by the rest of the Queens residents; Segundo the vato loco prep
centurion, Ramon the dishwasher, and Janine the pastry chef. Camelia,
the general manager, is last—she walks to work—and we exchange
"Bonjour!" and "Comment ça va?"
Soon everyone is working: Carlos roasting bones for stock, me heating
sauces and portioning pavées, filet mignons, porc mignons, duck breasts
and liver. Before twelve, I've got to cut and pepper pavées and filets,
skin and slice the calves' liver, lug up cassoulet, caramelize apples,
blanch baby carrots, make garlic confit, reload grated cheese, onion
soup, sea salt, crushed pepper, breadcrumbs, oils. I've got to come up
with a pasta special using what's on hand, make livornaise sauce for
Carlos, make a sauce for the pheasant—and, most annoying, make a new
batch of navarin, which will monopolize most of my range-top for much
of the morning. Somewhere in the middle of this, I have to write up the
specials for Camelia to input into the computer and set the prices (at
nine-thirty sharp, she's going to start buzzing me on the intercom, asking
me in her thick French accent if I have "le muh-NEW").
Delivery guys keep interrupting me for signatures, and I don't have
nearly as much time as I'd like to check over the stuff. As much as I'd
like to push my snout into every fish gill and fondle every vegetable that
comes in the door, I can't—there's just not enough time. Fortunately, my
purveyors know me as a dangerously unstable and profane rat-bastard, so
if I don't like what I receive, they know I'll be on the phone later,
screaming at them to come and "pick this shit up!" Generally, I get very
good product. It's in my purveyors' interests to make me happy. Produce,
however, is unusually late. I look at the kitchen clock nervously—not
much time left. I have a tasting to conduct at eleven-thirty, a sampler of
the day's specials for the floor staff, accompanied by detailed
explanation, so they won't describe the pheasant as "kinda like chicken".
The butcher arrives, looking like he woke up under a bridge. I rush
downstairs, hot on his heels, to pick up my meat order: a towering stack