Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  Wolfgang guided me through the kitchen, dipping one finger into this bowl, another into that one, shouting directions as he munched his way across the room. “You’re cutting back on the coffee in that ice cream,” he told one cook. “Don’t do that.”

  “You can never fool him,” she sighed, throwing in extra espresso. “You think he won’t notice if you make a change, but he always does. How does he do it?”

  “Make more sour that sauce,” he told another cook, swiping a taste as people scurried behind him doing his bidding.

  The procession reached the far corner of the kitchen and came to a halt in front of a tall, thin man with a big black mustache. Heaps of fish, vegetables, and shellfish were laid out on the counter in front of him. “This is Richard Krause,” said Wolf. “He’s going to be the chef at Chinois. What do we have today?”

  “Two kinds of shrimp,” said Richard, demonstrating. His right hand held a small, pale specimen that hung limply in the air. With his left he grabbed one that was twice as large, its dark red meat glowing through the shell. He wiggled the one in his right hand. “Chinatown,” he said. He wiggled his left. “And these are spot prawns from Santa Barbara.”

  “Look at the difference!” said Wolfgang, cutting off a little piece of raw prawn and popping it into his mouth. “The local products are so good now. And look at those beautiful squabs!”

  He stared down at the birds as if they were saying something that he wanted to hear. After listening for a moment he said, “Let’s try them with Szechuan peppercorns.”

  “We don’t have any,” said Richard.

  “Okay,” said Wolf, cheerfully scooping up a handful of black peppercorns and crushing them with the back of a pot. “We’ll use these.” He pressed the pepper into a squab and groped for a bottle. “You forgot the peanut oil!” he scolded. Then he shrugged and said, “Oh well, olive oil will have to do.”

  When he had finished he slid the bird into the oven and turned to the catfish. “How come such a good fish has such a bad name?” he mused, tweaking its long mustache. For a moment he just stood, patting the fish, as if the answer he was seeking would come to him through touch. “We should call you Dalí fish,” he said. “That way you would sell more. Should we roast you?” The fish apparently didn’t answer, so he stood another moment, waiting for inspiration. At last it came. “We should steam it really nice with stripes of scallions and cilantro. We could serve the broth on the side, to drink, and put the fish in one of those sizzling pans.”

  “We don’t have one,” Richard pointed out. Wolf shrugged and said, “Well, in a wok, maybe.”

  “We don’t have any of those either,” said Richard.

  “How can you cook Chinese food without a wok?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Wolf cheerfully. “We just cook very little in a big pan. Chinese food tastes good to us because they sear everything instead of letting all the juice go out. Even in French cooking most people put too much in the pan.” His confidence was captivating; I hadn’t tasted a morsel of this food he was busily inventing, and yet I was certain that it was going to be a hit. I watched him arrange the fish in a steamer and begin to concoct a sauce of fresh plums, plum wine, ginger, and scallions. It made me hungry.

  “We have to go out to the site,” said Barbara, bouncing into the kitchen and grabbing his hand. “We promised to meet the contractor.” Before he could answer she simply swept us both out the door.

  “Well,” I heard Richard sigh, “that’s that. It’s almost impossible to get uninterrupted time with Wolf.”

  * * *

  The restaurant that would one day be Chinois was just a big, empty, rubble-filled building. Wolfgang looked distressed. He looked more distressed when the contractor ambled over to say he was going to need more money. “The thing is,” said the man, holding out the plans, “this isn’t a restaurant, it’s a museum. There isn’t a straight line in the place.”

  Wolfgang turned to his girlfriend. “If you worked harder, Barbara,” he said, drawing her name into three long syllables with the accent on the first, “we’d be done by now.” It was almost a joke.

  “He thinks I don’t work hard because I need more than two hours of sleep,” Barbara explained.

  “I work better when I don’t sleep too much,” he said.

