Orly is joyful. Matt works hard. There’s lots of energy, but not a whole organization.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I’ve seen it.”

  “It’s a lament,” she said, “the same lament since he opened his doors, and I wonder: Why hasn’t he solved that problem? It drives him mad. I’m half-joking when I say that there should be a Craigie learning specialist. The staff doesn’t know how to organize themselves. We draw in people with learning disabilities and ADD. Millennial employees! A learning specialist would teach them organizational skills.”

  “So you’d apply classroom techniques in the restaurant,” I said.

  “Right,” she said. “If they don’t have the organizational skills, you keep burning through guys and gals,” she said. “Why continue doing things the same way? Why not create something in the kitchen that helps them organize?”

  “Until that happens,” I said, “the situation will continue to be deeply frustrating for Tony.”

  Karolyn nodded her head in agreement.

  “Two different people have said to me after a couple of drinks, these were a server and a cook, that they think there must be a side to Tony they don’t usually see in the restaurant,” she said.

  “What exactly did they say?” I asked.

  “ ‘You humanize him. We look at you and Charlie when you’re with him. Seeing him with his family makes him more likable,’ ” she said.

  “It’s true, when I talk to Tony about his family, he is less intense. We’re all like that to some degree, but chefs, I think, have greater intensity than most people. I’m guessing you knew this when you decided to marry a chef.”

  “I wish I could be in the restaurant about one day a week,” Karolyn said. “And we’re both well aware of the fact that most restaurant couples don’t make it. So we catch ourselves once in a while, saying, ‘Wait a minute: Have I told you lately that you’re important to me?’ ”

  We peeled back the foil from the little cups of Emmi yogurt. We each ate spoonfuls.

  “I think it’s easier for Tony than for his cooks and servers,” I said. “As the owner, he has total control. He can walk away. He can take a day off. He can go to the gym any time of day.”

  “That’s true,” said Karolyn. “Just the other day I needed a break from Charlie. I called him. He came home.”

  “I saw that, too. Last month he went home each night to light Chanukah candles with Charlie and then came back to the restaurant.”

  “He did,” said Karolyn. “But it’s not always easy for us. I do lean on him. I’ll say, ‘I’m not getting what I need.’ ”

  In the brightly lit kitchen where most of the wall surfaces were glass, there was a transparency to our conversation.

  “Tony will say, ‘You have no idea what I’m going through,’ ” she said. “At home he will roll out of bed, go on the computer, get on the phone. I have to say, ‘Pay attention to Charlie. Can you spend some time unplugged?’ He says, ‘No, I can’t, I really can’t.’ I’ll ask him: ‘Do you notice? Do you care?’ ”

  Karolyn spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, not sad or angry, not resigned or impatient. Loving Tony for his detachment, which, by implication, was an endorsement.

  “He gets single-minded. He doesn’t see anything else,” she said. “Tony will say, ‘You don’t get it. This is our lives,’ and I’ll say, ‘I want more than a warm body.’ ” She paused again. “It’s lonely. It is lonely.”

  I cleared the plates, brought them to the sink, and poured more thick, black coffee.

  “How is he different at home from the way he acts in the restaurant?” I asked.

  “He’s awkward or clumsy,” she said.

  “Oh, come on. I’ve seen him in action. He moves like an athlete.”

  “Right,” Karolyn said, drinking the last drop of coffee. “He could navigate the restaurant blindfolded, but at home he bumps into stuff.”

  “Why is that?”

  “In the restaurant, as the chef, he always has the right of way,” Karolyn said. “At home he doesn’t always have the right of way.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The First Thing You See,

  The Last Thing You See

  ONCE THROUGH THE GLASS DOORS, YOU PASS BY THE SMALL RECEPTION area and face, directly in front of you, an open kitchen. There you see the chef and the cooks behind him.

  One hundred twenty-one covers were expected on what I decided would be my last night in the kitchen at Craigie. I would spend six hours beside Tony. Watching him, taking it all in, trying finally to see what it took for him to be a chef.

  “I’m not angry,” he said with a laugh.

  I had told him once again that I thought he was, and that his anger interfered with his achievement and efforts to run the restaurant.

  “You try getting these guys to cook,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the cooks. “You’ve seen what it’s like.”

  “I have,” I said, “and I agree. It’s frustrating. You’re right to feel angry. It’s how you express that anger that I wonder about. I don’t think it’s productive to yell at people. It doesn’t make them better at their jobs.”

  He shook his head and wrote on a couple of tickets coming in. He was more animated than I had seen him in a long time, energetic, but focused. I thought of all that I had learned from him over the past eighteen months. Profound concentration was at the top of the list.

  Tony clapped his hands.

  “Okay,” he said to the cooks, “let’s do it!”

