All or Nothing (24 page)

I couldn't open the driver's side door, so I crawled into the passenger's seat and kicked it open with a vengeance. My frustration and anger bubbled up, and I started cursing at the officers at the top of my lungs. “You fucking pigs!” I shouted. “I'm the one who got in an accident, and you're telling me to put my fucking hands up?” The snow was falling harder as the two cops walked over to me with their hands firmly on their holsters.

“Calm down, sir,” one of them said. “We got word of an accident, and you continued to drive in these conditions. What are we supposed to think?” I knew exactly what they thought because just a few years prior it would have been true. But I explained to them about Daniel and the food in the back of the car. After running my name, the cops helped me get a tow truck for the rental car. Then I walked the remaining two miles to Daniel's house, in the snow, holding a sheet pan with the remaining food.

The Recette Private Dining requests kept coming in. I said yes to everything. “We'll figure it out,” I told Christina and Brian every time I accepted a seemingly impossible event. I just kept upping the ante, taking on more and more. One Monday night I prepared a five-course tasting for twelve at a mansion in Rhinebeck. On Thursday I created an elegant dinner for six at a Philadelphia townhouse. Then I answered a Craigslist ad from a family looking for a weekend chef at their home in the Hamptons. I stayed in a cottage on the grounds and cooked every meal from breakfast Friday morning through Sunday brunch before driving back to the city.

At every one of these events I never stopped working the room, using the same skills I'd used to score drugs, pull off scams, and hustle people out of their money to take Recette Private Dining to another level. If I needed a fresh lamb shank for dinner and none was available, I didn't get mad. I just found a way to manipulate the meat guy into giving me a lamb shank that he'd promised to another customer. If a client was on the fence about hiring us to cater a party for forty, I guided her in the right direction. “It's your decision,” I'd tell her. “But I can guarantee the food will be memorable.” Just like I had done on the streets of Broward, I put on a show.

Of course, recovery requires rigorous honesty, not only with other people but also with yourself. As I slid down the slippery slope of addiction once again—this time to work instead of drugs—I stopped being honest with myself. Instead of accepting that I was powerless and relinquishing control, I feverishly grabbed the reins and drove myself further and further away from the peace I had finally found.

By then Joee had been in the salon business for years, working her way up the food chain from receptionist to manager at Paul LaBrecque, a high-end salon and spa with a few locations around the city. Joee's boss was into the New York food scene and had heard about Recette Private Dining. One of his locations had a little coffee bar, and he was looking to turn it into a café that served sandwiches, pastries, and coffee for clients and staff. “Do what you want,” he told me. “I just want food here.”

It was the perfect setup. There wasn't much money involved, but I didn't have to pay rent and I got to keep whatever cash I made. Plus, I could buy my pastries directly from the Savoy at a discount. My schedule got even busier. I got to Savoy at 8:00
A.M.
to start prepping for Daniel. At 9:00 I switched over to making sandwiches and selecting pastries for the salon. I left for the salon at 10:00, and from 11:00
A.M.
to 3:00
P.M.
I stood behind a makeshift bar at Paul LaBrecque selling food. Then I went back to Savoy to finish prepping Daniel's food. By 4:00
P.M.
I was in my rental car on the way to New Jersey so I could get back to the bakery by 7:00 to execute a dinner I'd prepped the night before.

Recette Private Dining's events grew bigger and bigger. Soon we were catering weddings, corporate events, Fashion Week tents, and launch parties for Delta, Evian, and other blue-chip companies. Through Joee, I met a guy named Andrew who worked in events and had been hired to coordinate the VH1 Hip Hop Honors. He needed a caterer. “First we need to set up a tasting for VH1 in their production studio,” he told me. “You game?”

“Fuck, yeah,” I told him without bothering to ask about the details. When I told Brian and Christina about the event, they both thought I'd lost my mind. “It's too much,” Christina said. But I just kept pushing.

To get the VH1 gig we had to come up with a hip-hop-themed tasting menu for Andrew and his staff at the production company. We took Southern favorites and put our own spin on them using modern French techniques. The chicken legs were braised in a classic coq au vin style with wine, lardons, and mushrooms, but I added some zing with jalapeños and cumin. Instead of regular meatballs, I selected a mixture of pork cuts that would enhance the flavor. There were also cornbread sliders, watermelon coleslaw, pulled pork sandwiches, and pecan pie bites. The menu went on and on.

Andrew and his staff loved it and hired us on the spot. We'd be cooking for 1,400 people at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Even I knew we were in way over our heads. We had only enough equipment to cook for a dozen or so people at Savoy, and the last time I cooked for this many people had been in jail, where I wasn't even allowed to use salt. I quickly pulled in resources from everywhere I could think of. First I called every cook I respected who might want to earn some extra cash, and then I called friends, relatives, and neighbors who I thought would be willing to help.

The day before the party Brian closed Savoy two hours early. The rental company truck pulled up with all of our equipment, and we filled the entire front of the bakery with stack warmers that each held up to thirty hotel pans. Then we commenced cooking, all of us working through the night to get it all done. The next morning I called my cousin Keith, who was living in New York, and asked for his help. Together we went up to the Bronx and rented a huge U-Haul to transport our food and equipment to the event. Back at Savoy, we got everything into the back of the truck. Brian was driving, and Christina sat in the passenger seat.

