An announcement was made in the New York Times. I was introduced to
the company publicist, asked to provide a bio, and my short but
memorable adventure on Planet Pino had begun.
In a subsequent meeting—and there would be many, as designing the
new menu was a painstaking and tortuous affair—was informed that
though I would be executive chef, my chef de cuisine (a ferret-like
Italian) would fill in the obvious gaps in my knowledge of Tuscan
cuisine and provide the sort of street-level, line-cooking, risotto-stirring
experience I was lacking. It seemed like a reasonable idea. I could
choose my own team of sous-chefs (two would be required) and cooks,
but I had better do it fast, because Coco Pazzo Teatro was set to open in
ten days. In that time, we would need a menu, equipment, and
somewhere between twenty-five and thirty cooks—all of it ready for a
celebrity-studded and media-scrutinized soft opening.
It was my greatest, most frantic, madcap and mad-dash recruiting drive
ever.
First things first: I called Steven (my perennial sous-chef, but I'll get to
him later) and excitedly told him to drop everything, because this was
the Big One: the biggest break in our careers! Get over here fast, we need
some bodies quickly! Look at this place, I told him, walking him through
the rubble of the unfinished restaurant, showing him where the deck
ovens and ranges would go, pointing out the tilting brazier, the steam
kettle, the pasta machines, the ice-cream makers, the butcher station, the
store rooms and offices—everything new and of the finest quality. We
were given sixty grand to spend in the next few days, on pots, pans,
blenders, beurre mixers, utensils and toys! And that wasn't counting the
heavy equipment, which was already in the pipeline.
Steven responded with his usual speed and skill, and became my sous-
chef. Alfredo, let's call him, a nice, talented Colombian American from
the Supper Club, came aboard as second sous. It was a race now. Gianni,