I don't care if you're turning the joint into Lutèce—it's too horrible
NOW."
A couple of '70s survivors wanted me for a new seafood restaurant on the
Upper East Side, but when I called my connection at a reputable fish
wholesaler to tell him I was thinking of taking the job, he groaned out
loud.
"Those guys are deadbeats of the month every fucking month. Their
other place is on COD—and I hear the paychecks are bouncing like
Schwarzenegger's tits . . ."
I thanked him for the information and politely declined further
discussions.
I was utterly depressed. I lay in bed all day, immobilized by guilt, fear,
shame and regret, my ashtrays overflowing with butts, unpaid bills
stacked everywhere, dirty clothes heaped in the corners. At night, I lay
awake with heart palpitations, terrors, bouts of self-loathing so powerful
that only the thought of diving through my sixth-floor window onto
Riverside Drive gave me any comfort and allowed me to lull myself into
a resigned sleep.
Finally, I landed an interview that sounded promising. It was a
steakhouse on Park Avenue with a large business clientele, a respectable
24 from the Zagat Guide, and a well-thought-of outpost in the Hamptons.
They served top-quality dry-aged steaks, manly portions of seafood,
oversized martinis and single malt scotches and had the inevitable cigar
room. As I cabbed downtown, I was confident that a) this place would
not be an embarrassment to work at, and b) I could run a steakhouse
kitchen standing on my head. In fifteen years, I had learned everything
there was to know about beef, pork, veal, about grilling, roasting—it was
easy, the kind of simple, honest food I could put my mark on without
working up too much of a sweat. The specials, for one, could be easily