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

“Sure. Understood. Make it an hour then.”

We sat around for an hour, dozing off a bit from the long drive, then I picked up the phone and called the kitchen again. I felt terribly uncomfortable as I was put on hold for a few minutes before chef Keller picked up. “Grant? You’re all set for seven P.M. See you then.”

We arrived at the restaurant and found a parking spot on the street right out front. Just like my mom, my dad saw the place and was surprised by how humble it looked. He seemed downright disappointed.

“Wait until we get inside the courtyard,” I countered. “The ivy growing on the building is just turning red and the herb gardens are awesome.”

We walked down the gravel-lined path that led to a lush garden courtyard. The flourishing honeysuckle and rosebushes created a wall around the property, almost hiding the charming stone facade of the building and the view into the serene kitchen. In the center of the courtyard was a baby Meyer lemon tree surrounded by a circular herb garden. The sun cast a golden glow from just over the mountains on the west side of the valley. A few people sat in the far corner of the garden, sipping glasses of champagne.

“Wow,” my dad said while looking around. “This is beautiful. Just beautiful.”

We walked in.

A statuesque woman with dark hair and large green eyes was standing behind a podium and greeted us in a soft voice. “Welcome to The French Laundry.”

She simply nodded when I told her the name of the reservation and without so much as a glance toward a reservation book said, “Right this way.” We were led to a downstairs table and seated.

I had observed service twice and even tasted the food, so I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. My dad, however, had never eaten like this before.

A food runner came over immediately, holding a clear triangle tray with what appeared to be miniature ice-cream cones. These, however, were filled with salmon tartar.

Next, a tapioca pudding with a heaping spoonful of caviar and two tiny rouget fillets stacked neatly on top of each other. They were cooked perfectly and without a single pin bone or scale.

“I thought for sure there would be bones in those fish,” my dad whispered at me, although he was really talking out loud to himself.

I leaned toward him. “I watched them take the bones out with tweezers when I was here.”

The meal stretched on—a chop of Atlantic salmon arrived on a ragout of lentils with truffles and lardoons; lobster came on a bed of creamy lobster-scented orzo.

Then the foie gras course came. A rosy-colored, puck-shaped torchon with pear relish and toasted brioche was placed in front of me, while my father received the sautéed version with abalone and Meyer lemon that I had eaten during my tryout. The captain, Kevin, approached our table, looked at me with a smile, and said, “Chef thought you might want to try a different preparation.”

I thought to myself, “He remembered! He freaking remembered that I tried that. This is crazy.”

I was in a stupor. To say that the food was delicious would be stating the obvious, but it would also be understating so much more. If it wasn’t perfect, it was damn well close. But it was also so smart. It was clever without being cloying. And the service hit just the right mark. This flat-out blew away the meals I had at the restaurants in Europe. It wasn’t even close.

“Grant,” my dad said, snapping me back to reality, “if the chef comes out you should stand up and shake his hand. Don’t stay sitting.”

“Oh, I will, Dad. But I doubt he’ll come out. I think he stays in the kitchen.”

As we made our way into desserts Kevin came back around and asked if we would like coffee or an after-dinner drink. My dad showed interest in a glass of port; I ordered an espresso. As Kevin moved away I saw my dad start to rise out of his chair. I looked up slack-jawed to see chef Keller towering over our table. I pushed back my chair quickly and stood.

Chef Keller greeted my dad first, giving him a firm handshake and a warm smile. Then he turned to me and did the same. He had a modest way about him, and he seemed a bit uncomfortable in the dining room, as if he didn’t belong. We heaped praise and thanks on him for a few minutes before he disappeared back into the kitchen.

I was in awe. I felt like a little kid again—like I knew nothing about cuisine, cooking, or food and was starting from scratch. It was a truly exciting night.

Kevin came back with the port, espresso, and some mignardise. “Well,” he said, “I have never seen Chef in the dining room before. I guess he likes you guys.”

We nibbled on the chocolates and cookies, recounting the meal play by play. To both of us, it was obvious why I should work here. And it was one of the best nights I ever spent with my dad.

“Can I get anything else for you gentlemen?” Kevin asked.

“No, thank you. Just the check,” my dad said.

“Ah. There is no check. Thomas took care of it.”

CHAPTER 9

If you ask a French Laundry cook the date he started at the restaurant, he’ll be able to tell you without hesitation. The date is burned into his mind like an anniversary or his mother’s birthday. October 16, 1996, was my first day.

Also starting that day was Mark Hopper. But on our first day we didn’t work in the restaurant at all. Instead, chef Keller took us to a charity event at the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone.

Mark and I served hundreds of salmon cornets that evening while listening to chef Jean-Louis Palladin—who was in town promoting the opening of his Las Vegas restaurant Napa—tell chef Keller stories of the food he cooked