Don't Try This at Home (7 page)

Sometimes, you just have to make compromises to get the job done.

Ship of Fools

JIMMY BRADLEY

Jimmy Bradley co-owns and operates a number of New York
City restaurants that started out as neighborhood joints and
wound up as destinations for diners from across the country: the
Red Cat, the Harrison, the Mermaid Inn, and (the more grand-scaled)
Face. After attending the University of Rhode Island,
Bradley worked in some of Philadelphia and Rhode Island's top
kitchens before becoming executive chef of Savoir Fare, a
progressive Martha's Vineyard bistro where he began his
trademark
style of straightforward, boldly flavored seasonal cooking.

T
HIS STORY WOULD never happen today. It probably could only have taken place in the 1980s, when drug and alcohol abuse
in the restaurant industry were at their zenith. The names of the restaurant, the chef, and the owner have been changed to
protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and—most importantly—myself.

In 1986,1 was a young cook working in a seaside resort town along the coast of Rhode Island, not unlike the kind of place
you might find along the Jersey Shore. I worked for a restaurant—we'll call it the Harbor Cove Inn—that was one of the better
eateries in the area, one of the few places that didn't make its money on an autopilot menu of baked scrod with Ritz cracker
crumbs, lobster Newburg, and baked stuffed shrimp.

The Harbor Cove Inn was as close to fine dining as it got in this town, a nondescript, carpeted dining room; walls papered
with parchment; a staff of salty locals, high school students, and college kids; and a small but serviceable kitchen in the
back.

Credit for our noteworthy offerings belonged to the chef—we'll call him Fernando—a Puerto Rican who had worked in New York
City and, through some cruel twist of fate that I never really understood, wound up in this tiny hamlet. I liked Fernando.
He was talented, both creatively and as a kitchen technician. And he liked me, enough that he promoted me from line cook to
sous-chef in a very short time.

The third character in this ill-fated tale is the restaurant's My lobsters took a swift pop under the salamander. I'd be proud
of the fact that
my
New Year's went flawlessly, that
my
full dining room of customers went home happy and content, and that I,unlike the vastly-more-talented-but-less-organized Bobby,
brought honor and profit to my masters. owner, a Rhode Island wise guy who for our purposes will go by the name of Frankie.
You've seen men like Frankie in the movies, or on
The
Sopranos
—connected guys who have their hands in a mix of local businesses. Frankie owned not only a restaurant but also an auto dealership
and a liquor store, and he was on the board of just about every committee in town. Like those movie and TV characters, Frankie
had a base of operations, an office in a huge complex, where he ran his empire, his only visible aid coming from the "girl"
at the secretary station outside his office, a sweet, maternal figure named (not really) Delores.

Frankie was a real local character. He might not have stood out much in New York or New Jersey, but in this little Rhode Island
town, his three-piece suits combined with his diminutive stature and bruiser's gait made it easy to spot him from a mile away—as
did his hair, which, though he was only in his mid- to late thirties, was prematurely gray.

I had been working at the Harbor Cove Inn for eight or nine months when, one February day, a ray of sunshine broke upon my
bleak New England winter. Frankie strutted into the restaurant and, apropos of nothing, pulled aside me and Fernando. "Listen,"
he told us, "I just saw this new space that's up for grabs. I think we could do something really nice there. You guys can
have some more creative freedom, the town'll get another good restaurant, and we'll all make some more money. Everybody's
gonna win."

Fernando and I couldn't have been more excited. We drove over to check out the space and discovered, to our delight, a charming
little converted house with enough space between its white clapboard walls and the street to allow for outdoor seating in
the spring and summer. Inside, the dining room had space enough to comfortably accommodate about a hundred people—significantly
more than the Harbor Cove—and a bar from which we could already imagine the flow of white Zinfandels and Fuzzy Navels, the
drinks of the moment in 1980s Rhode Island beach towns.

We headed straight back to the Harbor Cove and started making up dishes for the new place—doing our thing with lobster, filet
mignon, and veal—running them as nightly specials starting that very day.

