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

I dug out the March 1995 issue of the Wine Spectator that I purchased while I was at the Amway. That month, the magazine listed its picks for the ten best restaurants in the United States, and it had Trotter at the top. Now I wanted to examine the other nine. I read about each and jotted down the addresses and names of the chefs so I could send them my résumé.

A few pages past the feature was a small picture of a simple brown building and a short description of the restaurant it housed:

In Napa Valley wine country, Thomas Keller’s The French Laundry seems to be one of those three-star country restaurants that so captivate us in France. The menu ($49 for five courses, $44 for three) has four to six selections in each category; consider starting with potato agnolotti enriched with mascarpone and dressed with black truffles and white truffle oil. Sea bass is pan roasted and served with a cassoulet of beans and preserved lemon, followed perhaps by a saddle of rabbit wrapped in bacon and accented with roasted fennel.

I read that and somehow knew I had to work there.

Perhaps it was the romantic lure of Napa or its similarity to Tuscany. Whatever it was, I never sent a résumé to any of the “top ten restaurants.” Instead, I wrote a letter to Thomas Keller, explaining how much I wanted to work at The French Laundry.

Then the next day I wrote another. I changed it slightly, added a bit more about my experience, and sent it off. Then I did that again and again over the next twelve days—fourteen letters in all. Perhaps chef Keller would think I was nuts. Or perhaps he would recognize my persistence and think he could use that in his kitchen. But either way, he could not ignore me completely because he would realize that the letters would keep coming.

After two weeks I got a call from chef Keller himself inviting me to Napa for a two-day tryout. I didn’t freak out this time like I did talking to Trotter. He was matter-of-fact and had a slight laugh in his voice. It must have been the letters I sent, though he didn’t mention them.

I told my parents about the tryout and we decided that it would be nice for my mom to come with me. More than anything, it would be an opportunity for us to spend some time together, even if the job didn’t work out. We flew to San Francisco, rented a car, and made the drive to Napa.

We checked into a hotel in the town of Napa and then set out to find Yountville, so we wouldn’t have to search for it the next day. The drive up Highway 29 was stunning. Exiting the town and entering the valley reminded me of the hills of Florence. The light was soft and the smell of eucalyptus and vines was fresh. We turned off on Washington Street and drove slowly through the tiny town of Yountville.

I knew from the Wine Spectator mention that the building was probably unassuming, but we couldn’t find it. I was expecting a sign of some sort, but we didn’t see one. We came to the end of the town, turned around, and went back again. Nothing.

Finally my mom spotted a brown building with exhaust-hood covers on the roof. “That looks like it could be a restaurant,” she said. We parked the car, stepped out, and saw the tiny sign on the wall: The French Laundry. “You want to move all the way to California to work here?” It looked barely more impressive, from the outside at least, than the Achatz Family Restaurant. I scurried away lest I be seen lurking around a day early.

Chef Keller told me to arrive at the restaurant at noon. I showed up at 11:30, making sure I was on time. I unlatched a small wooden gate and walked through the entryway, past a walk-in cooler, through another screen door, and onto what looked like the porch of someone’s home. Baskets of vegetables were arranged on small shelves and the savory smell of veal stock filled the air. I approached the doorway to the kitchen and was nearly run over by a cook wheeling around the corner. “Hey, man. How are you?”

“I’m okay. I am here for a tryout. Is chef Keller here?”

“Yep. He’s right inside.”

I entered the French Laundry kitchen and saw a tall lanky man sweeping the floor. His back was toward me and he didn’t hear me enter, so he kept doing his job for a few seconds. I peered past him looking for chef Keller, waited a few seconds for the sweeper to notice me, and when he didn’t, approached him. “I’m Grant Achatz, here for a tryout. Is chef Keller in?”

“Yeah. That’s me,” he said, letting out a laugh. “You’re early, Grant.”

He stuck out his hand and shook mine vigorously with an exaggerated up and down motion.

I thought to myself, “Holy shit. He’s the first one here, and he’s sweeping the floor. What kind of restaurant is this?”

“I’m going to set you up with Kevin. He’s in the back putting away produce, but he can show you around and get you started.”

“Yes, Chef.” My tryout had begun.

Kevin Kathman was a wiry guy with jet-black hair that he wore slicked back into a long ponytail. He looked like a young Steven Seagal, complete with muttonchops and pronounced, angular features. Along with a cook named John Gerber, inexplicably called “DJ” by everyone, the two made up the morning commis—or prep cook—team.

Kevin, who had almost run me over when I first walked in, came racing back into the kitchen before I could get out the door. “I’m with you,” I said.

“Okay. Come and help me and DJ put away this order.”

DJ was outside removing the papery skin from yellow onions and placing them carefully in a large woven basket. “Hey,” he said,