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

property. We walked past the windows of the kitchen and peeked in. What appeared to be thirty cooks were meticulously prepping mise en place for the night’s dinner service.

“Wow. Look how calm it is in there,” I said to Cindy. “This will be amazing.”

We turned a corner and walked past the pool. A helicopter flew overhead, circled, and landed on an expanse of lawn nearby, dropping off what appeared to be two Swiss businessmen in bespoke suits.

“Look at that! A helicopter to dinner.”

With that we went back upstairs and I grabbed my sports coat. I was ready for dinner.

The dining room was completely empty when the maître d’ escorted us to our table. The room had an odd mixture of elegant Parisian elements—ornate mirrors and huge floor lamps—tucked into a farmhouse with large stone floors and exposed wooden-beam ceilings. Despite our youth and appearance we were seated side by side at a great corner table with a view of the entire room and the windows that encase the kitchen.

The captain greeted our table promptly and warmly, and I ordered two glasses of champagne. I didn’t want a repeat of the treatment we received at Les Crayères, and while we looked out of place, I wanted him to think we knew what we were talking about. He left the menus and the wine list.

He returned quickly with the champagne and offered to help us “assess the menu.” He wanted to make sure “you will eat such things as pigeon.” He wasn’t so much helping as he was trying to steer us clear of our certain ignorance.

The sommelier came over and I ordered half bottles of 1986 Drouhin Chassagne Montrachet and a 1989 Gevrey-Chambertin Clos St. Jacques from Rousseau. With him, at least, I scored some points. We were on our way.

I was literally on the edge of my seat with anticipation as my eyes swept the room trying to absorb the details.

“Grant, I’m over here,” Cindy said with a wave of her hand in front of my face. She was on a different mission than mine. Romance.

“Sorry.”

The food began to arrive. I ate. I wondered when it would happen, the moment of revelation.

About four courses through the seven-course degustation it dawned on me: It isn’t going to happen. The food was all right. Some was even very good. None of it was revelatory. Cindy could see the disappointment washing over me. “Grant, I’m sorry this isn’t what you thought it would be. Maybe Enoteca will be great?”

I was starting to think that maybe what I imagined to exist somewhere in the world simply didn’t exist at all.

Then the squab arrived.

I picked up my knife and fork and cut the breast in half. I gently pushed one side of the supreme away from the other and glanced at the cut edge. It was gray. Hugely overcooked. I was staring at it in disbelief when Cindy whispered, “There’s the chef!”

We had until this point quietly and dutifully worked our way through the food and wine without much interaction with the service team. Once we had ordered they did a fine job of keeping our glasses full and delivering the food, giving brief descriptions along the way and clearing the plates when we were finished. Now suddenly, at the low moment of the meal for me, here comes the man himself.

I looked up to see Georges Blanc striding through the dining room, greeting tables and shaking hands. I contemplated what to do, growing more nervous as he walked from table to table, slowly making his way toward us. Should I show him the overcooked meat? Should I cover it somehow so he doesn’t see it? I knew I was not remotely qualified to question a chef of his caliber and standing, especially in his own dining room. But I was upset. I had come all the way to France, all the way to this restaurant in particular, to experience greatness. I was taught in school that France was the birthplace of all things great in gastronomy. The entire CIA curriculum was based on French technique. All the chefs I had worked with waxed poetic about the great French kitchens they visited or worked in. Even Trotter told the staff about his experiences eating at Girardet and Boyer, placing them on a pedestal. He told the staff how we should strive to be as great as they are.

I had come all this way to find something that I had lost.

Chef Blanc approached the table and I stood to shake his hand. His English was difficult to understand through his French, but I made out, “Where are you from?”

“Chicago,” I said.

“Ahhh. Chicago. I know a chef there. Charlie Trotter,” he replied.

“Yes, I worked for him,” I said.

“Really. Very good then. How has your meal been?”

“Good, Chef,” I replied. I took a long pause trying to decide what to do. “Chef. The squab breast. Is it supposed to be, uh, cooked through like this?”

I took the fork and impaled a section of the breast and tilted the cut side up so he could see the gray color in the dimly lit room. He looked at it closely but quickly, looked me in the eye, and said, “Yes. That is a pigeon.”

Georges Blanc turned and walked away.

I sat there frozen, fork in hand, still holding the meat. I tossed it down.

“Look, man. I might not be a Michelin three-star chef, but I do know this meat is overcooked. Look at it, Cin!” I picked it back up and held it aloft in her direction.

“Grant, it’s okay. I am sure he’s making another one right now.”

The captain arrived at our table.

“It there a problem, monsieur?”

“The squab is overcooked,” I mumbled, not really paying much attention to him. I was saying it to the gods, to myself, not to him. I didn’t care about the meat. The bubble had burst.

“Monsieur, this is why I asked you about the pigeon earlier. Most Americans are not used to eating this