“That’s enough, Danny,” I said. “Stop talking.” I left the empty sheet pan at a serving table and sat next to Carlo, who waited with two plates of paella.
I swooned quietly with my first bite. The dish sang with the flavors of Spain and was packed with chunks of browned rabbit, chorizo, and mussels. It was spectacular and camaraderie crushing. “Who made this? Who possibly had time for this?” I was talking through a mouthful of Arborio rice. “I made this once in culinary school and it took an entire day of my life that I’ll never get back.”
“Reza made it.” Carlo used an empty mussel shell to pluck the meat out of another shell. “He said he cooked it over an open fire with orange and pine branches for kindling.” Carlo grinned at me, a dribble of olive oil snaking its way down his chin. “According to Reza, it’s the pine cones, though, that really do the trick. I’m sure you discovered that yourself when you made it on the day you’ll never get back.”
I nibbled on a cut of caramelized chorizo but didn’t have the chance to reply. Alain was clearing his throat to begin the preservice meeting and had taken his position by The Urinal. Staff members were discouraged from using our colloquial term for the water sculpture that was one of L’Ombre’s signature images. A Very Famous Dead Artist, whose name was whispered but never confirmed, had created the piece that stretched from ceiling to floor and undulated a steady stream of water that changed color under multi-hued spotlights. The curves along each side were supposed to evoke the silhouette of a woman, but a smart aleck hostess had named it The Urinal years ago, and the name had sticking power.
Felix joined Alain in front of the group. Both men were impeccably clean, their white coats starched and tailored. Alain stood with a soldier’s posture, his hands behind his back, chin uplifted. The room quieted as servers took out their notepads and got ready for the artillery.
From an outsider’s perspective, the serving staff sat prettiest in the restaurant hierarchy. They worked far fewer hours than the kitchen staff. They earned beautiful money in comparison to the pittance paid to the cooks, many of whom were still working to pay off loans from culinary school. Servers were the cute younger sisters of the restaurant, bubbly and fresh and still wearing bronzer at the end of a double shift. But the serving staff knew who buttered their bread, literally and figuratively. Without the cooperation and blessing of the cooks, especially Chef Alain, a server could be left with a section of hungry diners seated along with two-weeks’ notice.
“All right, folks,” Alain said. “First, we have a few changes to tonight’s menu. The Oak Forest mushrooms for the langoustine didn’t arrive in time, so we’ve substituted with enoki mushrooms from Champagne Farms. Also, we are adding an entrée to the menu tonight. It’s lemon pine-nut-encrusted sea scallops with a celery mousse and my signature vinaigrette. It took three months to get it right, and the end result is phenomenal. So sell it.” Alain paused while the servers took notes. “In wines, we’re out of the Napa Valley El Molino, the Talenti, and the Chateau Margeaux ’86.”
Alain paused and, while the servers wrote furiously in their pads, my thoughts wandered. I tried picturing the customers who might have opinions about Oak Forest mushrooms compared to those from Champagne Farms. Did they wear tweed and bifocals? Or were they übermodern with sculptured haircuts and electronic cigarettes? I shook my head, annoyed with myself and my train of thought. Let the mushroom people be mushroom people, I chastised myself. You signed up for this gig, Charlie, remember? You’re living your dream, remember?
Alain changed gears for a second and threw out a quiz question, one of his more sadistic rituals during family meal. “What are the six ingredients in the jalape?o emulsion we serve with the salmon?”
Silence. A blonde in the back ventured, “Jalape?o, olive oil, shallots … ?”
More silence.
“Fleur de sel, ground pepper, lemon juice,” Alain finished for her, giving her an icy glance over his beakish nose. “Wake up, people. All right, here’s an easy one. What’s the difference between jamón ibérico and prosciutto?”
Four hands went up, and Wade got it right.
“Jamón ibérico is dry-cured from black Iberian pigs in Spain, not to be confused with jamón serrano, which comes from a less expensive white pig. Prosciutto is also dry-cured, but it is from Italy. It is the common man’s gourmet ham, which is why we don’t serve it.” Wade finished with a cock of the head and a high-five with another server.
Alain snorted. “Thank you for the editorial comment. Please keep it to yourself, however, when recommending the melon and jamón ibérico appetizer.”