Meat guy: "Yes."
Fish guy: "No!"
It didn't matter what the veg guy said, because the fish guy had already thrown a wrench into things.
The result? Each station was hopelessly backed up with finished plates. Mark had a rack filled with sheet pans, the entire tower loaded with plates of cooked steak.
I had never seen so many people working so hard and getting nothing done. It was like cooking in quicksand.
I'm normally a pretty forceful presence in the kitchen. "Come on!" I'll shout, "We have to get this done!" Or something like that. For emphasis, I'll maybe slam down a sheet pan.
But at a certain point that evening, I realized that I couldn't push these guys any harder. There was no point. I just rested my hand against the rack and tried to smile it off.
Eventually, I refocused and came to the realization that the only way to bring this evening to a close was to concentrate on one table at a time. With so much food ready, it occurred to me to start bargaining with each table to get them their dinner. So, if a waiter came in looking for the food for Table Eighteen, I would say, "I don't have their hanger steak, but I do have their fish and their sides. If they'll take a rib eye, they can have their dinner."
The waiter would think this over, nod, and say, "Okay. I can sell that. Lemme have it." Then we'd load him up, wish him well, and push him back out into the increasingly hostile dining room.
It took more than three hours, but eventually everything made its way out of the kitchen.
And, in time, our guests began getting up and leaving for the night. I'm told that many of them left shaking their heads, amazed that we were open for business. They looked concerned, I'm told, for their friend Jimmy and his new venture.
And the princess, our raison d'etre for coming to work that day? She canceled her reservation. Thank God. I can only imagine what she would have thought if she had shown up.
But, you know, I hadn't been in a kitchen for over a year and a half. It was one of my worst nights ever, but I got through it. The guests were all friends and relatives of the owner, so they didn't hold it against us. Within days, we had hit our stride, and I'm sure they've all been back since and had a great time.
The important thing was that my new restaurant was open and though it wasn't a pleasant evening, I had a funny story to tell. And that, too, is part of being a New York City chef.
It was good to be back.
The Trojan Cookie
TOM VALENTI
Widely credited with saving New York's Upper West Side from culinary oblivion with his restaurants Ouest and 'Cesca, Tom Valenti first became known to diners for his hearty, rustic food at Alison on Dominick Street, then at Cascabel and Butterfield 81. He was also the original sous-chef at Gotham Bar and Grill, and had his first taste of fame at Chelsea Central. He is the author of two cookbooks, Welcome to My Kitchen and Tom Valenti's Soups, Stews, and One-Pot Meals.
IF YOU'VE LIVED in New York City for two decades or more, dine out with some regularity, and have been to the Red Cat restaurant in Chelsea, you might have experienced a faint sense of deja vu thanks to the location, the configuration, and the generous view of Tenth Avenue through the floor-to-ceiling window that fronts the place. That's because the Red Cat occupies the same space that used to host Chelsea Central, a once iiber-popular American bistro that had a great run in the not-as-long-ago-as-they-seem 1980s.
Chelsea Central was the downtown offshoot of Cafe Central, itself a huge success on the Upper West Side in the late seventies and early eighties. Chelsea Central was one of those only-in New York joints that exuded an effortless cool borne of its off-the-beaten-path location; a pack of celebrity co-owners including Treat Williams (back when he was the star of Hair and Prince of the City), Peter Weller (back before he became Robocop), and Bruce McGill (who played D-Day in Animal House), a staff comprising bartenders the likes of a young, then-unknown Bruce Willis and a waitress named Patti Scialfa, who went on to become part of the E Street Band, and Mrs. Bruce Springsteen—and exactly the kind of clientele you'd expect a place with those elements to attract.
Chelsea Central is remembered for a lot of things. Before its neighborhood had been reborn as a haven for art galleries, the restaurant succeeded in an unlikely location on the western fringe of a no-man's-land that wasn't quite downtown and wasn't quite Midtown. It was a lively spot where people spent lots of late nights at the smoky bar—back when there was such a thing in Manhattan.
