olives, garlic confit, tomato concassée, fava beans and chopped fresh
herbs), filet au poivre, steak au poivre, steak tartare, calves' liver
persillé, cassoulet toulousaine, magret de moulard with quince and sauce
miel, the ridiculously popular mignon de porc, pieds du cochon—and
tonight's special, whatever that's going to be.
I've got some play here: both leg of venison and some whole pheasants
are coming in, so I opt for the pheasant. It's a roasted dish, meaning I can
par-roast it ahead of time, requiring my sous-chef simply to take it off
the bone and sling it into the oven to finish, then heat the garnishes and
sauce before serving, easy special. A lay-up. That should help matters
somewhat.
By the time I arrive at Les Halles, I have my ducks pretty much in a row.
I'm the first to arrive, as usual—though sometimes my pastry chef
surprises me with an early appearance—and the restaurant is dark. Salsa
music is playing loudly over the stereo behind the bar, for the night
porter. I check the reservation book for tonight, see that we already have
eighty or so res on the book, then check the previous night's numbers
(the maître d' has already totaled up reservations and walk-ins) and see
that we did a very respectable 280 meals—a good portent for my food
cost. The more steak-frites I sell, the better the numbers will be. I flip
through the manager's log, the notebook where the night manager
communicates with the day management, noting customer complaints,
repair requirements, employee misbehavior, important phone calls. I see
from the log that my grill man called one of the waiters a "cocksucker"
and pounded his fist on his cutting board in a "menacing way" when five
diners waddled into the restaurant at three minutes of midnight closing
and ordered five cotes du boeuf, medium-well (cooking time forty-five
minutes). I sip my cardboard-tasting take-out coffee from the deli next
door and walk through the kitchen, taking notice of the clean-up job the
night porter has done. It looks good. Jaime grins at me from the
stairwell. He's dragging down a bag full of sodden linen, says, "Hola,