Don't Try This at Home by Kimberly Witherspoon, Andrew Friedman
Authors: Kimberly Witherspoon, Andrew Friedman
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number of people got hurt, and an entire kitchen
bowed its head in shame and fear—while outside the kitchen doors, waiters trembled at the slaughterhouse their once hushed
and elegant dining room had become.
Like Operation "Market Garden" (the ill-fated Allied invasion of the Netherlands) or Stalingrad—or the musicals of Andrew
Lloyd Webber—responsibility for the disaster that followed rests, ultimately, with one man. In this case it was a talented
and resourceful chef we'll call Bobby Thomas. Bobby had the idea that he could create an ambitious menu—as good as his always
excellent a la carte menus—and serve it to the 350 people who would be filling the nightclub/restaurant we'll call NiteKlub.
He also felt confident enough in his abilities that he could pretty much wait until the last minute to put the whole thing
together: little details like telling his staff what the fuck they were going to be serving, and how. In his visionary wisdom,
Bobby did not share his thinking or his plans with others. Like the strategic braniacs who thought invading Russia to be a
good idea, he was undisturbed by useful details ("Mein Fuhrer? Are you aware winter is coming?"). Those who might have pointed
out the obvious warning signs were not included in Bobby's conceptualizing of what could well have been a spec tacular success—for
a dinner party of twenty. Bobby was, after all, a kind of a genius. And it's often the geniuses who put us in a world of pain.
I arrived at NiteKlub at about a half hour before the shift, the other cooks trickling in after me. We pulled on our whites,
cranked up the radio, and, as usual, stood around waiting for someone to tell us what to do. Our leader had characteristically
neglected to entrust us with a prep list. So we did what cooks left unbriefed and unsupervised tend to do, which was stand
around gossiping.
The lobsters arrived first. There were cases of them, so many that they reached to the ceiling, 125 of the things, skittering
around under wet newspaper and heaps of crushed ice. Since I was de facto quartermaster, and the guy who signed for such things,
the cooks—Frankie Five Angels, Matt, Orlando, Steven, Dougie, Adam Real Last Name Unknown, and Dog Boy—all stood there expectantly,
looking at me, waiting for instructions as a puddle of water grew larger and larger from the rapidly melting ice. What do
we do with them? Who knows? Bobby hadn't left a prep list. Do we blanche them? Cook them all the way? Whack 'em into wriggling
chunks? Shuck them, split them, or turn the damn things into bisque? We don't know. 'Cause Bobby hasn't left a menu.
The game arrived next. Boned-out poussin, duck breasts, bones, a case of foie gras. We cleaned up the duck breasts nicely, put on stock with the bones (that didn't
take much to surmise), and laid out the poussins on sheet pans and got everything in the walk-in for when Bobby showed. We wanted to start in on the case of foie gras—whole
loaves of the stuff!— but were we making terrine, which would require us to open them up and start yanking out veins, or were
we leaving them whole for pan-searing? We didn't know. And once you tear open a liver, you can't untear it. So we left those
alone. When the meat order arrived, we cleaned up the tenderloins, but left them whole, not having any idea of portion size,
whether we were making filet mignon or tournedos or chateaubriand or beef fucking Wellington for that matter.
Oysters! There was a collective moan from the team, as not even a madman would want to put oysters on a menu for over three
hundred. Perhaps we could crack them open ahead of time. But should we? What if . . . what //"Bobby had planned oysters on
the half shell? In which case I'd be cracking oysters to order all night, since the customers, for the $275 per person they
were paying, would prefer them moist and fresh. It was too horrible to contemplate. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
bowed its head in shame and fear—while outside the kitchen doors, waiters trembled at the slaughterhouse their once hushed
and elegant dining room had become.
Like Operation "Market Garden" (the ill-fated Allied invasion of the Netherlands) or Stalingrad—or the musicals of Andrew
Lloyd Webber—responsibility for the disaster that followed rests, ultimately, with one man. In this case it was a talented
and resourceful chef we'll call Bobby Thomas. Bobby had the idea that he could create an ambitious menu—as good as his always
excellent a la carte menus—and serve it to the 350 people who would be filling the nightclub/restaurant we'll call NiteKlub.
He also felt confident enough in his abilities that he could pretty much wait until the last minute to put the whole thing
together: little details like telling his staff what the fuck they were going to be serving, and how. In his visionary wisdom,
Bobby did not share his thinking or his plans with others. Like the strategic braniacs who thought invading Russia to be a
good idea, he was undisturbed by useful details ("Mein Fuhrer? Are you aware winter is coming?"). Those who might have pointed
out the obvious warning signs were not included in Bobby's conceptualizing of what could well have been a spec tacular success—for
a dinner party of twenty. Bobby was, after all, a kind of a genius. And it's often the geniuses who put us in a world of pain.
I arrived at NiteKlub at about a half hour before the shift, the other cooks trickling in after me. We pulled on our whites,
cranked up the radio, and, as usual, stood around waiting for someone to tell us what to do. Our leader had characteristically
neglected to entrust us with a prep list. So we did what cooks left unbriefed and unsupervised tend to do, which was stand
around gossiping.
The lobsters arrived first. There were cases of them, so many that they reached to the ceiling, 125 of the things, skittering
around under wet newspaper and heaps of crushed ice. Since I was de facto quartermaster, and the guy who signed for such things,
the cooks—Frankie Five Angels, Matt, Orlando, Steven, Dougie, Adam Real Last Name Unknown, and Dog Boy—all stood there expectantly,
looking at me, waiting for instructions as a puddle of water grew larger and larger from the rapidly melting ice. What do
we do with them? Who knows? Bobby hadn't left a prep list. Do we blanche them? Cook them all the way? Whack 'em into wriggling
chunks? Shuck them, split them, or turn the damn things into bisque? We don't know. 'Cause Bobby hasn't left a menu.
The game arrived next. Boned-out poussin, duck breasts, bones, a case of foie gras. We cleaned up the duck breasts nicely, put on stock with the bones (that didn't
take much to surmise), and laid out the poussins on sheet pans and got everything in the walk-in for when Bobby showed. We wanted to start in on the case of foie gras—whole
loaves of the stuff!— but were we making terrine, which would require us to open them up and start yanking out veins, or were
we leaving them whole for pan-searing? We didn't know. And once you tear open a liver, you can't untear it. So we left those
alone. When the meat order arrived, we cleaned up the tenderloins, but left them whole, not having any idea of portion size,
whether we were making filet mignon or tournedos or chateaubriand or beef fucking Wellington for that matter.
Oysters! There was a collective moan from the team, as not even a madman would want to put oysters on a menu for over three
hundred. Perhaps we could crack them open ahead of time. But should we? What if . . . what //"Bobby had planned oysters on
the half shell? In which case I'd be cracking oysters to order all night, since the customers, for the $275 per person they
were paying, would prefer them moist and fresh. It was too horrible to contemplate. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
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