Don't Try This at Home (23 page)

Alibi

MICHEL RICHARD

A pioneer in French/California cuisine, Michel Richard's first
kitchen job was as an apprentice in a patisserie in Champagne,
France, a job he followed by moving to Paris to work in
Gaston Lenotre's esteemed pastry shop. In 1975, he moved to
Santa Fe, then, in 1977, to Los Angeles, where he opened his
own Michel Richard. In 1987, he launched Citrus, and in
1988, was inducted into the James Beard Foundation's Who's
Who in American Food and Beverage. A year later, he opened
Citronelle, and went on to open Bistro M in San Francisco, and
Citronelle in Baltimore and Philadelphia. In 1994, he opened
Citronelle in the Latham Hotel Georgetown in Washington,
D.C. In 1998, he moved to Washington, D.C, to cook full
time at Michel Richard Citronelle. Richard is the author of
Home Cooking with a French Accent,
published in 1993. He
was a nominee for the James Beard Foundation's Chef of the
Year Award for 1996.

I
N THE 1980s, I owned a pastry shop at the corner of Third Street and Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills. We catered
to a very affluent, stylish, often famous clientele, and to make them happy, I worked day and night, and was always trying
to catch up.

One day, a woman came in and hired us to cater a wedding for two hundred people. Now, this was a quarter-century ago, and
I cannot remember who the woman was, whether she was the bride, or the mother of the bride, or a bridesmaid, or a friend.
I don't even remember what she looked like.

I do remember, however, that she wanted the cake to be
spectacular.
In addition to it being big enough to serve two hundred people, she insisted that the cake have two doves on top, instead
of little bride and groom figurines. And not just any doves: blown-sugar doves. In those days, I was fond of blowing sugar,
done the same way you blow glass—by heating a quantity of it to the melting point, inserting a long thin straw into the center,
and very carefully blowing, turning, and manipulating the melted sugar with various tools to create the desired shape, then
letting it cool and harden.

The wedding was held on a scorching-hot Saturday afternoon, the kind of painfully bright and blistering day you have only
in Southern California or the desert, where the sun mercilessly beats down on you.

I sent my staff ahead to the home where the wedding was taking place and loaded up with all of the food—except for the cake.
In those days, I had to do all special preparations myself—first, because my name was on the shop; and second, because there
weren't any young cooks around in L.A. who could manage it. Today, sure. But then? No way. And I was so busy that I never
had time to train anyone anyway.

Carefully, I assembled the layers of the cake and decorated it with frosting, making it as special as I could, piping tiny
white flourishes that were all the same size and perfectly spaced. Even though I was worried about arriving at the reception
too late, I took my time. It was heaven to be quietly decorating a cake in the privacy of my own shop.

Then I made the beautiful little doves, heating the sugar and blowing the shapes out of the blob. They were lovely, like big
Christmas tree ornaments, and I delicately perched them atop the cake. Voila!

Finished, I packed the cake up in a big, shiny white box, placed it in the backseat of my car, and started driving to the
wedding. Running late, as I always was in those days, I drove fast, scooting around the less-trafficked backstreets. Hey,
I was late for a wedding, what cop would give me a hard time?

As I was heading into the heart of Beverly Hills, I took a sharp turn, and heard the cake slide across the backseat—followed
by a cracking sound, similar to shattering glass. One of the doves must have broken.

That's too bad, I thought. But at least I had another dove. Like with kidneys, I figured that I could survive with just one.

A little while later, I arrived at the beautiful estate, pulling into the enormous cul-de-sac out front. I couldn't see any
of the wedding party, because they were all out back. It was just me and my cake in the customer's driveway.

No sooner did I step out of the car than I was greeted by the wedding director, an officious, highly organized woman in business
attire with a clipboard clasped under her arm.

"Bonjour,
Chef Richard," she said, welcoming me in my native language.

"Good afternoon," I replied, trying to appear calm and not give her the slightest idea that there was a problem.

"I have the cake," I continued, forcing a big smile, and pointing at the box in the backseat.

"Of course. We have a place for it." She directed me to the two-car garage where she said I would find a subzero refrigerator
in which I could store the cake until the proper time.

