KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

(Chris Devlin) #1

cooking everything stone-rare, slicing and then coloring the slices under
the salamander—something I hate to see); he makes minimal use of the
microwave, which the cholo contingent has come to refer to
contemptuously as "cooking French-style", and I've only seen him throw
one steak in the fry-o-lator. All-in-all, he's worked out well so far.


"Platos!" screams Isidoro. The dishwasher is buried up to his shoulders
in the pot sink, his pre-wash area stacked with plates of unscraped
leftovers and haphazardly dumped silver. I snarl and grab a Bengali
busboy, shove his snout into a plate heaped with gnawed bones and half-
eaten vegetables. "Scrape!" I hiss menacingly, referring to the mess of
unscraped plates. "Busy, chef," complains the busboy who, from what
I've seen, has been wandering around with his thumb up his ass, taking
out the occasional coffee, for hours. "I don't give a fuck if you're saving
the world," I say. "Scrape the plates now, or I'll tear your booga off and
hurl it across the street at Park Bistro!"


David the Portuguese busboy is making espressos and cappuccinos
behind me, but he moves pretty gracefully back there, not bumping me
or spilling. We're used to each other's movements in the narrow space we
share, knowing when to move laterally, when to make way for incoming
dishes, outgoing food, the fry guy returning from downstairs with
another 100-pound load of freshly cut spuds. I feel only the occasional
light tap on the shoulder as he squeezes through with another tray of
coffee and petit-fours, maybe a whispered, "Behind you" or "Bajando."
Fred and Ginger time.


Finally the printer starts slowing down, and I can see by the thinning
crowd at the bar that the last seating is under way: white spaces opening
up in the dining room, stripped tables waiting for customers. We've got
280 dinners under our belts already. I turn the expediting over to
Cachundo, drag my ass down the Stairmaster for a final walk-through. I
check the stocks cooling in plastic buckets outside the walk-in, the
gauze-wrapped pigs' feet which will have to be painstakingly deboned

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