It's also remembered as a launching pad for chefs and sous chefs who went on to fame and fortune, such as Rick Moonen, who eventually became the chef of Oceana and then his own rm; Gerry Hayden, who became Charlie Palmer's chef de cuisine at Aureole before opening his own Amuse; and Don Pintabona, who became the too-often unsung hero of the kitchen at the Robert DeNiro-Drew Nieporent partnership Tribeca Grill.
Chelsea Central is remembered for all of those things. But I remember it for something else. I remember it for the cookies.
I was appointed chef of Chelsea Central in 1987, taking the baton from Rick Moonen, the gregarious, universally beloved workhorse who had left to helm the Water Club, a new venture by the River Cafe's Buzzy O'Keefe.
This was to be my first shot at a visible chef's position, and I was fortunate in the extreme to inherit a kitchen crew that included Pintabona and Hayden, great guys and big talents who were cooling their heels, killing time, and taking a paycheck while they waited for Aureole—which would soon become one of the best restaurants in town—to open. Because we had all known one another for some time, I was able to get the respect that I hopefully deserved from them without having to turn cartwheels, which I've never been very good at, either figuratively or literally.
But my good fortune in the kitchen was quickly threatened by a rapidly growing problem with the waitstaff. As the chef, I supposedly reigned supreme at Chelsea Central, but the waiters were huge fans of Rick's; sorry to see him go, they had apparently made a group decision that they didn't have to listen to the new boss.
Now, I'm an easygoing guy; I don't need my ego stroked. But when there's work to be done, and I'm the poor soul charged with making it happen, then I expect to be listened to, simple as that. If I give an order, or set a policy, it should be followed—and anyone within earshot ought to respond with something more or less akin to "Yes, Chef, whatever you say, it'll be my pleasure."
The waitstaff had a considerably different point of view, to say the least. Before too long, we had our own little turf war at the restaurant, between the New Chef and the Front of the House Gang. It was a largely insidious conflict: rather than outright confrontation, the surly staff made their feelings known with harrumphs, eye rolls, and sighs.
I was especially vexed by one particular fellow, an older, slim guy with a shaved head who harrumphed with more gusto, sighed more loudly, and eye-rolled more dramatically than any of them, and who made it his mission to let me know, without any words, that they had a way of working with Rick, and that was how they were going to work with me.
One reason this situation became so frustrating was that dealing with the staff was very much like dealing with bratty children: they were masters at defying me in such subtle, seemingly minor ways that it was difficult to prove that they had done something wrong—much less to do anything about correcting it.
But there was one tangible sign of their insubordination, and it became the focal point of our ongoing standoff. Rather than serving plated desserts from the kitchen, the restaurant availed itself of an Old World dessert trolley that was parked in the dining room, between the swinging kitchen doors and the coffee station. The cart was populated with the full complement of classic sweets: chocolate layer cake, cheesecake, cookies, fruit tarts, and so on.
Here is what would happen: let's say the night's service was over and of twelve slices of cheesecake, five had been served. The Front of the House Gang, under the pretense that the surviving slices wouldn't be up-to-snuff the next day, would divvy up the remaining
seven pieces and greedily shovel them down while holed up in the waiter's station. Or if perchance during service, a piece of fruit tart broke on its way from the mold to the plate . . . well, we can't expect our customers to eat that, now can we? We'd better eat it ourselves.
This gluttonous approach to decision-making continued on a daily basis. The worst of it was the cookie plate, from which the waitstaff—in their standard-issue uniforms of the day: slacks, white shirts, and black vests—happily snacked all night long, starting right after the family meal (industry-speak for "staff dinner") and continuing until the end of the evening . . . unless of course we ran out, which happened on more than one occasion. It was a bigger problem than it might sound because cookies, like anything else for sale in a restaurant, cost money and time and their disappearance had an adverse effect on my kitchen's bottom line.
