Life, on the Line (6 page)

Turning around suddenly he scooped a piece of raw foie gras scrap from a cook's cutting board and popped it in his mouth. I don't think he meant to eat it, or didn't notice what it was. “Why would you eat raw foie?” I was thinking. But that is how Jeff was. His mind raced ahead of his body, or vice versa. He winced for a second, leaned forward to spit the liver in the garbage can, and turned to face me.

“I just don't get why people like that stuff,” he deadpanned.

Despite his hyper behavior he took his time when explaining things to me. I was getting the one-on-one instruction critical to my growth as a cook. As we got to know each other and he learned how ambitious I was he said to me, “You need to get some experience burning your forearms on a stack of sauté pans, Grant. Real cooking, know what I mean? Deep down into the pain stuff. I like food that is from the soul. Rustic good food. Tastes good. Bold flavors. Stuff you have to chew. Good-looking, sure, but not pretentious. You need to learn all of that before you can act like a prima donna
.
”

I worked the prep station, making soups, salad dressings, and some
mise en place
for about a month before Jeff moved me to the roast/grill station on the hot line. I was a nineteen-year-old culinary student—I was not supposed to be working the hot line burning my forearms. But I was right where I wanted to be. Every once in a while I would bump into my counterpart Ray in the locker room. He ended up working for a couple of weeks in The 1913 Room but spent most of his time in banquets.

Three months into my externship Jeff pulled me aside and told me to go see chef Stallard in his office. This didn't sound good, but I left immediately without asking why. To my surprise, chef Stallard relayed that he and Jeff would like me to stay at Cygnus for the duration of my externship. That is, under the condition that I be available to help him with things from time to time. I enthusiastically consented.

Every couple of weeks chef Stallard would call up to Cygnus and tell me to arrive early the following day. He was an avid outdoorsman who loved to hunt game birds and fly-fish. Whenever he went on a hunt he brought back a few birds and gave me a demo on breaking them down, describing how they were traditionally hunted and hung in Europe.

One morning I arrived to find an entire pig on the counter. We took it apart piece by piece as he explained the cuts, what they were commonly used for, and some of the favorite dishes he had created with them. He spoke with great nostalgia and reverence for the restaurants of France, especially the Michelin three-starred Taillevent in Paris, where he'd spent time working. “You think I should go to Europe after I graduate?” I asked.

“It would probably do you some good, in a lot of ways. Between a good friend, chef Angus Campbell, and me, we should have enough connections to place you somewhere. But the deal is that you have to come back here and work for a year before we do so. I want to prepare you personally if I am recommending you.”

This was awesome. I could see things moving in a new, right direction.

“Now go get that big white plastic container over there and fill it half-full with salt. We are going to make some prosciutto with these hams.”

Amazing. Just amazing.

When I returned to the CIA the following April, I was anxious to get back to Cygnus and keep moving forward. The final six months at the CIA went by very quickly as the curriculum shifted from primarily classroom lessons to real restaurant situations. We spent most of our time working our way through the four operating restaurants on the campus. It suited me, and furthered my comfort in a busy kitchen. I was extremely fortunate to land with chef Stallard at the Amway, and once I compared my experience with other students' I could tell that it was unusual. Most didn't love their externships.

As graduation grew closer, I had phone conversations with chef Stallard about returning to the Amway and working once again at Cygnus. Everything was lined up for me to go back, and the deal to move on to Europe was in place.

On October 28, 1994, my mother, father, and Grandma Achatz arrived on campus to watch me graduate. I returned home to find the Corvette restored and painted a dark purple, my requested color. I had graduated with honors despite the C minus in AM Pantry.

I packed what little I owned—a few cookbooks and some knives—and moved to Grand Rapids. I felt like a different person walking back into the Amway than I did just a year earlier. This time I knew they wanted me there, and I knew I could contribute in a meaningful way. I stopped by chef Stallard's office on my way up to Cygnus to say hello and to make certain that he was taking the first steps to contacting his leads in Europe. Setting up a “stage”—or apprenticeship—with its work visas and such could take forever, so it wasn't too early to start planning. I wanted to get experience at the Amway, but I saw beyond it. I was on a mission.

“Hello, Chef,” I said.

“Chef! Welcome back, how are you? I want you to meet chef Angus Campbell. He is the culinary instructor at the Grand Rapids Community College that I was telling you about. Angus wanted to meet you face-to-face before he started making any calls on your behalf.” Apparently chef Stallard was as serious as I was.

After the formalities, I settled into a chair and the three of us started to talk about the range of opportunities abroad. Angus was set on sending me to a hotel in Edinburgh. He was born in Scotland and had worked there for many years before coming to the States. Heck, his name was Angus! He knew the chef of the hotel well and said it would not be a problem getting me an apprenticeship there. I couldn't help but wonder why they hadn't already started organizing my trip. The connection seemed like a lock and chef Stallard had to know that. Further, why Scotland? I had been dreaming about the Michelin-starred restaurants of France that Stallard had waxed poetic about.

“How long do you think it will take to get this together?” I asked, not wanting to sound unexcited.

“Likely six months or a bit more by the time you get all of your visa requirements in place,” said chef Stallard. “If we secure the position and everything falls in place early, I will let you go when it does.”

I couldn't argue with that, but I had never imagined Scotland. When I read about the great restaurants and cuisines of the world I couldn't recall Scotland being mentioned even once. Italy, sure. France, of course. Scotland, not so much.

