which I found, to my surprise, that I could still speak and understand.
I had been worried about this moment; I'd been apprehensive about
invading another chef's kitchen. We tend to get our backs up with the
arrival of interlopers, and though it may have been nice to be held up as
some sort of benchmark for the Les Halles organization, I knew how I'd
have felt if the chef from say, the Washington or Miami branch came
swanning into my kitchen, wanting to show me how the big boys do it.
Frédéric was a friendly and gracious host, however, and like the rest of
the crew, had never been to New York. I was a curiosity, as strange to
them as they were to me.
The kitchen was small and spotless, with dangerously low range hoods
for a 6-foot-4 guy like me. A grate-covered canal ran around the floor
beneath each station, with a current of constantly flowing water washing
away any detritus that might fall from cutting boards. Containers were
all space-saving square in shape, and the counters were low to the
ground. I put on my whites, unwrapped my knives and hung around the
kitchen for a while, watching food go out, taking it all in, making small
talk with the crew, aware of a persistent throbbing behind my eyes, an
unpleasant constriction around my temples, a feeling that I was
somehow not getting enough oxygen.
Beat from the flight, I only stayed a few hours that night, until at 10 P.M.
Tokyo time, my brain thoroughly poached with jet lag, I slunk back to
the apartment to collapse.
I woke up at 5 A.M., hungry, put on a pullover, long-sleeved T-shirt,
jeans, black elk-skin cowboy boots that had seen better days, and a suit-
cut leather jacket that Steven had picked up used for me at a flea market.
I was ready for adventure.
Breakfast.