The rest of us—me, my cousin Keith, and Ed from Gordon Ramsay—looked at each other, then silently climbed into the back of the truck. We were squeezed in between dozens of boxes, crates, and warmers, and when the door to the U-Haul was shut, we were plunged into total darkness. As Brian drove we lost our bearings and had to reach out to grab onto giant food warmers to steady ourselves. Brian wove in and out of New York City traffic and we were tossed around like rag dolls, bumping into boxes and knocking over stack warmers. When Brian stopped at a light, I momentarily got my bearings and used my cell phone to create some light and call Christina. “Tell Brian to slow the fuck down,” I told her, but I knew he needed to haul ass to get to the Hammerstein Ballroom in time.

Suddenly the U-Haul came to a stop, and I heard the engine turn off. Finally! I looked at my phone. It was 1:45. We had the use of the service elevator to load in all of our shit only from 2:00 to 3:00. Then I heard someone yell, “You can't park that thing here!” The back of the truck opened, and sunlight came pouring in. Surrounding us were literally hundreds of people—police, security detail, and producers—and they were all looking right at us. “Move the fucking truck,” a cop yelled again.

Everyone looked at me, dumbfounded. We had to get preheated food up to the second floor for 700 staff members and then get to the balcony floor to prepare food for all of the performers and their guests. Suddenly my mind cleared. “Get your asses out of the van and let's go!” I opened the rail, dropped the latch, and started pushing all the food and supplies down a ramp positioned at the back of the U-Haul. One by one, we loaded each of the warmers into the elevator. While Keith parked the van, we brought the staff food to the fifth floor. The warmers had to be plugged in, but the power was out. Everyone was freaking out, but I ran from floor to floor until I found an electrician who could fix the problem.

In full delegation mode, I made sure everything was on point for the staff food and then moved to the VIP room and started setting up the tables. Ed and I set up a station on each side of the stage and started pumping out food. We had brought a walkie-talkie system so I could check in with Christina and Brian in the other areas, but it didn't really work, so I ran up and down the stairs all night, checking on everything, in between cooking for the VIPs.

The next day it was like none of it had ever happened. I was back at Savoy at 8:00
A.M.
to cook for Daniel, make sandwiches for the salon, and prep for a private party that night. It was a hustle just like any other, and I loved the intensity. I literally couldn't get enough.

Terrine

Terrine
: A French forcemeat, or a coarsely chopped mixture of ground, lean meats emulsified with fat and properly combined to create a uniform and sliceable texture.

S
omewhere in the midst of all this insanity, my childhood friend Mike Charnam moved into my tiny apartment above McDonald's, which Lindsay also moved into shortly thereafter. After a long day at Savoy, the salon, New Jersey, and back to Savoy for a dinner party, we'd stay up late into the night working on the business plan for my first restaurant. I was full of passion and excitement, but I was determined to use the lessons my dad had taught me over the years and think everything through before making any decisions.

First we did market research. Late at night, after finishing a seemingly endless day of work and then serving a ten-course tasting menu, I took Lindsay to every decent restaurant in Manhattan and ordered half the menu. At the original John Dory in the Meatpacking District I savored the Oyster Pan Roast with Uni Butter. At Craft Bar I fell in love with the Pork Belly Roulade. But most of all I was inspired by Thomas Keller's French Laundry model of small plates of fully composed dishes. At more traditional restaurants I'd order a piece of salmon and get sick of the flavor after just a few bites. I didn't want this to happen to my guests, and I soon had a vision of serving small plates of scrumptious food that people could share, enjoying a wide variety of textures and flavors.

Once I had a clear vision for the food, we priced out everything from plates, spoons, glassware, linens, and wine to office supplies. I spent hours thinking about what type of music we would play and toying around with dozens of color schemes. I knew what mood I wanted to create and who my customers would be. I made up a menu of Mediterranean-influenced dishes incorporating ingredients from the land and sea. I wanted to serve salty, briny, boldly seasoned food, so I made a list of thirty items and costed out the dishes using rough recipes as placeholders. Then I crafted work schedules and profit-and-loss statements, even though I hadn't yet hired one fucking employee.

One night we were up late talking about the food, the music, and the menu, and I could tell that Mike and Lindsay were exhausted. But I was full of energy as I ran around the apartment putting on different music to see what kind of vibe I wanted to create. “You're an animal,” Mike screamed at me. Without thinking, I began roaring at him. “I am an animal,” I yelled back. The three of us burst out laughing, but what Mike said was true—there was something inhuman about my relentless pursuit.

Before I had any investment money, I walked the city with dozens of brokers to get to know the real estate market—the locations, the foot traffic, and the cost per square foot. By the time I was done I knew exactly what I wanted and what I needed to open a small, forty-seat restaurant in the West Village.

Once we completed the business plan, I knew that I needed to get in front of my father. He'd been a businessman his whole life, and I trusted his opinion more than anyone else's. I knew he couldn't give me all the money I needed, but I thought he would want to get involved. Ever since I'd gotten out of jail, I'd wanted to somehow pay my parents back for everything I'd taken from them and put them through. I had fantasies about making a lot of money and writing them a big check. This was hardly the same thing, but I still wanted to get them involved in realizing my dream.

My father looked at my business plan and said, “I think it's a great idea. You have to speak to Art.” Art Bilger was a childhood friend of my dad's who happened to be an extremely successful venture capitalist. After emailing back and forth with his assistant for weeks, Art agreed to meet me for five minutes in the lobby of the Regency Hotel.

The night before the meeting with Art, I was full of adrenaline and excitement. I kept Lindsay up all night going over the business plan and making sure it was airtight. I knew that even five minutes with someone like Art was a rare opportunity, so I did as much due diligence as possible. It was difficult to have such a strong desire for something that I knew was ultimately out of my hands. I clung to my faith and my acceptance, knowing that as long as I gave it my all, I would be happy with the results.