  “We aren’t all like that,” Barbara replied. There was a bitter edge to her voice, and Wolfgang hastily looked down at the plans. He pointed to a curve. “What is this, here?” he asked.

  Barbara gave it a cursory glance. “We went over the plans a hundred times,” she shouted. “I designed this restaurant. I know exactly the look I want. Just keep out of it.”

  “No, no, all right,” he said. “Are we going to eat lunch or not?”

  As we drove to lunch Barbara challenged, “Ask us anything.”

  “Look out!” said Wolfgang nervously.

  “Let me drive the car,” she replied. And then, because I hadn’t spoken quickly enough, she posed a question of her own. “Ruth wants to have a baby,” she announced. “What do you think?”

  “Babies are good,” he said, which seemed a perfect answer.

  “You just want a child to take to the tennis courts and to teach how to cook,” she said. “But I would be the most fabulous mother in the world. It’s true! I’ll do that in my next life.” She looked at me in the mirror and asked, “What are you planning to do in your next life?” She said it casually, as if it were the kind of question people asked each other every day.

  I answered in that spirit. “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “The Los Angeles Times offered me a job. I think I’m going to turn it down.”

  Barbara looked at me, and her astonishment showed. “Turn it down?” she asked. “Why?”

  “I don’t like Los Angeles,” I said. “And I don’t think I’m ready to be the restaurant critic of a big-city newspaper.”

  Barbara didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I knew what she must have been thinking. She had been a musician, a chemist, a medical student, a designer. And I was merely a wimp.

  After a moment she broke the silence. “You can like anyplace,” she said, “if you put your mind to it.”

  * * *

  The Los Angeles Times was in no hurry; they were just planning ahead. California magazine, on the other hand, was in a panic; six months had passed, and they wanted their article.

  “Isn’t Puck ever going to open Chinois?” my editor whined. I couldn’t blame him; they had spent thousands of dollars flying me back and forth to Los Angeles, and the restaurant was still unfinished.

  “Wolf put on twenty-five pounds before Spago opened,” I told him, “and this might be worse. There’s been one delay after another. But now I think it’s really about to happen. They booked a private party for David Begelman, next week and Barbara is determined not to let him down.”

  “Determined” was the wrong word. Barbara was going to get that restaurant open if it meant hammering every nail herself. The tension began to show. When the uniform company lost Barbara’s complicated pattern, the owner tried to mollify her with a black satin jacket. He had embroidered I’m not Wolfgang Puck’s girlfriend—he’s MY boyfriend over the pocket. She was not amused. “Nice,” she snapped, “but I’d rather have my uniforms.” The skylight arrived broken. The building inspector refused to approve the fixtures. The state sent out a special inspector, who snooped around, examining the licenses. “They’re out to get me,” Barbara wailed.

  “These things happen,” Wolfgang said.

  She turned on him. “You can laugh and play,” she cried, “but I’m the one who takes the shit.” He patted her hand and she said ardently, “We will open on time. I don’t care. Whatever it takes. We will open.”

  Then Edison arrived to turn on the electricity and bad became worse. Chinois, the foreman announced, would have to be delayed. He took Barbara outside and pointed to the rotting electrical pole behind the restaurant. “We can’t climb this, and we
’ll need the hundred-and-fifty-foot crane to replace it,” he said. “I can’t get the crane here for at least two weeks.”

  I watched Barbara to see how she would handle this situation. I was expecting an explosion, but Barbara surprised me. For a moment she just stood there in her purple-and-yellow polka-dotted shorts with her legs going on forever and her long black hair blowing in the wind. And then she began to cry.

  A few hours later the foreman returned, riding to the rescue on the giant crane. But Barbara’s triumph was short-lived. “Lady,” he said, walking into the restaurant, “we can’t get to the pole.”

  “Show me,” said Barbara.

  He led her outside and pointed to the fence behind the restaurant. “See,” he said, “the only access is through your neighbor’s yard. And the guy’s not home. I’m sorry, lady, but it ain’t going to happen today.”

