Sous Chef: 24 Hours on the Line (17 page)

The green-lips are ready when they’ve all gaped their maws. The orange meat is supple and glimmering. The liquor from the mussels has bubbled together with the butter and wine and soubise to form a viscous emulsion that coats
the whole pan. They’re finished with a few drops of lemon juice and a flutter of fines herbes; a quick toss in the pan and into the bowl. The gambas come off when their spotted heads go coral red and a caramel-colored sear veils the opalescent white of the flesh. They land in a terra-cotta cazuela on a pillow of black romesco, and finish with a dusting of pimentón dulce, a sprinkle of bottarga di tonno, a stalk of compressed scallion, a parsley pluche. The herring come off as soon as their aluminum flesh goes umber. You pop them on a drop tray, pass them to Chef for plating. And just like that, you’re out with the apps.

Even though VinDog is sending out a middle course of pastas, you still need to begin work on the entrées immediately after sending out the appetizers. First is the monkfish, which you select based on size and symmetry. You want the biggest piece you can find, and you want it to be rolled into the tightest, most perfectly cylindrical roulade possible. Also, you want to be sure that the transglutaminase is fully set, so that the fish doesn’t open up on you when it hits the pan and starts to seize. You dust it with Wondra flour and slip it in.

The chars and mackerel go down next. You pick them based on their relative proximity to the head of the fish. You don’t make friends with tail cuts; they are too thin and cook up poorly. You want a thick piece from the head end.

All three have skin on them, which means they need special attention in two specific ways. First, before they’re cooked, their skin must be dabbed completely dry with paper toweling. This encourages the development of crispiness, which in turn optimizes chewability and deliciousness. Second, once they begin cooking, they must be held
down. When fish skin hits hot oil it immediately seizes up, which causes the entire cut to buckle, forming an arch over the cooking surface. As a result, the edges that remain in contact with the cooking surface develop a beautiful sear, while the part in the center that is raised is undercooked and simply steams. So when each cut of fish with skin on it hits the pan or the plancha, you firmly but gently press it flat against the cooking surface and hold it until the subcutaneous collagen hydrolyzes into gelatin, elasticizing the bond between skin and meat and allowing the cut to remain flat and cook evenly. This, of course, takes only a matter of seconds, but it’s an essential step.

Finally the fluke. You take the largest, most evenly cut piece you have, the squarest pavé, from the youngest, most athletic fish in the fridge. After a liberal seasoning, you lay it down.

Three minutes later, all the fish are nearly done. You bring them to their final internal temperature with a few repetitions of arrosé. Julio only has veal cheeks on the pick, which he’s been able to prepare at his leisure, since this order is your show. All that’s left now is to wait for confirmation from the front of the house that the midcourse pastas have been cleared. While you wait, you shepherd each pan about the cooler areas of the flat-top to avoid overcooking. Once Chef gives you the go-ahead, you bring the food to the pass and go to plate.

The skinned fish are crispy to the tap; the fluke wears an amber coat; the monk shaft is sheathed evenly in a caraway crust. All the cuts are plump and dripping with juices. They are perfect. Soigné. A spritz of essential oil from the zest of a lemon finishes them off.

You cut the monk open. You are not quite satisfied. You give it a few seconds under the salamander. The foie goes molten. Now it’s ready. You slide it to Chef with a flare of pride. He nods without needing to look up. He takes it to plate with the expected measure of gusto. Hussein and the back waiters file over and scoop everything up.

“Take it down, baby,” Chef says, clapping Hussein on the back.

And out goes the food for the PPX table.

As expected, indulging the
Times
has set us back on the food for the rest of the guests. A blitzkrieg of tickets has piled up, two dozen tables—at least. This is where the hammer comes down.

“Fun don’t stop, boys,” Chef says. He reads off another ticket. Or maybe he calls out the next pickup. The distinction between the two is becoming hard to identify. It’s difficult to pay attention now.

“
Oui
, Chef,” we say to his calls. The vim wanes. We’re all so inundated with information at this point that it’s challenging enough to keep track of what we are doing presently, never mind what we are supposed to be preparing to do in the next five minutes, the next fifteen minutes, the next hour. No movement is distinctly its own except in the sense that it comes before or after another in a constant chain of busyness. The pickups blur together. Everything becomes one motion, for just this very moment. We switch to autopilot.

