Life, on the Line Grant Achatz (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📖

the top. He moved back a half step to view the plate in its entirety, as he did with every plate before it left the kitchen.

Just as he finished, a front-of-house member ducked in the kitchen and said, “Chef, up on ten.” That meant that someone at table number ten had gotten up from the table for whatever reason, probably to use the restroom. Chef Keller glanced at the tickets and, realizing that it was the table where the foie gras was headed, calmly picked up the plate and handed it to me. “You like foie?” he asked.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Abalone and foie gras, with a Meyer lemon and lemon gastric. Surf and turf, get it?”

If a diner gets up from the table, the food at The French Laundry doesn’t go under a heat lamp somewhere. It gets thrown out and the process starts again when the diner returns to his seat. This time, however, chef Keller gave me the plate.

A few of the cooks shot me wicked looks as I ate the dish standing next to chef Keller. Apparently, I figured, this doesn’t happen very often.

Chef Keller approached me after the service was over and cleanup started. “You can go home; you don’t have to stay and clean.”

“No, Chef. I want to help. I’ll stay until the end.” He smirked and walked away. Clearly that was a test.

The next day was largely the same. I felt a bit more comfortable and less self-conscious. I was able to observe the cooks in action. They were good—really good. They didn’t talk amongst themselves. They all just manned their stations with their heads down, meticulously working through the prep. There was no chaos in the kitchen, no yelling, and no fear on the faces of the staff. Everything was calm, quiet, and deliberate. At the end of service, before cleanup, chef Keller pulled me aside and asked to speak with me. I followed him to the patio-like space in the back. “So, Grant, you want a job?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“When can you start?”

“Well, I have to find a place to live and move out here, but that shouldn’t take too long.”

“How about mid-October? We have a few cooks leaving around then. That should give you plenty of time to find a place and get situated.”

“That sounds great. Thank you, Chef!”

We shook hands and walked back into the kitchen to finish cleaning. And that was it. I was hired. I had no idea what I would be doing; I didn’t ask what the position was; and I had no idea what my salary would be. I never asked.

I didn’t care.

CHAPTER 8

My dad and I loaded up the car with my few belongings and a cooler stocked full of snacks and caffeine. Then we set out to drive the thirty-six hours from St. Clair, Michigan, to California nonstop. I made arrangements to rent a one-bedroom apartment on the north end of Napa. It was furnished, so all I had to pack were clothes, cookbooks, and my knives.

My dad was curious why I was moving all the way across the country to work at a place that I knew little about, that had no national reputation, and that was in such a small town. I could tell he was worried that if this turned out like Trotter’s I would be home again in eight weeks.

“I think this will be different, Dad. The food was perfect. And it was funny; it had a sense of humor. Chef Keller was the first one in every morning and the last one to go home. And he cooked!” I explained how rare this seemed, not just at Trotter’s but also at the three-star restaurants in France.

We made it to Napa in record time, taking turns driving the whole way. My apartment was in decent shape, so we stocked it with groceries, took about ten minutes to put away all of my clothes, and sat down on the couch.

“Now what?” I asked. “Maybe we go to a few wineries? Explore the valley a bit?” I figured this would be my last chance to do that for a while, and my dad had never been out here.

“Sure. But you know, I was thinking. After hearing you talk about the Laundry the way you have, I would love to see it. To eat that food. It sounds magical.”

“Man, Dad. I don’t know. I think they’re pretty busy. I wouldn’t really feel comfortable asking for a reservation and actually eating there before I even started working.”

“I understand,” he said. “Let’s head up the valley and see what we see.”

I felt bad. I certainly had rocky moments with my dad, but both of my parents had been unbelievably supportive of my career. They put me through culinary school, moved me to New York, Grand Rapids, Chicago, and now Napa, and helped me pay my travel and living expenses in each city, allowing me to focus on the work.

And now, for the first time, my dad expressed an interest in learning more about fine dining and where I would be working. The last thing chef Keller said to me before I left was, “If there’s anything you need at all, just give us a call. We’re here to help.” Chef Keller had known me for a mere two days, but his generosity seemed genuine.

I contemplated all of this for a few moments and then called the kitchen phone. Chef Keller answered. I explained that my dad had moved me out here, that he spent his life owning and working in a small restaurant in St. Clair, and that he really wanted to see where I was going to work. I sheepishly told him that I felt terrible calling and asking for a favor before I even started, and that while I didn’t expect to get a table, out of respect for my father I had to at least try.

“I’ll call you back in thirty minutes,” chef Keller said. “What’s your number?”

“I don’t have a phone yet, Chef. I’ll