Over and over, I insisted that they leave the cookie plate alone, which is a hard thing for a self-respecting man to do on a daily basis. (You try sounding tough when you're talking about cookies.) But not only wouldn't they listen, they would flaunt their defiance, swinging into the kitchen with big, pleased grins on their faces, still chewing or swallowing a cookie.
They were grinning because, when push came to shove, I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Firing one of them would seem petty and . . . well, what other recourse was there?
And so it went. Every single morning I woke up, got dressed, and went to work, only to face the same ridiculous little mutiny as the day before, still at a loss for what to do.
Then one afternoon, on my way to the men's room, I spotted the answer to my prayers. Passing the espresso machine, I noticed a portafilter on the counter, filled with a compacted patty of spent espresso grounds, forged by the water pressure into a miniature chocolate-y disk.
A disk resembling a cookie.
Hmmmm.
Instantly, a wicked little plan was hatched. For the next hour I banged out espressos, carefully turning the tightly packed, well-formed spent grounds into my cupped hand. I covered a plate with a doily, arranged the patties atop it, and proceeded to turn it into the most beautiful cookie plate Chelsea Central had ever seen, piping some whipped cream on top of each "cookie" and finishing with—a private joke for my own added amusement—a chocolate-covered espresso bean.
The key to this plan was that the cookies were bite sized, so even if the enemies noticed a textural oddness, they'd have popped them into their mouths before taking time to investigate further.
I set out the cookies on the dessert trolley and waited.
Hours later, after the staff had come in, enjoyed their family meal, and needed something sweet, I waited still. Waited until my favorite waiter, my black-vested nemesis, came pushing through the kitchen doors, choking and gagging, recovering just enough to give me the look that I'd been waiting for all along, the one that said, "Yes, Chef, whatever you say, it'll be my pleasure."
Believe it or not, that moment became a very positive turning point for the two of us, and for my relationship with the entire Front of the House Gang. They couldn't help but laugh, seeing my caper not as an act of revenge, but as a well-timed, well-executed practical joke, maybe the kind of thing they'd pull on one another, and we got along famously after that. From then on, it was smooth sailing at Chelsea Central, a place whose customers, kitchen, and staff I remember with great fondness to this day.
Shit Happens
NORMAN VAN AKEN
Norman Van Aken founded a visionary way of cooking called New World Cuisine, giving new meaning to an entire region of the Americas. Presenting an approach that embodies the essence of this country and its dynamic ethnic mix, Van Aken melds the exotic ingredients and rich cultural heritages of Latin America, the Caribbean, the southern United States, and even touches of Asia. Serving as the catalyst for a new culinary paradigm, Van Aken has earned a place as one of America's greatest chefs. He is the only Floridian to have ever won entrance into the James Beard Foundation Who's Who. In addition to being an award-winning chef, Van Aken is highly regarded as a culinary educator, television celebrity, and cookbook author. He shares his passion for cooking by teaching classes at Norman's as well as culinary schools across the country. He is the author of four cookbooks: Feast of Sunlight, The Great Exotic Fruit Book, Norman's New World Cuisine, and New World Kitchen.
IT WAS 1978 and I was finally a sous-chef. I still worked a line position but I was moving up—albeit in a world of absolute chaos. I was at the Pier House in Old Town, Key West. Key West at that time was not the well-adjusted, rehabbed, corporately correct, child-safe, real estate gold mine it has become. Nonetheless, we loved the raffish pirate illegal town that it was. We ran to it like children run to an ice cream truck, like hobos run to freight cars . . . it was idyllic, illicit madness.