  “Oh yes it is,” said Barbara, turning on her heel. She went into the restaurant and returned with a couple of dishwashers. She pointed to the fence. “Take it down,” she ordered.

  The Edison man whistled admiringly. I must have looked less impressed, because Barbara took my arm and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll put it back up. I’ll paint it. I’ll do whatever they want. They’ll be grateful.”

  We were watching the last of the fence fall when another neighbor showed up. He was so furious he could barely talk, but he composed himself sufficiently to make a speech about high-handed people ruining the neighborhood. Barbara listened quietly to his tirade. When he had finished she batted her long fake eyelashes and said with great earnestness, “That pole was about to fall on the house. We couldn’t wait. It had to be done immediately.”

  A skeptical look flickered across the man’s face, but Barbara stared him down. Watching her I suddenly understood the secret of her success. She clearly believed every word that she was saying.

  * * *

  “Where’s Barbara?” asked Wolf. “We open in seventeen hours.” It was two A.M. and he stood in the doorway with a box of pizza and a bag of beer, surveying the chaos. Workers on triple overtime stumbled about the room, giddy with fatigue. The windows were holes torn into the walls, the room was unpainted, the counters untiled. The restaurant lacked tables, chairs, and lamps. There was no electricity.

  The contractor pointed to a sleeping figure wrapped in a paint-spattered drop cloth beneath the bar. “She couldn’t stay awake anymore,” he said. “She’s been up for two days.”

  Barbara stirred at dawn, stretched, gave a little shriek of horror. Cans of soda, half-eaten cookies, and crumpled bags of potato chips surrounded her. “What time is it?” she asked. “We’ve got to get this place cleaned up!” She began clutching at the debris. “The inspector will be here at eight.”

  In the morning light the bones of the restaurant were starting to show. You could see that once it was tiled and painted, the many layers of the intricate Asian design would be stunning. Even the inspector was impressed. He was a burly man in an Easy Rider cap, but as he looked around he said admiringly, “Your copper hood looks nice.” And then, quickly, he added, “Goddamn restaurants are driving me crazy. They all got to be open yesterday.” He turned taps, checked joints, poked into the bathrooms. He went outside to inspect the new electrical pole. As he signed the papers he said to Barbara, “You’re now officially open for business.” Looking around he added, “Good luck.”

  It would take luck—or a miracle—to turn this mess into anything resembling a restaurant by nightfall. All morning Barbara raced around, wringing her hands, urging everyone to hurry. The contractor applied grout to the front of the counter and the carpenters hung windows. Busboys and waiters drifted about, begging for instructions. Painters were everywhere.

  At noon the tables arrived, adding another level of chaos. A painter swiped each one with fast-drying latex as it came through the door and passed it to his partner, who laid on a second coat. Heaps of flowers were delivered and Barbara began arranging them, interrupting herself every few minutes to fly around the room, waving orchids like batons, crying, “Faster, faster.”

  Midway through the afternoon Wolfgang bustled boisterously through the door. He surveyed the mess with seeming unconcern.

  “Do you ever wonder if all this is worth it?” I asked. “Do you ever wish that you had done things more simply?”

  “No,” he said cheerfully. He was about to make a joke, but he changed his mind. “Most chefs think if they serve good food they are going to be really successful, but that’s not true. The package is important in L.A.” He pointed at Barbara and added, “Don’t worry, we’ll open.” But I noticed that when she came swirling toward him like a small storm cloud he suddenly remembered an urgent errand elsewhere.

  At four the electricity came on and the cooks began to work in earnest, pushing workmen out of their way. “You should cover that food. I’ll get dust on it,” said an electrician as he climbed onto the counter to install lights directly above the men boning quail. They just shrugged and kept working.

  Wolfgang returned at five wearing his whites. He hung two haunches of lamb in the rotisserie, and as they slowly started to sizzle the smell of food began to compete with paint and sawdust. “Wolfgang’s not happy unless he’s cooking lamb,” said Richard under his breath.