  Doors had just opened. Casually, well-dressed people filed in. A man took a seat ringside and immediately began taking pictures of the cooks with his phone.

  Katie, the server Tony had referred to as awesome at the tense staff meeting months ago, came up to the pass.

  “Chef,” she said, “a deuce wants a tasting with the pig’s head as the final course, and the woman has allergies to curry,
crab, and vanilla.”

  “No crab in the house,” said Tony. “Curry? A curry allergy? Curry is a spice mix. Can you please find out what spices she’s allergic to? Cumin? Coriander? Fennel?”

  Katie returned to the guests.

  “Coming up, walking a chicken,” said Devon.

  Devon was a new cook. He had replaced Kyle. Devon had long eyebrows like scimitars. He walked a smooth, perfect line between Matt and Marian to present the bird to Tony for inspection.

  “Kyle,” Tony said to me, “did not work out. Lots of attitude.”

  The chicken was flat-out beautiful: golden brown with dark patches, promising to be crisp and juicy, the aroma enough to make you think about it.

  The man ringside, eating alone, was staring at the open kitchen where the cooks were now moving rapidly. He stroked his white beard and adjusted his old-fashioned eyeglasses. He sipped champagne from a flute. He mopped sauce from his plate with a slice of bread. He snapped more photos: Showtime!

  “Okay, she’s not allergic to curry,” said Katie, having returned to the pass. “She says it just makes her nose itch.”

  “Great,” said Tony. “So no crab, no vanilla. Those are the real allergies.”

  Matt began to plate the chicken that Devon had brought over. The teamwork was impressive.

  “Move over, ya big lug,” Tony said to Matt with affection.

  They both laughed.

  Tony got a pan of sauce from Patrick. He had moved Patrick from garde manger to saucier this week.

  “What’s in that sauce?” I asked Tony.

  “Toasted garlic, cilantro, dashi, and a little soy,” Tony said. “Just a simple little pan sauce.”

  Tony was handed mussels and Arctic char. He spooned the mussels into large white bowls, placed the char on top, and spooned the golden sauce over them.

  “Jill,” Tony said, as he was working, “put paprika on your list of things to do tonight.”

  “Yes, Chef,” she said.

  “Patrick,” Tony said, “tighter on the scallops.”

  “Tighter on the scallops, Chef,” said Patrick.

  Matt set out four bowls next to Tony and ladled in soup.

  “Mr. Foley,” said Tony, “shave truffles on the soup.”

  Matt got hold of a winter black truffle the size of a Ping-Pong ball and began shaving curls. When he was done shaving, Tony took the truffle, put it to his nose, and then handed it to me.

  “Amazing, huh?” Tony said. “Tuber melanosporum. I get these from Tennessee. Better than China, better than Oregon!”

  It was early in the evening, but the kitchen was moving with consistent rhythm. The planning, anticipation, and preparation were paying off.

  Bunny arrived at the pass.

  “Eighty-six the burgers,” she said.

  Two of the by now sold-out burgers arrived at the pass. Tony was going to plate them with bacon on top. He looked unhappy, however.

  “Guys,” he said to Davey, Marian, and Devon, “you’re being cheap on my bacon. I need more bacon.”

  “After all, you are the Prince of Pork!” shouted Davey.

  I thought of how watching Tony make the burgers had changed forever the way I cook them at home. I still bought Wagyu-style beef from Snake River Farms in Idaho that Thomas Keller had introduced me to years ago, but now I pan-seared them in Amish butter, put high-end Gruyère on top of the meat under a broiler, and fried bacon from a farm in Kentucky called Father’s. I cooked in steps; each product required a different technique. The result tasted so much better than what I had been doing. Tony had taught me how to think like a chef.

  Tony posted a ticket: “S2 Ally to Crab/Vanilla, Pig Head Final.”

  Everything was scripted in the restaurant, whether it was front of the house or in the kitchen, which meant that all you needed to do to be successful was to memorize your lines and say them when prompted. Stay in character. What a relief to be someone else every day, someone with purpose, someone who fed others, someone who served, someone who could, at least for a while, forget their fears and needs.

  “Jillian, I want to taste that sauce you’re working on,” Tony said. “Jillian, I want a veg pasta in the window!”

  “Yes, Chef,” said Jill.

  Tony saw that Patrick was having difficulties, so he walked over to help him out. He stood next to Patrick and began to stir sauces in two small pans.

  “I’m showing Patrick how to make sauce,” Tony said to me.

  Tony squirted juices from squeeze bottles into the pans. He dipped a finger into the boiling sauce and tasted it. He shook the pans. Then he spooned the finished sauce onto pieces of salmon that Patrick had placed in white bowls.

  “Does that sauce have a name?” I asked Tony.

  “Toasted garlic saffron,” Tony said.