Over the next four months, we did everything in our power to ensure that when the restaurant opened in the summer, it would
make a big splash—continuing to evolve those dishes, designing the kitchen, and so on.

Come summertime, Frankie planned a big opening party for the new restaurant. We had what was supposed to be our last meeting
a week before the party, but on the day of the party, Frankie abruptly summoned us to another meeting. When we arrived, Fernando
and I were in sky-high spirits, chattering about how much fun we were going to have that night.

And then, Frankie threw a big wet blanket over the two of us. "Listen, fellas," he said, "the rest of the investors and I
talked it over and we decided that, since this is really an invite-only party, you two shouldn't be there."

It took a moment for this to sink in. After all, how could the chef and sous-chef not attend the opening of the restaurant
they'd just spent four months getting ready? Did it mean we were being fired? I glanced over at Fernando, who looked equally
worried.

"Shouldn't
one
of us be there?" Fernando said, taking a shot at an appeal.

Frankie shook his little gray head.

"No. You guys did a great job getting the food ready, but I really need you to stay back at the Harbor Cove Inn and make sure
things run smoothly there tonight."

Heads hanging low, and wondering if our livelihoods were at stake—not to mention feeling considerably insulted—we returned
to the Harbor Cove Inn and did what cooks do: our jobs, sullenly starting to prep for that evening's service. In an attempt
to take my mind off the situation, I turned on the radio I kept at my station, and even started making a big vat of spaghetti
sauce for the next day, stirring it with a long, paddlelike wand as it simmered away.

But Fernando was consumed with anger. For the next hour, I watched it boil up within him. He didn't say a word, but everything
he did was fueled by fury. When he'd put a saute pan to the flame, he'd bang it down like he was clubbing someone over the
head. When he'd cut a cucumber, he'd bring the knife down so hard, I was sure he was picturing Frankie's neck there on his
cutting board.

One thing was certain: if Fernando didn't get a grip, this was going to be a long night.

Less than an hour before service, Fernando was still stomping around, slamming refrigerator doors and flinging pans into the
sink. The kitchen staff was on edge and the waiters were nervously keeping their distance. I took it upon myself to perform
an intervention.

"Chef, what're we gonna do about this? We gotta find a way to chill out."

Fernando ignored me, continuing his sadistic vivisection of yet another hapless vegetable. But then, suddenly, he was gripped
with inspiration. He put down his knife, turned, and looked me in the eye. "Fuck this!" he said. "You wanna know what the
fuck we're gonna do? I'll tell you what the fuck we're gonna do!"

I stepped back, thinking, Oh, shit. This ain't gonna be good.

Fernando was possessed with a dark clarity that, if it weren't so scary, would have been impressive. He began barking orders
to the kitchen staff:
"You,
go get me a bucket.
You,
go get me three bottles of vodka and two bottles of triple sec.
You,
go get a big mess of limes and squeeze 'em, and bring me the juice.
You,
bring me some ice."

Those of us who weren't scattered about to do Fernando's bidding stood there in rapt anticipation, watching our commander
in chief, wondering where this was all headed.

"And
me,"
he said, the glimmer in his eye approaching supernova status. "I'm gonna stand here and make five gallons worth of shots."

Shots? So he was going to get hammered? Big deal.

If only that were the case.

Fernando wasn't just going to get himself hammered. He had devised a new drinking game for the express entertainment of the
staff of the Harbor Cove Inn. He summoned the entire crew—the waiters, the bartenders, the busboys, the dishwashers, and the
cooks—and began to explain the rules. Normally, the maitre d' would've stepped in and put a stop to this, but—guess what?—he
was invited to the party. The cat was away, so to speak.

"Listen up," Fernando said to us. "I've come to a decision and I feel strongly about it. This is what's going to happen tonight:
if you are going to perform any duty that has anything to do with fulfilling your job, then before you do that duty, you
must
do a shot. So, bartenders, if you're going to make a drink, you do a shot. Busboys, if you're going to clear a table, you
do a shot. Waiters, before you take a tray of food to a table, you do a shot. Dishwashers, before you take a rack out of the
steamer, you do a shot."