  The painters were painting more sluggishly now, as if their arms were so heavy they could barely lift them. The carpenters hammered in slow motion. The electrician climbed down from the counter, squinted back at the lights he had hung, and packed up his kit.

  Barbara looked up and went pale. “They’re too low!” she shouted.

  “They are not!” the electrician shouted back. “They’re exactly where you told me to put them.”

  Barbara planted her hands on her hips and stared at the man. She pointed imperiously to the lights. It was late; the man was tired; the first guests would walk through the door in less than two hours. He stared at Barbara. And then, wearily, he unpacked his bag and heaved himself back onto the counter. At that moment the air-conditioning system unloosed a slow, steady drizzle. The cooks and electricians worked on, numb beneath the downpour. “What else can go wrong?” asked Wolfgang.

  “The uniforms,” said Barbara anxiously, “they’re not here yet.” For the first time, he looked nervous. Seeing that, Barbara touched his arm and said, “Don’t worry. We’re going to open if we have to serve in our underwear.”

  * * *

  At 7: 30 a man pushed through the crowd gathered on the sidewalk panting, “Let me through, let me through, I have the uniforms.” When Barbara saw him her cheeks regained their color. She grabbed the package and began distributing uniforms, pushing the waiters outside as she did. “You’ll have to change in the alley,” she said.

  It was 7: 45 when Barbara walked up to the painters and removed the brushes from their hands. “You’re finished,” she said firmly. And then, frantically, she began to shove cans of paint, ladders, hammers, and saws out the side door. When the floor was empty she pushed open the still-wet rest-room door and went to change. She emerged, looking like an Indian princess in leather and spangles, turned down the lights, and held out her arms. She called, “Wolf!”

  For a moment we all stood where we were, watching them waltz down the center of their brand-new restaurant. Then we burst into applause.

  What did it matter, I thought, what Barbara had done in her former lives? She could have been a doctor or a musician; she could have been a model. But when it was time to put that behind her she had done so without a backward glance. Barbara had invented herself, and she was her own best creation.

  If she could do it, so could I.

  Grilled California Goat Cheese on Toast

  This is an adaptation of the appetizer Wolfgang Puck served at the White House during the economic summit of 1983. Goat cheese was an obvious choice: During the early part of the eighties it was impossible to imagine California cuisine without goat cheese. That is, however, no reason to disdain it.

  a 1/2-poun
d log of soft mild goat cheese, cut crosswise into 16 equal pieces

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme leaves

  1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  1 baguette, cut into 16 slices, each about 1/2 inch thick

  Arrange the cheese slices in a shallow dish just large enough to hold them in one layer and sprinkle them with thyme and pepper, then drizzle with 2 tablespoons of oil. Marinate the cheese for 1 hour at room temperature, covered.

  Preheat the broiler.

  Broil the bread slices on a broiler pan 4 to 5 inches from the heat, turning them once, until golden. Top each toasted bread slice with a piece of marinated cheese, pressing slightly if necessary to fit the cheese to the toast, and drizzle the toasts with the remaining 1 tablespoon of oil. Broil again, 4 to 5 inches from the heat, until the cheese is slightly melted and hot, 1 to 2 minutes. Serve warm.

  Serves 4 to 6.

  Chinois Curried Oysters with Cucumber Sauce and Salmon Roe

  This was an appetizer on Chinois’s first menu. I’ve always loved it. I’ve adapted the recipe from the one Wolfgang distributed at the American Institute of Wine and Food’s Cutting Edge of L.A. Cuisine dinner in 1985. The cucumber sauce is very easy and endlessly versatile; I sometimes use it as a vegetable dip.

  FOR THE CUCUMBER SAUCE

  1/4 of a seedless cucumber, chopped

  1/4 cup rice wine vinegar, unseasoned

  1/2 teaspoon salt