You drive everywhere in L.A., even the shortest distances, so I got back in the car and drove it to the far end of the driveway,
pulling up in front of the garage. I hopped out of the car again, opened the big stainless-steel refrigerator door to make
sure it was empty, and picked up the cake box, lifting it carefully with both arms and being sure to keep it level.

I walked up to the refrigerator and tried to slide the cake inside. Wouldn't you know it—it didn't fit. But it
almost
fit. So I pushed as hard as I could, forcing it, little by little, into the refrigerator, the box crumpling faintly at the
sides.

No sooner did I squeeze the cake into the refrigerator than the shelf collapsed under the tremendous weight, and both the
shelf and the cake crashed to the bottom of the refrigerator. I heard the distinctive tinkle of breaking glass again—the second
dove had been destroyed. With a sigh, I lifted the lid of the box. There they were, crystalline shards piled up on top of
the cake.

Even worse, the cake itself was hurt this time. Thanks to the impact of the landing, the frosting was dripping off the sides
as though it were melting.

I had no idea how I was going to save the cake, or explain the poor broken doves, but I had other priorities at that moment,
like checking on my staff. Since the door to the refrigerator couldn't be shut, I closed it as far as I could and secured
it by dragging over a big, heavy box from the side of the garage and pressing it up against the door.

Quickly, I circled the house, following the sounds of music and distant conversation until I found myself in an enormous backyard
with a swimming pool. The beautiful guests were all standing around in their elegant sports coats and dresses, sipping champagne,
and eating hors d'oeuvres. They seemed very happy and impressed with the food and my staff, laughing and enjoying a beautiful
afternoon.

But as I stood there staring at the pleased reception, all I could think about were those sugar shards. How could I possibly
fix them?

Shaking my head with frustration, I left the party and walked back out front, across the driveway, and to the garage.

As I approached the door, I heard the clicking of my footsteps on the driveway mixed in with other footsteps.

I spun around and saw that the owner of the house had two big dogs, Dobermans, who were following me out to the garage.

Normally, I might have been scared to have two Dobermans so close to me. But not this time, because my prayers had been answered.
I knew how to get out of my predicament!

"Come here, doggies. Come here," I said.

The dogs glanced at each other, then decided to follow me to the garage. I raced over to the refrigerator, shoved the box
away, swung the door open, and lifted the lid of the cake box.

((
Bon appetitl"
I said.

As soon as the dogs got a scent of the food, they quickened their pace, dashing right for the cake and attacking it, snorting
with joy. I pushed their faces into the cake, encouraging them to eat faster. As they came up for air, shards of sugar clung
to the frosting that surrounded their mouths like clown makeup.

I ran off calling for the wedding coordinator, who had just come out of the house and was approaching the garage.

"Madame! Madame! The dogs eat my beautiful wedding cake," I cried, sounding terribly upset. This was Hollywood, after all,
and I was giving an Oscar-worthy performance.

"What?" she yelled, and we hurried over to the garage together. There were the dogs, munching away.

Horrified, the wedding coordinator chased the animals away, screaming at them. Then she turned to me. "Chef Richard," she
said imploringly. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. Can you fix it?"

"Well," I said, trying to appear pensive.

"Please . . ."

"Okay. I know what to do," I said.

"Oh, thank you!" she said and gave me a big hug.

I drove to a nearby store, where I purchased strawberries, whipping cream, and fresh mint. When I got back to the house, I
dressed what was left of the cake with whipped cream, then topped it with the berries and mint. By the time I was done with
it, it looked like a giant strawberry shortcake.

The coordinator and the happy couple thanked me for being so clever and saving the day. "You are such a quick thinker," the
bride said when we were introduced.

She had no idea how right she was.

You Really Ought to
Think About Becoming a Waiter

ERIC RIPERT

In 1995, as executive chef of Le Bernardin, Eric Ripert became
one of an elite group of chefs to earn four stars from the
New York Times.
Prior to arriving at Le Bernardin, he studied at the
culinary institute in Perpignan and worked at some of the
world's finest restaurants, including Paris's La Tour D'Argent
and Jamin and also Jean-Louis at the Watergate Hotel in
Washington, D.C. He is the author of two cookbooks,
Le Bernardin Cookbook
and
A Return to Cooking.

