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

it was likely he had tossed it in the garbage. Most of my cooking experience had been flipping eggs and making mashed potatoes. Surely the best restaurant in the country screened applicants rigorously and only hired the best. Why would he possibly want me? I started to think that working in Scotland would be a good place to start. I could possibly go from there to a Michelin-starred restaurant in France, then come back and have a shot at working at Trotter’s.

Every night I propped up some pillows in bed and studied the book—it would be my only chance to get to know the food and techniques. I knew the dishes and the techniques cold.

Three weeks after I sent my résumé I had almost given up hope when I came home around midnight and saw that the light was blinking on my answering machine. I hit play and started to pull some leftovers out of the fridge to eat. A voice I didn’t recognize echoed faintly through my tiny apartment.

I started making an egg-white omelet when . . . holy shit . . . did he just say Charlie Trotter?! I ran to the machine, almost knocking it off the shelf. I hit rewind and listened to the message again. The soft, poised chef’s voice now seemed deafening. He mentioned an open position at his restaurant and asked me to call him back. My heart pounded as I picked up the phone and began to dial. Then hung up. Then dialed again, then hung up. It was like calling a girl to ask her on a date when I was thirteen. What would I say? What would he ask me?

I composed myself and let it ring. The phone was answered by the familiar noise of a busy kitchen. The chef on the other end sounded annoyed. “Is chef Trotter available?” I asked.

“Of course he is here, but he is busy . . . we are . . . IN SERVICE.”

“In service?” I thought, “But it’s past midnight in Chicago.” I had no idea that the service schedule at an elite restaurant could go until 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. At the Amway I was home by midnight, even on the weekends. I sheepishly left my name and phone number with the gruff chef, knowing it was unlikely that chef Trotter would ever receive my message.

Over the course of the next week I continued to call the restaurant. Chef Trotter proved to be an elusive guy. On the ninth day someone finally said, “Sure, wait a minute,” and chef Trotter picked up the phone. I was incredibly nervous—I was talking to the best chef in the country.

The conversation went like this: He asked questions, I gave answers, and he crushed me. I didn’t have a correct answer for anything, and by the end of the five-minute interview he could have asked me my own name and I would have believed him when he told me I was wrong. Chef Trotter was introducing me to his management style.

At the end of the phone call he asked why he should hire me.

“I am a highly motivated cook and will do whatever it takes to do things right.”

Trotter chuckled. “I have an entire restaurant full of people like that. What makes you different?”

I was floundering. I had nothing to add. I thought, “Ask me something about your food! I know it cold. I can cite the awards, the press, and quote you to yourself. Ask me something I know, dammit!” But he knew that I knew all that, so he didn’t ask.

I muttered something about “being prepared each and every day,” and to my surprise he abruptly ended the call with an invitation to try out at the restaurant. Two days working in the kitchen would be followed by a mystery-box cook-off. The chef de cuisine would give me a box of ingredients and I had to produce four courses for four people—chef Trotter and the three sous chefs—in three hours. He asked if I had any questions.

“Is there anything special I need to bring?” I ventured.

“Your A game,” he replied.

Over the next two weeks I studied his book maniacally. I located the hotel closest to Charlie Trotter’s and booked my stay there, regardless of the cost. I reserved a table at the restaurant the night before my tryout so I could taste the food. I was doing my homework. Despite the fact that I couldn’t afford the meal, I wanted a chance to see the plates I would have to work with, study the flavor and seasoning profiles he preferred, and even peek into the kitchen to see the layout and equipment. These were naive plans.

I arrived nervous and on edge. Everything about the neighborhood and the restaurant made me uncomfortable. I was a small-town kid and the drive into Chicago was enough to freak me out.

The dinner was revelatory. I had never eaten food like that before. I surprised the staff by ordering two bottles of wine that fit the menu and were reasonably good values, but that I clearly could not afford. I couldn’t drink all of the wine so I had a glass or two of each and left the rest for the staff. I thought I was being clever by giving them a gift.

I looked ridiculous. I was twenty-one years old, in a cheap, frumpy suit, armed with too much knowledge about the food and not afraid to ask questions that were too pointed. I was being overly observant and was far from relaxed. I wondered the whole night whether Charlie knew who I was and whether he was throwing curveballs at me. Was he giving me food that wasn’t on the regular menu? Presenting it abnormally? Noting what I was eating so that those ingredients would not be in the mystery box? I hadn’t spent a moment in his kitchen, but Trotter was in my head already.

Despite the wine, I didn’t sleep well that night.

After two walks