KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

(Chris Devlin) #1

Gino's New York, unlike its little brother in Baltimore, was still busy—
crazy busy—and in every way, an out-of-control madhouse. If I wasn't
already a burnt-out case from four years of drug abuse and two years in a
Columbus Avenue pick-up joint and the cumulative effects of my whole
checkered career to this point, I was after Gino's. Gino's finished me.


Brought in as the chef to replace the man whose jacket I'd discovered in
Baltimore, I was shocked—even I was shocked—at the level of
debauchery and open criminality. On my first day in Gino's New York, I
found that the extremely well-paid head of prep could not so much as
peel an onion—when he deigned to show up at work at all. When I
inquired, I was matter-of-factly informed by the New York GM that he
was the boss's coke dealer, kept around so that the boss and upper
management could conveniently re-up if their little screwtop bottles ran
empty.


The GM, a jangly, untrustworthy character, who seemed to be high on
quaaludes most of the time, would disappear on benders for days at a
time. This was problematic, as he had the only keys to the office. When
the local wise guys showed up—as they did every Tuesday—looking for
protection money (this kept our delivery trucks from having their tires
slashed), we had to jimmy the office door to get at the safe. When no one
with the combination was around, the assistant manager would simply
ask the service bartender for a loan of a few thousand; he was always
good for a few grand, as he did a bang-up business dealing coke to the
employees.


A quick review of the schedule and time cards for my mammoth kitchen
staff revealed more than a few irregularities. Juan Rodriguez, sauté man,
for instance, had been punching in as Juan Martinez, Juan Garcia, and
Juan Perez—all of whom were imaginary creations the front office had
been kind enough to keep paying, in spite of the fact that they clearly did
not exist. If half the cooks were on the line when they were supposed to
be—as opposed to selling guns, or hiding in a stairwell smoking weed, or

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