Finish one fish, move to the next. Start with a hot pan, start with hot oil. If it’s not hot, wait. Don’t start early; it’ll stick. Check the oven instead. There’s something in there. It needs to be flipped. Out it comes. In goes the butter. Let it bubble. Crush the garlic.
Arrosez
. Flip. Arrosez again. Put a new pan down. Season the bass. Always from a height. The bass goes in. A monk looks done. Give it the cake tester. It’s barely warm. Another minute. To the pass with it. Three chars go down. Their skins soufflé. Press them to the heat. Hear the crackle. A pan is too hot. The oil smells scorched. Start again. Burner at full tilt. Now for the mussels. They jump in the oil. Aromas flourish. Here is a branzino. First of the night. Score its skin. Into the Griswold. Its eyeball pops. Flip it over. Into the oven. On with more gambas. On with more pans. On with more burners. Scrape down the plancha. Wipe down the piano. Towel your brow. Printers buzz. A new pick. Six more fish. Your legs are tired. Tickets blur. Chef needs more. “Next up …” Cooks moan. “
Oui
, Chef.” Fat splutters. Timers chime. Food goes. Tickets are stabbed. New ones are plucked up. Organize the board. Start again. Eight fish now. A pan to each. Eight butters. Eight garlics. Eight flips. Eight arrosés. Eight plates … eight more picks. Machine-gun frequency. Clean pans from Kiko. They’re getting heavy. They drop on the flat-top like a bullet blast. Your arms are stiff. The branzino is done. Swing open the oven. The heat blazes. It dries your eyes. Blink it out. Grab up the Griswold. Bring home the door. The towel is wet. The pan burns your hand. Dizziness. Nausea. Synesthesia. Pain. This is normal. This is what we do. We are in this together. We are almost there.

An hour vanishes before you snap back into consciousness and realize that all this time you’ve been operating entirely on instinct. The thought is jarring. You emerge disoriented, knees buckling like a newborn foal’s. It’s a moment before you can figure out what has brought you back to life. And then it hits you: You’ve just sent out the last piece of fish you had cooking. There are some tickets on board, but nothing is fired yet. There is nothing working. You are finally caught up.

The station is messy. You take this opportunity to do a clean sweep of it. You look around the kitchen. Everybody is red-faced and sweaty. But they, too, are tidying their stations. They’re folding their towels, changing their spoon water, surveying their mise en place. They slug seltzer from quart containers, belch, and stretch. They have made it through the push. And so have you.

Just then you remember that you have half a cigarette that you clipped earlier on before service started. You extract the soggy packet from your pocket. The cardboard is frayed, the cigarettes bent out of shape. You pluck up the clip with a fishy pair of fingernails.

“Off line,” you say, and make your way past Warren toward the loading dock. Chef winks at you as you pass him. You smile and raise an eyebrow. Out back you kick the door open and light up your smoke.

T
HE KITCHEN IS QUIET WHEN YOU COME BACK
. L
IKE A BATTLEFIELD
after the defeated have made their retreat. There are still plenty of customers in the dining room—we don’t officially close for another hour—but the night’s vise grip has slackened significantly. Hussein stands at the pass examining a handful of tickets that have arrived in your absence. You have a gander—mostly desserts.

“You good, Don Juan?” you say.

“
Claro
,” Warren says, tossing a neatly folded towel onto his station’s spick-and-span tabletop. “We got nothing,” he says, running a hand suavely through his blond locks.

“Good,” you say. “Start that slow breakdown.”

You find Chef in the office, changing into street clothes. His droopy boxer shorts and scrunched-up tube socks humanize him. “Nice job today,” he says, slipping into a pair of loose-fitting fleece pants. “You really picked up the slack for your boy.”

“Thanks, Chef,” you say. “Why does everybody keep calling him my boy? I hate that kid.”

“Yeah,” Chef says, pulling on his overcoat. “Tell me about it.”

“And he’s getting worse every day,” you say. “I don’t know what his deal is, but he really needs to pull it together.”

“Well, I mean, he knows his shit. He’s a good cook. And when he’s not rip-shit hungover …”

“Yeah, but when is he ever not?” you say.

“Yeah,” Chef says.

“I mean, seriously. And poor Warren? Get outta here. That guy works a hell of a lot harder, and faster, and
cleaner
, and he has to be cleaning up fuckface’s messes every time he turns around. And Juan’s like thirty-two. Could you imagine that? Working entremet for someone ten years younger than you? And, Chef, I gotta tell ya, I was on that station today after him
—ram
shackle, bro.”

“Yeah,” Chef says, biting at a hangnail, staring thoughtfully at the wall. He exhales deeply. “What do you think I should do?” he says, looking up at you. “Should I get someone new?”

“I mean, I think we gotta at least bring a couple people in to trail. Throw Raffy back on prep, scare some sense into him … What about Warren?”

“Not ready,” he says, sputtering out a piece of cuticle.

“I don’t know, Chef, he’s—”

“Not yet, man,” Chef says. “Trust me. Warren needs another six months in the pot. Do you really think he could handle fish? On a night like tonight? Hell, no.”