me?"
This was tough one. The man had seemed strictly business the whole
time so far. What kind of an answer was he looking for? How did he
expect his future chef to answer such a question: "What do you know
about me?"
Did he want his ass kissed, I wondered. Was he looking for something
along the lines of: "Oh, yes! Of course I've heard about you! How could I
not? Why, every schoolboy in America is aware of your heroic trip from
Scotland in steerage, your resolute climb up the ladder, how you worked
your way up from piss-boy to magnate and created this fine, fine
steakhouse, where the food is legendarily good. Why . . . why . . . I've got
your bio tattooed on my chest as a matter of fact! You . . . you're an
inspiration, I tell ya! A childhood fucking role model!" Was this what he
was looking for?
I thought not. It couldn't be that. I had to think fast. What could this guy
want? Maybe it was just the seriousness of the enterprise he wanted
acknowledged, something like: "Sure! I've heard of you—that you're a
no-nonsense, stand-up guy, a man who works his people hard, expects a
lot from them . . . that you've been fucked over before by bullshit artist
chefs, early in your career, and you're unlikely to allow the to happen
again . . . that you clawed your way to the top over the broken skulls and
shattered limbs of your competitors . . ." Was that what he wanted?
Or, I wondered shrewdly. Did he want to see if the applicant had any
balls on him. "Oh yeah" the right answer there might be, "everybody says
you're a miserable, Machiavellian, coldblooded rat bastard with a
million enemies and balls the size of casaba melons—but I also hear
you're fair."
Maybe that was it!