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

try to be like chef Keller, exactly; the food was perfect or it was wrong; failure was never an option; and “yes, Chef” was the only proper response to any request.

When chef Keller asked us to help in the recipe documentation and plating of the dishes for the cookbook, we jumped at the opportunity. Mark and I arrived at chef Keller’s house every Monday afternoon during the month of June to join recipe writer Susie Heller and photographer Deborah Jones. We prepared the recipes while Susie documented every pinch of salt. Then Mark and I would plate the dishes for Deborah to photograph. It was an amazing experience that made us feel connected to the chef and the restaurant. It also gave us a false sense of superiority over the other cooks, and rifts began forming in our kitchen relationships.

After service each night the cooks gathered around chef Keller’s workstation. We would go through menu changes and orders for the following day, or discuss VIP courses that had to be created. At one point Mark and I suggested that we would be happy to come in and work the service on our stations in the morning as well, replacing the AM cooks.

“You really think you guys are better?” chef Keller asked.

“Well, Chef,” I said. “I think we could do a better job, yes. I think the night would go smoother given all of the special dishes going out tomorrow.”

“I agree, Chef,” Mark said.

Chef Keller expected this level of arrogance from Mark, but was both surprised and disappointed that it had seeped into me. He turned directly to me and said, “What happened to you?” It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to me, and the question cut deeply.

Mark and I pulled into our parking spot on the street and got out of the car with a protein shake in one hand and our blue aprons in the other. “I feel a bit off today,” he said. “Might be a shit day.”

We changed into our coats and headed for the kitchen. It was Saturday and the AM team was about to start a busy lunch service. Mark headed toward chef Keller to check on the status of his PM station with AM chef de partie Kirk. He seemed to be gone for a while, and I glanced at the empty cutting board next to mine wondering what was taking so long. A few minutes later Mark came storming back over, grabbed his knives, and turned to me: “Um. I’m leaving.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I just got fired.” He walked toward the back door.

“Dude. What the hell? How are you getting home?”

“I’ll walk. It’s nice out.”

“It’s ten miles, man. Let me give you a ride.”

“No. Only one of us needs to get fired today. I’ll be fine. Happy Fourth of July. I guess the fireworks came early.”

Mark had trained me on the garde manger and fish stations before moving on to cook meat. Not only did he take the time to train me well, but he watched over me closely, supporting me when I was slipping. He was the reason I moved from the commis position to the line. He had tenacity, confidence, and the respect of everyone in the kitchen. Nobody fucked with him. He backed up his arrogance with extreme discipline and pure talent. We had become close friends and roommates, and I looked up to him like a big brother. When Mark walked out the back door I felt vulnerable. Together we felt like an unstoppable team. We pushed each other to do better—faster mise en place, more VIP options for Chef to choose from, who could be the guy who is so together and ahead that he can walk to Ranch Market at staff meal and buy the other guy a sandwich and a Gatorade?

It turned out that Mark was wearing black jeans that day. No jeans were allowed, and when chef Keller noticed Mark’s clothing choice, his mention of the jeans sparked a comment about acting privileged and above the law. Neither of the chefs felt like backing down that day. When chef Keller asked Mark if he had an attitude and Mark replied yes, Thomas told him to take his attitude home and not bring it back.

My parent’s marriage hit ground again.

I called home one afternoon to speak with my mom and see how she was handling a new separation when my uncle Jim answered instead. I heard the voices of my mom’s sisters in the background and figured they were over at the house for dinner.

“Hey, it’s Grant. Can I talk to my mom?”

“Grant, I think it’s best if she gives you a call tomorrow. She isn’t feeling well right now. Everything is fine; a bunch of people are with her. But she’ll have to call you tomorrow.”

I found out the next day that the separation from my dad had taken a more insidious turn—my mom had swallowed a handful of painkillers. I wrote my dad a letter explaining that if he didn’t treat her with respect, then we no longer had a relationship. I never heard back from him.

My relationship with my father was crippled, my mother’s life was a mess, and I was halfway across the country and couldn’t help in any meaningful way. My parents were heading for divorce and my fantasy of one day opening a restaurant as a family had vanished. My relationships at the Laundry, after Mark was fired, fueled a new sense of displacement.

Cindy had moved to Sacramento for the summer of 1998 to fulfill an internship obligation for the law degree she was completing at Notre Dame. Our relationship had been a long-distance, on-again, off-again affair since we graduated from high school. In theory this was going to be an “on-again” time. The reality of my working in the restaurant industry did not mesh well with the home life she wanted in the long run, but she