Jeff and the Cygnus kitchen looked the same. We exchanged greetings and caught up quickly before we started talking shop. Jeff explained that Mike Martin, who was running the sauté station when I was there last, was the only guy left from the team from a year ago. Mike was a solid cook who really cared about the food he was putting out, had an even temper, and took the time to explain things to me. Through both his talent and the attrition he was now sous chef, though still running the sauté station.

Jeff wanted Mike to train me on sauté so he could become more of a floater, picking up some of the tasks that Jeff had been doing so he could spend more time with his young son and work in his massive vegetable garden. It sounded good to me—sauté was the hardest station in the kitchen and the one I had worked in the least during my externship.

Jeff seemed more relaxed than I remembered him, and the three of us had long conversations about food and cooking during prep and slow periods on the line. Mike was going through a divorce and was blaming it on the long hours, stress, and low pay of the kitchen life. He talked constantly about parlaying his culinary knowledge into other potentially more lucrative facets of food service, like creating an ice-cream brand or a host of other pipe dreams. They both knew I had very high aspirations and could sense my impatience. “Why do you need to go to Europe anyways?” Jeff asked. “There are plenty of great restaurants and chefs here in the U.S. now. I was in Borders the other day and saw this new cookbook I bet you would like. It was very modern. Trotter. Charlie Trotter from Chicago. Ever hear of him?”

“No.”

“Right up your alley. All froufrou and composed with elements and ingredients from all over the place. Kinda fusion, kinda not. Multiple sauces, organ meats. I was going to buy it for you until I saw the price.”

The next morning I woke up early and went to the cookbook section at the nearest bookstore. A group of burgundy books sat on the shelf like a red siren flashing at me—Trotter. I grabbed one, sat on a bench, and started paging through it. I didn't move for forty-five minutes. The book was amazing. Every recipe was incredibly detailed but yet somehow abstract. The food was at once complex and simple. Jeff was right. This was right up my alley. It was exactly what I suspected existed somewhere but couldn't find.

Over the next month Jeff let me create a different special or two each night, each of them influenced by Trotter's book. I would stay up late at night reading the introductions to each dish. Chef Trotter would explain how the dish came together a certain way or why a particular ingredient was selected. He wrote about achieving excellence at all costs. The book was like a drug for me. What started as a weekly check-in with chef Stallard to assess progress on the Scotland front turned sporadic. I lost interest in Europe and became infatuated with Trotter's philosophy. And Chicago wasn't that far from Grand Rapids.

One day I saw chef Stallard talking to his executive sous chef Larry Johnson. I walked up to them and said hello.

“What's up, Chef?”

“Well, Chef, I have been thinking. Do you remember that Charlie Trotter book I showed you a couple of months ago? I was thinking that maybe I should just go work there. You know, instead of going to Scotland.”

A smile broke over his face. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting.

“It's supposed to be a great restaurant, that's for sure. But there is something about being trained in Europe. I tell you what—if you want to try to get a job there, go ahead and pursue that. We will continue to work on Scotland. I bet it will be really hard to get into Trotter's, and realistically it may never happen. So we'll work on both fronts and if one hits, you can decide what to do then. Sound good?” Chef Stallard couldn't have been more supportive.

“Yes, Chef. That sounds good.”

I
wrote a cover letter to Charlie Trotter's and sent in my résumé. A few weeks went by, and I thought it was likely he had tossed it in the garbage. Most of my cooking experience had been flipping eggs and making mashed potatoes. Surely the best restaurant in the country screened applicants rigorously and only hired the best. Why would he possibly want me? I started to think that working in Scotland would be a good place to start. I could possibly go from there to a Michelin-starred restaurant in France, then come back and have a shot at working at Trotter's.

Every night I propped up some pillows in bed and studied the book—it would be my only chance to get to know the food and techniques. I knew the dishes and the techniques cold.

Three weeks after I sent my résumé I had almost given up hope when I came home around midnight and saw that the light was blinking on my answering machine. I hit play and started to pull some leftovers out of the fridge to eat. A voice I didn't recognize echoed faintly through my tiny apartment.

I started making an egg-white omelet when . . . holy shit . . . did he just say Charlie Trotter?! I ran to the machine, almost knocking it off the shelf. I hit rewind and listened to the message again. The soft, poised chef's voice now seemed deafening. He mentioned an open position at his restaurant and asked me to call him back. My heart pounded as I picked up the phone and began to dial. Then hung up. Then dialed again, then hung up. It was like calling a girl to ask her on a date when I was thirteen. What would I say? What would he ask me?

I composed myself and let it ring. The phone was answered by the familiar noise of a busy kitchen. The chef on the other end sounded annoyed. “Is chef Trotter available?” I asked.

“Of course he is here, but he is busy . . . we are . . . IN SERVICE.”

“In service?” I thought, “But it's past midnight in Chicago.” I had no idea that the service schedule at an elite restaurant could go until 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. At the Amway I was home by midnight, even on the weekends. I sheepishly left my name and phone number with the gruff chef, knowing it was unlikely that chef Trotter would ever receive my message.

Over the course of the next week I continued to call the restaurant. Chef Trotter proved to be an elusive guy. On the ninth day someone finally said, “Sure, wait a minute,” and chef Trotter picked up the phone. I was incredibly nervous—I was talking to the best chef in the country.

The conversation went like this: He asked questions, I gave answers, and he crushed me. I didn't have a correct answer for anything, and by the end of the five-minute interview he could have asked me my own name and I would have believed him when he told me I was wrong. Chef Trotter was introducing me to his management style.