Henry taught me crème anglaise. About its texture, its consistency. About stirring constantly but gently, so as not to disrupt the eggs' fragile bond, on very low, even heat. His chocolate soufflé with crème anglaise sold out every night of the week.
One night, Henry didn't show up for work. No phone call, no explanation. No one knew what happened to him. Days passed. His parole officer came by. And still, no word from Henry.
The replacement pastry guy's attempt at crème anglaise was heartbreaking: scorched, curdled, and not sweet enough at all.
Tim and I worked at the Las Vegas Hilton on Paradise Road, in one of those mediocre casino cafes where you could get scrambled eggs and home fries 24 hours a day. While peeling onions and making soup for the next day's lunch shift, I watched Tim flip burgers and sauté vegetables, his thick wrists steady and confident, his movements hard and fast. He was incredibly handsome... crooked smile, broad shoulders, gentle eyes.
His girlfriend--I don't remember her name, I just remember her thin, impatient mouth--was a dancer over at the Tropicana, and came to see Tim sometimes on her nights off, pouting about how he could never go out with her and her friends. She scowled when she saw my beefy hands, my face ravaged with acne, the dirty apron slung over my belly. "I don't understand," I heard her whisper to Tim once, "why she doesn't take better care of herself."
I went home that night and stared at the mirror, and put some lipstick on. The harsh pink looked cruel and forced. I fell asleep before washing it off, and dreamt that Tim and I got married and baked loaves of pink bread together. I woke up the next morning, my fetid cook's uniform stuck to me. My pillow smelled like French fries.
Before Chef Andrew and New York City, I didn't understand anything that wasn't a chicken, a cow, or a potato.
I didn't know how to deal with risotto... or foie gras... or cassoulet. I had to be shown how to shuck an oyster; be introduced to ceviche and anything tartare; be told what to do with a swordfish fillet.
I cringe when I think of my first few weeks in Chef Andrew's kitchen. Nervous and unsophisticated, I burned my hands every other day. I hid behind Antelmo, the huge Mexican prep cook who never called me by name (just chuletita), and I darted out of the way whenever Andrew stomped through, screaming orders and slapping line cooks on their backs--releasing that careless authority men release so well. "What the FUCK is WRONG with you?!" he roared at me during weekend brunches, centimeters from my damp face. "MY FUCKIN' GRANDMA COULD MAKE THAT OMELET FASTER THAN YOU!" I would nod silently, arms trembling. Or, "Jesus Christ! You call this piece of SHIT medium RARE? START OVER! Don't fuckin' embarrass me!" The other guys--Justino, Armando, Isidoro, Jaime, Luis--would snicker at my humiliation.
Eventually, I passed Andrew's tests, and became one of "his boys." We ended up working well together, laughing and engaging in bullshit banter. There was a certain energy and power Andrew had that bolstered me, that made me feel sure and strong about my cooking, my instincts, my own ideas about specials and plate presentation. He galloped through the kitchen, unabashedly passionate; he grinned at me, tasted everything I made, noted my improvements, and walked me through each mistake. I loved it. Making him proud of me became the single most important thing in the world.
Robert ran the show at a steak house up in the garment district, a place that offered enormous platters of aged red meat to men who sucked on cigars and gulped single-malt scotch.
"Honey, I've got empty stockpots that weigh more than you." Grunt. Sniff. "You worked with Andrew, huh? That piece of mierda. Well. Hmm. What do you know about meat?"
That was my first meeting with Chef Robert.
His temper was legendary in midtown: He'd been known to throw heavy plates and hotel pans at incompetent grill cooks during dinner service, and make careless waiters sob like little girls. He had a rumbling, mocking laugh, a callous sense of humor, and insane standards. He also taught me more about discipline, pride, integrity, and loyalty than anyone else I know. Working for Robert was like joining an anxious fraternity; we all knew what a nightmare he could be, so we worked in perfect sync--turning out flawless food through a rigorous, well-timed assembly line, obsessing over details, following Robert's menu religiously, down to the last speck of seasoning. At the end of an intense night, we were lucky if we got a "Not bad, you guys" and an approving smirk from Robert before he disappeared into his sub-basement office to pore over invoices and inventory sheets with a glass of Spanish brandy.
Robert would strut around the kitchen, inspecting orders and tasting sauces, and bark at his sous chef, a crazy Hungarian with a thick accent and high blood pressure. The Hungarian was a ball-breaker too--cocky, abrasive, but undeniably talented--and he took extra delight in flinging insults at me, the only female on the line, across slabs of raw beef and venison.
"Ey! Yeah! Eees zat a cow's bl-uuht, or do yoo haf yoor peer-ee-ughd? HA HA hahahahahaha...."
I do not remember the precise moment in which I decided I loved Patrick.
I do, however, remember the first meal he ever cooked for me: pan-roasted catfish with shiitake mushrooms and a spicy mustard sauce. And then, a few mornings later, velvet oatmeal and chocolate-chip pancakes. There were hushed, private dinners, on white linen, with truffles and duck confit and porcini mushrooms and endive salads. There was that amazing rack of lamb we made one icy, windy night, with the mint sauce I have not been able to duplicate since. To mark our first year together, we made seared yellowfin with heirloom tomatoes and Thai basil.
When he left New York, my dinners changed. I stopped buying fish; could not have steak frites without feeling a lump in my throat. I relied on beef stew, potato chips, Campbell's minestrone, pizza from across the street. I forgot all about fresh fruit, and skipped dessert for months. Lamb was out of the question.
Once, because he missed me, he sent me a Maine lobster, wrapped in seaweed and packed in ice. I steamed it late at night, and ate it with nothing but drawn butter and cold white wine, weeping with happiness the entire time. I had never tasted anything so good.
