Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

a second, Grant,” Jeff said, rolling his eyes. “I know they play that ‘call me chef ’ game at school and downstairs, but up here we call people by their names. I’m Jeff.” Despite his lingo he spoke quickly and his eyes darted around the room. He was fidgety and it was common for him to stop a thought midsentence and just walk away. Then he would pop back five minutes later and say, “Okay, what was I saying?”

Turning around suddenly he scooped a piece of raw foie gras scrap from a cook’s cutting board and popped it in his mouth. I don’t think he meant to eat it, or didn’t notice what it was. “Why would you eat raw foie?” I was thinking. But that is how Jeff was. His mind raced ahead of his body, or vice versa. He winced for a second, leaned forward to spit the liver in the garbage can, and turned to face me.

“I just don’t get why people like that stuff,” he deadpanned.

Despite his hyper behavior he took his time when explaining things to me. I was getting the one-on-one instruction critical to my growth as a cook. As we got to know each other and he learned how ambitious I was he said to me, “You need to get some experience burning your forearms on a stack of sauté pans, Grant. Real cooking, know what I mean? Deep down into the pain stuff. I like food that is from the soul. Rustic good food. Tastes good. Bold flavors. Stuff you have to chew. Good-looking, sure, but not pretentious. You need to learn all of that before you can act like a prima donna.”

I worked the prep station, making soups, salad dressings, and some mise en place for about a month before Jeff moved me to the roast/grill station on the hot line. I was a nineteen-year-old culinary student—I was not supposed to be working the hot line burning my forearms. But I was right where I wanted to be. Every once in a while I would bump into my counterpart Ray in the locker room. He ended up working for a couple of weeks in The 1913 Room but spent most of his time in banquets.

Three months into my externship Jeff pulled me aside and told me to go see chef Stallard in his office. This didn’t sound good, but I left immediately without asking why. To my surprise, chef Stallard relayed that he and Jeff would like me to stay at Cygnus for the duration of my externship. That is, under the condition that I be available to help him with things from time to time. I enthusiastically consented.

Every couple of weeks chef Stallard would call up to Cygnus and tell me to arrive early the following day. He was an avid outdoorsman who loved to hunt game birds and fly-fish. Whenever he went on a hunt he brought back a few birds and gave me a demo on breaking them down, describing how they were traditionally hunted and hung in Europe.

One morning I arrived to find an entire pig on the counter. We took it apart piece by piece as he explained the cuts, what they were commonly used for, and some of the favorite dishes he had created with them. He spoke with great nostalgia and reverence for the restaurants of France, especially the Michelin three-starred Taillevent in Paris, where he’d spent time working. “You think I should go to Europe after I graduate?” I asked.

“It would probably do you some good, in a lot of ways. Between a good friend, chef Angus Campbell, and me, we should have enough connections to place you somewhere. But the deal is that you have to come back here and work for a year before we do so. I want to prepare you personally if I am recommending you.”

This was awesome. I could see things moving in a new, right direction.

“Now go get that big white plastic container over there and fill it half-full with salt. We are going to make some prosciutto with these hams.”

Amazing. Just amazing.

When I returned to the CIA the following April, I was anxious to get back to Cygnus and keep moving forward. The final six months at the CIA went by very quickly as the curriculum shifted from primarily classroom lessons to real restaurant situations. We spent most of our time working our way through the four operating restaurants on the campus. It suited me, and furthered my comfort in a busy kitchen. I was extremely fortunate to land with chef Stallard at the Amway, and once I compared my experience with other students’ I could tell that it was unusual. Most didn’t love their externships.

As graduation grew closer, I had phone conversations with chef Stallard about returning to the Amway and working once again at Cygnus. Everything was lined up for me to go back, and the deal to move on to Europe was in place.

On October 28, 1994, my mother, father, and Grandma Achatz arrived on campus to watch me graduate. I returned home to find the Corvette restored and painted a dark purple, my requested color. I had graduated with honors despite the C minus in AM Pantry.

I packed what little I owned—a few cookbooks and some knives—and moved to Grand Rapids. I felt like a different person walking back into the Amway than I did just a year earlier. This time I knew they wanted me there, and I knew I could contribute in a meaningful way. I stopped by chef Stallard’s office on my way up to Cygnus to say hello and to make certain that he was taking the first steps to contacting his leads in Europe. Setting up a “stage”—or apprenticeship—with its work visas and such could take forever, so it wasn’t too early to start planning. I wanted to get experience at the Amway, but I saw beyond it. I was on a mission.

“Hello,