  “Do you make it the same way each time?” I asked.

  “Sometimes I’ll add miso or yuzu,” he said.

  Tony then turned to Jill to help her with some scallops she was searing. When he was sure that she knew what to do, we returned to the pass.

  “Jean-Georges licked the bowl when he had the mussels,” Tony said. “He licked the bowl!”

  “Jean-Georges Vongerichten was here?” I asked.

  “He has a place downtown,” Tony said. “Market.”

  “Right,” I said. “So what happened?”

  “Okay,” said Tony, “so I’m in a plane on the runway in Chicago and my manager calls me to say that Jean-Georges is coming in for dinner that night. I’m supposed to have dinner with Karolyn in Chinatown. Not gonna happen. I call Karolyn, ask her to meet me at the restaurant, have a chef’s jacket ready. The plane gets in at five fifty-five; his party of four is getting in at six. I only missed the amuse, but I cooked the next nine courses for him. Great evening! Jean-Georges went through the roof!”

  Tony glowed. The words had spilled out. I understood how, from his perspective, he had felt it was necessary to cook for one of the world’s greatest chefs, and why there was no one on his team he could trust to take his place. I also wondered how his cooks and sous chefs felt knowing that.

  “We had just moved to the new location,” Tony explained. “Jean-Georges’s people called that same day! It was too important to leave to my team in several ways. I know how chefs think, for one thing: If the food had been bad, if the experience had been bad, word would get around. I’ve cooked for Chang twice since then. And for Wylie. Chefs talk. I wanted Jean-Georges’s experience to be a good one. Just as importantly? If things fucked up, I wanted to be the one responsible. Not my sous chefs. Not my line cooks. You know how they feel when someone sends food back? Awful! I didn’t want to let them down.”

  “What if you simply could not be here?” I asked.

  “I would have asked that Jean-Georges come in when I could be here,” Tony said.

  “Do you feel the same way these days?” I asked.

  “I trust my crew more now,” he said. “Look, if Jean-Georges remembers Craigie on Main, we’ve got a fighting chance!”

  Tony looked over a ticket.

  “Pick up black bass,” Tony said.

  “Great!” said Davey.

  “Go, go, go,” said Tony.

  Tighter organization was evident in the kitchen tonight. Davey, Marian, Patrick, and Jill were working beautifully together, anticipating one another.

  “I hope it lasts all night,” said Tony. “This is a good push. It’s gonna define the night.”

  Davey was working on several orders at once. Marian and Devon began to fall behind.

  “They get nervous,” Tony said to me. “They need to know that the only way to do it is to go through the nervousness.”

  Suddenly, there was a slight turn of events. The machinery seemed to have been oiled by Tony’s persistent and encouraging words.

  “Coming in!” shouted Marian.

  She dived down next to Tony to grab a few plates and returned to her station.

  Tony asked Matt to take over at the pass. He
went over to help Patrick again.

  That done, Tony walked over to Marian. She was red faced, frowning, and moving slowly. She looked overwhelmed as she tried to slice a bone-in duck breast. Tony stabbed the duck with a long needle to test for rareness.

  Then he returned to the pass and looked down at a VIP order: Charlie’s preschool teacher was in the house!

  “I need one meat amuse on the fly,” he said to Orly. “VIP! On the fly, fly!”

  “Chef,” said Marian, “could you taste the duck I’m working to see if it’s ready?”

  Tony did not even look up.

  “When it’s done and rested, it’s ready,” said Tony, furiously. He turned to me and said, “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

  A server walked up to the pass to put in two tasting menus, and to add, “Chef, I have an allergy. Shrimps, crab, lobster.”

  “Got it,” said Tony.

  He crossed off a completed order.

  Meanwhile, Marian was standing over the piece of duck almost motionless, which is taboo in any kitchen.

  Tony glanced sideways at her.

  “Marian,” Tony said, “you have a memory problem. I need you to remember things for at least twenty-four hours.”

  She did not look up. Davey went over to help her. They conferred. Tony shook his head in annoyance.

  Marian was deep in the weeds. It started with not knowing when the duck was ready, continued with not slicing it right, and now she was not plating correctly.

  “Why do I see three pieces of duck on each plate?” asked Tony. He was looking over plates that Marian had brought to him at the pass. “Two! Two pieces! I thought I was clear about that.”

  “Yes, Chef,” said Marian.

  She and Davey took back the plates.

  Tony’s fury was growing by the minute with Marian. One thing she got wrong led to another thing she got wrong until she was getting nearly everything wrong. She could not find a way out. It was sad and terrifying to watch her predicament. The other cooks had to work harder to make up for her mistakes. They also empathized with her, and I could see resentment on Jill’s face. It was bad that Marian was having problems, but worse, in her view, that Tony had lost patience with her.