M
OST AMERICAN CHEFS I know never considered becoming a waiter, not even for a second. But there comes a moment in every
French cooking student's life when he has to make a crucial decision: "Am I going to become a chef or am I going to become
a waiter?"

They have to make this decision because French culinary schools insist that you spend time learning to be a front-of-the-house
professional as well as a cook. For this reason, many of my classmates not only considered becoming waiters, they actually
did.

I never wanted to be a waiter. I had always had a passion for eating and cooking, so had dreamed of becoming a chef since
I was a little kid. But I almost became a waiter anyway. In fact, if it weren't for the day that my mother came to lunch at
our school's restaurant, I might be a waiter right now.

When I was fifteen years old, I enrolled in the culinary institute in Perpignan, a town of about one hundred thousand people
in the South of France. Perpignan was the closest serious cooking school to my home of Andorra, a co-principality on the southern
slope of the Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain, approximately three and a half hours away by car. The school had
a three-year program for younger kids and a more intensive, two-year program for guys like me. It also offered courses in
hairdressing and nursing, so it wasn't a bad place for a fifteen-year-old boy to find himself for two years.

Though situated in an ancient town, the school was contemporary in every way, with modern, meticulously maintained buildings,
state-of-the-art classrooms and kitchen equipment, and a handsome little restaurant where we were able to practice our trade
on real customers.

The school had an interesting history: many of the instructors had previously cooked or served aboard the legendary French
luxury liner
Le France.
Once the pride of the nation,
Le France
had been so grossly mismanaged that the government-owned ship was permanently docked. Its last port of call was Perpignan,
and many of the chefs, cooks, and waiters stayed in town, becoming instructors at the school.

All of my teachers were very knowledgeable and very strict, after a 1950s-era model of discipline, discipline, discipline.
They treated us like cadets in a military academy, like the crew of their own landlocked ship: you didn't question their authority,
ever.
If you did, or if you screwed up badly enough, you might find a saute pan hurled at you. Adding to this military air was the
classic uniform that the three hundred to four hundred culinary students all dressed in: crisp white apron and jacket, a tall
white toque (cylindrical paper hat), and a white neckerchief. A kitchen team is called a
brigade,
and that's what we looked like: an army of cooks.

As with any French culinary school, we devoted just as much time to learning about the dining room as we did to learning about
the culinary arts. We spent two days per week serving customers in the school's student-operated restaurant, two days in the
kitchen, and one day in the classroom studying the fundamentals of cuisine, as well as management, accounting, and other related
topics.

Although it never interested me, being a waiter was appealing to many of my classmates, even those who initially wanted to
be chefs. The kitchen was a tough place and it required great patience. Just like a piano student needs to learn notes before
he can play scales, and then songs, a culinary student starts with the basics. And the basics can be pretty tedious. The first
thing I remember learning to do was clean the stove, and I wasn't even the one who had dirtied it.

In the dining room, however, you got to the heart of the work right away. And you didn't just wait on tables; you also learned
how to debone ducks and chickens, fillet fish, and perform such flamboyant acts as flambeing, so if you still had a desire
to cook, you got to do a little of that, too.

More important, there were only a certain number of spots in each program, so while the schoolmasters would try to accommodate
your wish, it was simply a mathematical fact that some students were going to end up in the dining room.

There was an additional factor, too, one which might be difficult for contemporary diners to fully comprehend: in many countries,
waiting tables is a way for out-of-work actors or unskilled laborers to pay the rent. But in France, it's a proud profession
with a noble history. Accordingly, the dining room instructors were just as passionate about their work as the chef-instructors
were about theirs. So becoming a waiter began to look very appealing to some of the guys, especially when they found themselves
ducking a flying saute pan.