On this particular morning, however, I woke up in agony, struggling to open my throbbing eyes. It was immediately clear that the day ahead was not likely to go smoothly. Not surprising, really, considering that yesterday had been the annual "Tequila Races" (before the city put an end to them in the early eighties.) The "race" took place right at the Pier House, an event so well attended that the throng of contestants spilled out of the Chart Room bar and onto the deck by the pool. It started with a shot of tequila; afterward, each contestant had to jump into the pool and down a second shot just as they got out. Two shots. No big deal. . . . But then you ran to the edge of the small beach and received a third shot. You swam a short distance to the raft . . . another shot. You got into a small Hobie Cat-type sailboat and sailed out about a mile to a buoy, where you were handed your next shot. Then you sailed back to the raft, anchored, and—that's right—drank another shot . . . Back to the pool for another shot . . . and finally, back to the bar for the last shot. The person with the shortest time to do all of that won. Beautiful. Even if you didn't race, you got caught up in the spectacular insanity; there was no avoiding it.
But the next day . . . I pressed an ice bag to my head and lapped at my Cafe Cubano like one of Hemingway's dazed polydactyl cats. I was not savoring the idea of going to work. As any kitchen rat knows, a hangover is not a reason to call in. You work in pain or, if unavoidable, still drunk.
After a while, I managed to stagger out the door and climb onto my moped. Of course it was drizzling. The city was gloomy and quiet. While cradling my second cafe I hit a pothole. The moped bucked and hot coffee splashed against my lap, burning through my pants. I cursed and flung the little foam cup away. A moment later, I lurched into the driveway at the very end of Duval Street, where some unfortunate soul was busily rooting through the Dumpster to see what might be salvaged. He threw a hamburger box viciously aside. I hustled past without a word.
Lunch was just starting to pick up in the main dining room. Terry was waiting tables, as he had been doing since the resort opened. He was attending a family from some place like Madison, Wisconsin. Mom, Pop, Buddy, and Sis—they were all putty in his flowing hands. Terry had an incredible way with children, and what could make parents happier than their children actually enjoying the time trapped in a restaurant with Mom and Dad, happily eating food they'd never heard of? Apparently, Terry had won trophies for swimming back in his native Michigan, a reliable icebreaker when waiting on tables like this one. Soon they'd be ordering more food than they could possibly consume.
Meanwhile, things were getting noisy at the pot sink. Trixie was late again. Ah, Trixie, how shall I describe "her"? Think of Janis Joplin as a man . . . wearing Buddy Holly glasses that were perpetually fogged up, even in bright sunlight. But "she" worked hard, even if "she" was out all night workin' harder. (I saw Trixie arrive in a limo on more than one morning.) So without old Ms. "T," that meant brother Clyde was tossin' two loads and he was not happy about it. His boom box was approaching a volume he'd never get away with if we didn't need him crankin' on the dirty pots, pans, and dishes. I could hear Clyde's favorite song, the Commodores' "Brick House" from across the dining room. Hell, I could feel the bass line.
She's a brick . . . house
Mighty might just lettin' it all hang out
Clyde did a 360, swatted his dishrag at a pot rack, and sang along.
She's a brick . . . house
The lady's stacked
Clyde winked knowingly
and that's a fact,
ain't holding nothing back.
My hot-line buddy Danny waved me over. He wanted me to join him in the "Rosie Trick." There was a young lady who worked in what were the shortest cut-off blue jeans imaginable. And, oh yes, she had the figure to cover the bet and cash the check—and then some. She was amazingly good-natured and seemed oblivious to our petty mischief. Danny yelled over to the dish room, "Hey, Rosie! We need a stack of plates!" Rosie gently pushed her large-framed aviator-style glasses with the back of her hand, guided her long brown hair behind one ear, and picked up an armload of plates. She strolled over with only the sound of her rubber flip-flops gently slapping the bottoms of her feet to behind the hot line where I worked the grill and Danny saute. She set the plates on the edge of the stove. As usual, Danny and I both pretended that we were far too busy to come away from our tasks to be of help to her. She reached up to put the plates away, arching her back as she situated them high on the rack, four or five plates at a time . . . and on each occasion having to stretch her body ever higher over the oven.
Eventually, unable to resist, Danny pretended to drop something and sank to his knees to take in the view, relishing it with all the pleasure of a prisoner receiving a cake on Christmas morning.
She's a brick . . . house
Don't Try This at Home Page 25
