circumstances). No worries, just smooth, practiced motions, moves you
see in twenty-year veterans: no pot grabbed without side-towel, no
wasted effort, every sauce getting a quick taste, correcting seasonings,
coming up on her stuff at the same time as the rest of the order—
generally holding down her end like an ass-kicking, name-taking
mercenary of the old school, only cleaner and better. Her station and her
uniform were absolutely unmarked by spills, stains or any of the
expected Friday-night detritus.
"Where did she come from?" I whispered to Scott. Not amazed that a
woman could do the job, but that anyone other than a thirty-five-year-old
Ecuadorian mercenary could do it so stone-cold. (Remember what I said
about Americans versus mis carnales from points south? Wrong again.)
"Oh, her?" said Scott casually. "Alain Ducasse." Mentioning God's name
as breezily as I'd say, "the Hilton" or "Houlihan's".
If this sobering revelation wasn't painful enough, if I wasn't choking
down enough crow, there was some more humble pie to come: a waiter
came in with a half-empty bottle of wine, a 1989 Le Chambertin, and
handed it to the Dominican dishwasher. At this point, I was ready to
answer one of those ads in the paper for "Learn How To Drive the Big
Rigs!", maybe take up mink ranching. Anyway, the grateful dishwasher
examined the bottle for sediment, promptly decanted the remains,
poured some wine into a stem glass—which he held knowledgeably
between two fingers by the stem—and then swirled, examining the ropes
with a discerning eye, before taking an airy slurp. I was ready to hit
myself hard with the nearest blunt object.
Oh yeah: the food.
Luxurious, but austere. Bluefin tuna tartare with pickled cucumbers,
lime, chile and lemon grass was formed by hand. Unlike a lot of his
peers, Scott doesn't like torturing food into unnatural shapes so it looks