dish as soon as its name is out of Cachundo's mouth—setting up the pan,
doing the pre-searing, getting it into the oven quickly, making the initial
moves—so that later, when the whole board is fluttering with dupes, I
can still tell what I have working and what I have waiting without having
to read the actual tickets again.
"Ready on twelve!" says Carlos, who's already got a load of steaks and
chops and a few tunas coming up. He wants to know if I'm close on my
end. "Let's go on twelve!" I say. Miguel starts dunking spuds. I call for
mashed potatoes for the boudins from Omar, give the apples a few tosses
over flame, heat and mount my liver sauce, pull the pork mignons from
the oven and clip off the strings that hold them together, heat potatoes
and veg for the pheasant, squeeze the sauce for the pheasant between
pots on to a back burner, move the mussels off the heat and into a ready
bowl, calling, "Papas fritas para conchas negras" to Miguel as I spin
and bend to check my duck breasts. Sauce pot with duck sauce and
quince, I'll heat those right in the sauce, no room now, the orders are
really coming in, the printer chattering away nonstop. I'm sneaking
peeks at the dupes while they're still coming off the printer, trying to
pick out what I'll be needing, like a base runner stealing signals. The
intercom buzzes and I pick up, annoyed.
"Line one for the chef," says the hostess.
I push the blinking green light. It's a salesman, wanting to sell me
smoked fish. I answer all sweetness and light, lulling him into the bear
trap in the Bigfoot style: "So let me get this straight," I say, after he's
jabbered away about his full line of delicacies, me trying to sound a little
slow and confused, "you want to sell me food, right?" "Yes!" comes the
reply, the salesman sounding encouraged by my interest and apparent
stupidity. "And in general, you'd say," I continue, "you have like, a lot of
restaurant accounts—in fact, you'd probably say that, like, you are in the
business of servicing restaurants . . . and chefs in particular?" "Oh, yes!"
says the witless salesman, beginning a litany of the usual prestigious