Don't Try This at Home by Kimberly Witherspoon, Andrew Friedman Page B
Authors: Kimberly Witherspoon, Andrew Friedman
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come into close contact with Bobby's genitals. We, however, were not so charmed.
"Uh . . . Bobby? What's the menu?" I said. "We'd really kind of like to know."
Bobby just smiled, gave us the Ronnie James Dio "devil horn" hand sign, skated back to his office, and emerged a few moments
later in his whites, bearing the fatal document:
The NiteKlub New Year's Eve Menu 1992
Oysters Baked in Champagne Sauce with Beluga Caviar
or
Pan-Seared Foie Gras with Apricot Chutney,
Port Wine Sauce, and Toasted Brioche
or
Beggar's Purses of Diver Scallops and Wild Mushrooms
or
Truffle Soup
followed by
Dover Sole with Citrus Beurre
Lobster in a Shellfish Nage with Fennel
Chestnut and Truffle Stuffed Poussin with Foie Gras Sauce
Chateaubriand "Rossini" with Baby Vegetables and Chive Mashed Potatoes
followed by
Harlequin Souffle
New Year's Parfait
Lemon Tart
Profiteroles
To be honest, my memory is not perfect on the exact menu choices. I approximate. What is burned permanently into my brain, however, is the simple fact that this was a killer menu to do "a la minute" and seemed heavily
skewed toward the saute station. Which was not, tactically or strategically, our strongest point. The hot app station appeared
overladen with dishes as well, and as Frankie Five Angels was already, at this early hour, quietly having an amusing conversation
with himself, the prospects of a smooth night in that area seemed . . . unlikely. Our fearless leader, though, brimmed with
insouciance that we took for confidence. My muttered concerns were dismissed—understandably, given my pessimistic nature,
and my kitchen nickname of the time: "Dr. Doom."
Bobby curtly gave us our prep assignments and a brief rundown of how he expected us to prepare and present his creations.
To our credit, we quickly put our stations together, set up our mise en place^ dug in, and by seven we were loaded and ready for the first orders.
It should be pointed out that I had, basically, nothing to do but crack oysters—which I sensibly did in advance (given they
were to be baked)—and help Adam plate desserts. Everything else was coming off hot appetizer (Frankie and Dougie), grill (Matt),
or saute (Steven and Orlando). Dog Boy was sent home after a less-than-grueling half day.
Half an hour later, there were still no tickets. The little printer hooked up to the waiters' computer order systems lay silent.
Our two runners, Manuel and Ed, informed us that the guests were arriving, the dining room filling, and all of us hoped that
they'd start getting the orders in fast, in comfortably staggered fashion, so we could set a nice pace without getting swamped
all at once.
"Tell them to get those orders in," snarled Bobby. "Let's knock down some early tables! C'mon!"
But nothing happened. A half hour passed, then an hour, as our now-full house of New Year's revelers sat at their tables,
admired each others' clothes, drank Veuve Clicquot, and presumably pondered their menus. It would be a long night.
The first order came in at eight thirty. Clack clack clack . . . dit dit dit. . . "Ordering! . . . One oysters, two foie gras . . . a scallop . . . followed by three sole . . . a lobster . . . one chateau
and a poussin\" crowed our chef. Clack clack clack . . . dit dit dit. The sound of paper being torn off. "Two more oysters . . . two more foie . . . followed by three Dover sole! One lobster!" Clack clack clack . . . dit dit dit . . . and already I'm getting worried because they seemed to be hitting the sole hard. Each order took up a whole pan—a whole burner—meaning
we could cook only four of the things at once. And saute was also plating oysters because the lone salamander was on that
station; so while I'd popped the hinges on three sheet pans of the things, the saute guys still had to set them on rock salt,
nape each oyster with sauce, brown them under the salamander, plate them, carefully top each one with an oh-so-delicate little
heap
"Uh . . . Bobby? What's the menu?" I said. "We'd really kind of like to know."
Bobby just smiled, gave us the Ronnie James Dio "devil horn" hand sign, skated back to his office, and emerged a few moments
later in his whites, bearing the fatal document:
The NiteKlub New Year's Eve Menu 1992
Oysters Baked in Champagne Sauce with Beluga Caviar
or
Pan-Seared Foie Gras with Apricot Chutney,
Port Wine Sauce, and Toasted Brioche
or
Beggar's Purses of Diver Scallops and Wild Mushrooms
or
Truffle Soup
followed by
Dover Sole with Citrus Beurre
Lobster in a Shellfish Nage with Fennel
Chestnut and Truffle Stuffed Poussin with Foie Gras Sauce
Chateaubriand "Rossini" with Baby Vegetables and Chive Mashed Potatoes
followed by
Harlequin Souffle
New Year's Parfait
Lemon Tart
Profiteroles
To be honest, my memory is not perfect on the exact menu choices. I approximate. What is burned permanently into my brain, however, is the simple fact that this was a killer menu to do "a la minute" and seemed heavily
skewed toward the saute station. Which was not, tactically or strategically, our strongest point. The hot app station appeared
overladen with dishes as well, and as Frankie Five Angels was already, at this early hour, quietly having an amusing conversation
with himself, the prospects of a smooth night in that area seemed . . . unlikely. Our fearless leader, though, brimmed with
insouciance that we took for confidence. My muttered concerns were dismissed—understandably, given my pessimistic nature,
and my kitchen nickname of the time: "Dr. Doom."
Bobby curtly gave us our prep assignments and a brief rundown of how he expected us to prepare and present his creations.
To our credit, we quickly put our stations together, set up our mise en place^ dug in, and by seven we were loaded and ready for the first orders.
It should be pointed out that I had, basically, nothing to do but crack oysters—which I sensibly did in advance (given they
were to be baked)—and help Adam plate desserts. Everything else was coming off hot appetizer (Frankie and Dougie), grill (Matt),
or saute (Steven and Orlando). Dog Boy was sent home after a less-than-grueling half day.
Half an hour later, there were still no tickets. The little printer hooked up to the waiters' computer order systems lay silent.
Our two runners, Manuel and Ed, informed us that the guests were arriving, the dining room filling, and all of us hoped that
they'd start getting the orders in fast, in comfortably staggered fashion, so we could set a nice pace without getting swamped
all at once.
"Tell them to get those orders in," snarled Bobby. "Let's knock down some early tables! C'mon!"
But nothing happened. A half hour passed, then an hour, as our now-full house of New Year's revelers sat at their tables,
admired each others' clothes, drank Veuve Clicquot, and presumably pondered their menus. It would be a long night.
The first order came in at eight thirty. Clack clack clack . . . dit dit dit. . . "Ordering! . . . One oysters, two foie gras . . . a scallop . . . followed by three sole . . . a lobster . . . one chateau
and a poussin\" crowed our chef. Clack clack clack . . . dit dit dit. The sound of paper being torn off. "Two more oysters . . . two more foie . . . followed by three Dover sole! One lobster!" Clack clack clack . . . dit dit dit . . . and already I'm getting worried because they seemed to be hitting the sole hard. Each order took up a whole pan—a whole burner—meaning
we could cook only four of the things at once. And saute was also plating oysters because the lone salamander was on that
station; so while I'd popped the hinges on three sheet pans of the things, the saute guys still had to set them on rock salt,
nape each oyster with sauce, brown them under the salamander, plate them, carefully top each one with an oh-so-delicate little
heap
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