We were all taken aback by this scheme, but before we could say a word in protest, Fernando cemented the deal.

"Okay. Right now. Everybody, let's do a shot. Come on!"

We obeyed our orders, even the fresh-faced kids, and knocked back a shot. Then we got into positions for the first guests.

I must admit that much of that evening is a blur to me. It was like being on a ship that was rocking to and fro; I and everybody
else were doing our best just to stay on our feet, wobbling and weaving and fighting occasional bouts of nausea, yet somehow,
miraculously, maintaining verticality.

As the evening wore on, Fernando got more and more aggressive with the game. Doing a shot became part of his commands: "We
need some more saute pans over here. Bring me some saute pans
and do a shot"
"Table Twelve is ready. Pick up Table Twelve
and do a shot"

By eight thirty, the kitchen was inundated with orders, and struggling to work through. Fernando, though drunk, had enough
presence of mind to know that we were at the point of no return. He once again summoned the entire staff into the kitchen,
including the front-of-the-house team.

With everyone assembled, dizzily listing to one side, or leaning on each other for balance, Fernando continued his fierce
display of leadership. "Okay, guys. We're almost there. One last big push and we're through the night. I know you can all
do it . . . so let's do a shot and keep on going."

As we all did yet another shot, Fernando came over to my station and turned the radio up full blast. The kitchen was flooded
with the theme song of
Hawaii Five-O: Buh huh buh
buh buh buh. Ba puh puh puh puh.

Fernando took the wand out of my hand and began rowing an imaginary canoe.

. . .
buh buh buh buh buh buh . . .

He did it with such gusto that I joined in, paddling in synch with the music and my fearless leader . . .

. . .
bah puh puh puh puh . . .

One by one, the entire staff joined in, grabbing paddles, and when those ran out, tongs, spatulas, wooden spoons, anything
that would get the idea across.

I later learned that, unbeknownst to us, at about the time Fernando was giving us his pep talk, Frankie had returned to the
Harbor Cove Inn from his party. He had walked in through the front door and seen a dining room full of customers, with not
one staff member in sight. No coffee was being poured, no bread was being served, no dirty plates were being cleared—just
a lot of confused diners wondering what the hell was going on.

And at the moment that we were all hopping on board the incredible, invisible canoe, Frankie had come into the kitchen, witnessed
the spectacle for himself, and slipped back out. Amazingly, he went unnoticed by the entire drunken lot of us.

The next day, I managed to find my way back to the Harbor Cove Inn. Fernando, professional that he was, was already there.
Also on hand was the general manager, who had been at the party the night before. We didn't know why, but the manager gave
us the cold shoulder all morning. "What's
his
problem," I wondered.
"He
got to go to the party."

Later that morning, we got a call from Delores, Frankie's secretary, informing us that Frankie wanted us to come to his office
for a meeting.

Fernando and I smiled at each other. Surely, we thought, we were being summoned over for a belated apology for the party slight.

We drove to the complex that housed Frankie's office and took the elevator up to his suite. As always, Delores was sitting
at the desk outside.

"Hi ya, boys, how ya doin'?"

"Great, Delores. You?"

"Okay, I guess."

"What's Frankie want?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't say. But go on in. He's ready for you."

Fernando and I exchanged a wry smile and I opened the door to Frankie's office, a huge, Spartan room with wraparound picture
windows that offered a spectacular view of the Atlantic.

Frankie had one of those old-fashioned, high-backed leather executive chairs and when we entered the room, he was seated in
it, facing the ocean. We couldn't see him at all. As we sat on the couch in front of the desk, we found ourselves staring
at this monolithic wall of leather.

We waited in silence for what felt like a week. Frankie didn't make a sound, just let us sit there, wondering what was coming.

Finally, he spun around in the chair. His face was purple with anger. He stood up and leaned forward against the desk, putting
the palms of his hands on the shiny black surface for support, and stared us both right in the eyes. But he didn't say a word.
Instead, he picked up the newspaper and walked around to our side of the desk. Then he tossed the paper at our chests and
sauntered out the door.