 | |
 |
 |
Charlie’s AngelsYou need divine patience to take the heat in Trotter’s famous restaurant.
“It was a tough kitchen. Some people call it hell. I call it a character-building experience.” – Moto chef Homaro Cantu talking about Charlie Trotter’s in Fast Company Hell. The descriptions I’d heard of behind-the-scenes life at top restaurants tended toward the diabolical, invoking heat, both literal and metaphorical. Brutal hours, crushing stress, insult, injury. Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment, but I wanted a taste of the action. So I offered myself up for a stage, volunteering free labour for a foot in the kitchen door of one of the most famous restaurants in North America: Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago. Trotter literally wrote the book on restaurant service (actually, he wrote two), and his team is considered one of the best there is. My assignment: Survive four days in the fire. Tuesday 2 p.m. I’m loaned a chef’s coat and given innocuous jobs, like carrying boxes and steeping tea. I have the distinct impression I’m being sized up before being pulled aside by a couple of servers. “We’re going to have to chef-proof you,” they say with a look of parental concern, ticking off survival tips. First: No whistling. Chef hates whistling. Second: Respect the Cone of Silence. This is an invisible field surrounding Chef to a distance of nine metres, inside which all conversation and laughter must be suppressed. Third: No touching Chef. A handshake is fine, but for God’s sake, don’t try to hug him or anything; he doesn’t like to touch strangers. I dutifully note all of the above (I wasn’t planning on any hugging, so I’m okay there) and ask if there’s anything else. “Let’s see. Chef’s favourite movie is A Clockwork Orange, so if you can work a reference into your conversations, you’re golden.” Later I’m introduced to Chef. He is perfectly inscrutable. Even those who have worked alongside him for years find him impossible to read. I blabber about how excited I am to be here, how I’ve been looking forward to it and so on, while Trotter listens impassively. I had thought up a clever way to allude to the Droogs, but now I can’t remember it. Wednesday 5 p.m. The staff has gathered for its nightly pre-shift meeting. Trotter wrote about this ritual, and the practice is now imitated in restaurants across the continent. But here they still do it best. Each server is handed a double-sided cheat sheet crammed with information about new dishes, backup products (bison will sub for beef tenderloin if we run out) and wine and cheese changes. The guest list for the night is annotated with the Alerts, impenetrable ciphers detailing the particularities of each table. A party of three is noted as “GOF: 3xDAI, ®FT” (their friends called ahead and are treating). A couple has asked for “ ®T86&WP” (they’d like to eat at the kitchen table and have the sommelier pair wines with their meal). A large party has “1x lactose intolerant, 1x no pork and 2x no raw food, olives or soft cheese” (the Alert notes they are “quietly pregnant”). The servers may know more about the guests than their dining companions do. |