No single person inspired more people to become waiters at the Perpignan culinary institute than the tough-but-fair manager-instructor
of the school's restaurant, Monsieur Moccan. M. Moccan was like a Dickens character: well into his forties, he was a chubby,
slightly hunchbacked, bespectacled figure who strode through the dining room greeting customers with one voice and using another,
stronger, firmer voice to correct any mistakes in his path.

M. Moccan thought I was the best waiter in my class, and he took every opportunity to tell me so. He tried to push me, more
than anyone, out to the front of the house for the rest of my life.

But I never changed my answer: I wanted to work in the kitchen.

Toward the end of my first year of school, a decision had to be made about what the focus of my second year, and consequently
my career, would be. Of course, my mind was made up, but I was only sixteen, and they wanted me in the dining room, so it
was decided that my mother and stepfather would make the drive from Andorra, have lunch in our restaurant, and meet with the
administrators to discuss my future.

To make the day as special as possible, and afford me an opportunity to impress my family, M. Moccan appointed me sommelier
for the afternoon. The thought was that with nothing to do put pour wine and shuttle cocktails from the bar to the tables,
an accomplished waiter like me would have an easy time of it and put a big smile on Mom's face.

I donned the regulation waiter's uniform (white jacket with epaulets, bow tie, black pants, black socks, and leather shoes),
and began the shift uneventfully, walking the midsized room, surveying the hundred or so seats, just as comfortable as I always
was.

As the lunch service progressed and the dining room filled to capacity, a
real
military man came into our little academy: a colonel from the French army, about sixty years old, rather skinny, in uniform,
with his wife and a civilian couple. I took their cocktail orders, got the drinks from the bartender, and returned with one
of our round, rimmed drinks trays balanced on my open palm. Before I could get one glass on the table, something happened
that had never happened before: I lost control of the tray, turning all four drinks over on the colonel and soaking his beautiful
starched uniform.

To his credit, the colonel didn't lose his composure. He wasn't happy, but he was a true gentleman about my mistake and he
sat there patiently while I patted his back dry.

M. Moccan hurried over to the scene of the disaster and pulled me aside, supportive as ever. "Don't get stressed out. The
guy's going to be okay. He's knows it's the restaurant of the school." But he was also just as firm as he always was. "Go
fill up your tray again, come back, and serve them," he instructed. "You have to finish the job."

So I got the drinks again and came back as fast as I could. It turns out I came back too fast because they hadn't had a chance
to clean the floor. As I approached the colonel's wife, I slipped on the ice cubes from the first disaster and upended the
tray on her. I expected her to start screaming, but I think they were all in shock at this point. Nobody said a word to me
as I did my best to clean the table and help her dry herself off.

Once again, M. Moccan began whispering in my ear, telling me to go back to the bar and finish the job. I remember thinking
that I hadn't even started it yet.

When I returned to the bar, the bartender looked at me as though he had just found out I had six weeks to live—his eyes conveyed
pity, sadness, and discomfort. With a sigh, he replenished my tray once again and I gingerly made my way back to my little
table of horrors. En route, I noticed that a quarter-inch of water had collected in the well of the tray. Convinced that lightning
couldn't possibly strike three times, and unwilling to lose any more time before successfully serving the table their drinks,
I resolved simply to be careful and leave the water where it was. I delivered three of the drinks without incident, then turned
to the colonel. He nodded slightly to me. I nodded in return. And as I reached for his drink, the tray tipped, spilling the
water right in his face.

That was it. The colonel shot up out of his chair and began screaming, "That's enough! Get this guy out of here!"

I flinched, taking a few nervous backward steps. But he wasn't yelling at me. He was yelling at M. Moccan, who was suddenly
nowhere to be found—until I spotted him through the little window in the kitchen door, laughing uncontrollably, unable to
compose himself and return to the dining room.

"As for
you
. . ." the colonel shouted at me. And I stood there while he dressed me down in full view of the customers, who watched in
awe, and my mother, slowly turning green, struggled to understand why the school so desperately wanted her son to become a
waiter.

I never did get to spend time at my mother's table that day, and I'm sure I didn't impress her, especially with where I ended
up next: demoted to dishwasher. But at least I had found my way back to the kitchen, and I never came out again.