of clandestine services, a Bilko-esque character who, in addition to the
usual sous-chef responsibilities such as running the kitchen in my
absence, line cooking at a high level and watching my back, was
invaluable to me for his remarkable ability to get things done.
Key to the walk-in lost? Just ask Steven. He'll have that door off its
hinges in minutes. Robot-Coupe need a replacement part in the middle of
a busy holiday rush? Steven will slip out the door and be back in minutes
with the part—slightly used—and with another restaurant's shallots still
in it. Want to know what they're thinking in the office? Ask Steven. He's
suborned the secretaries and is reading the interoffice e-mail on a regular
basis. Need bail money? A codeine pill for that knife wound? A new
offset serrated knife real cheap? He's your boy. When I wonder what's in
the heart and mind of someone I work with? I ask Steven. He'll take
them out, get them liquored up so they blab their guts out, and I'll have a
full report by noon next.
All the things I couldn't do—or couldn't be seen to do—he did. And he
did them well. In fact, though a highly paid executive chef now for a
major corporate outfit, he still works for me one night a week on my
grill station, to keep his hand in, I guess. So there is still an action arm to
my administration, a covert-action arm.
Having a sous-chef with excellent cooking skills and a criminal mind is
one of God's great gifts. In our glory days together, like the capo of a
crime family, or the director of the CIA, I could look across the room at
Steven, raise an eyebrow, maybe make an imperceptible movement with
my chin, and the thing—whatever the thing was at the time—would be
done. Espionage, Impromptu Collection of Materiel, Revenge,
Disinformation and Interrogation . . . our specialties.
I met Steven at the Supper Club. It was 1993, my return to the "bigs". I'd
been working for Bigfoot at his West Village saloon, comfortable but in
career limbo. I took a few weeks off to kick back in the Caribbean, and