Don't Try This at Home (25 page)

Neverland

BILL TELEPAN

A native of New Jersey, Bill Telepan attended the Culinary
Institute of America, then worked in a number of the best
restaurants in New York City, including Gotham Bar and Grill,
where he was sous-chef for several years, Daniel, and Le
Bernardin. He also spent six months working under the great
Alain Chapel at his restaurant in Mionnay, France. He was
executive chef of Ansonia on New York's Upper West Side and
ofJUdson Grill in midtown Manhattan, where he received three
stars from the
New York Times.
He is set to open a new
restaurant, Telepan, in fall 2005. Telepan is also the author
of
Inspired by Ingredients: Market Menus and Family Favorites from a Three-Star Chef.

A
BIG REASON I love being a chef is all the stuff that goes with it—the unusual working hours, the palling around with
other chefs and cooks, the horsing around in the kitchen.

Don't get me wrong. I love food, and I take the food itself very seriously. But being a chef means that, on some level, you
don't have to grow up. You may have perfectly normal adult relationships outside the four walls of your workplace, but when
you don your apron and step into your arena every day, it's like entering a professional Neverland.

This is, I believe, a distinctly American phenomenon. You certainly don't find it in European kitchens, a lesson I learned
early in my career when I went to work in France.

In 1990,1 was a twenty-three-year-old cook, and I was doing great. I had been to the Culinary Institute of America and I was
working in a well-regarded restaurant in New York City, paying my dues as a line cook. I loved my work and felt that I was
on my way to wherever I wanted to go.

But something was missing. I had never been to France. And the more I got to know about the best American chefs, the more
I realized that they had all worked in France at some point in their careers. They talked about those days with awe and romance.
Clearly, something magical happened over there that took their understanding of food and their craft to a new level.

So, one day, I decided to take the leap, move temporarily to France, and spend some time working in a three-star Michelin
restaurant.

I've always been self-reliant, maybe to a fault. Rather than asking for help from one of the chefs I knew, I made the securing
of a job overseas into my own personal pet project. I wrote a letter in English, had it translated by a woman I knew who spoke
French, and then had it double-checked by the teacher of my weekly French class. I then handwrote thirty copies of the letter,
addressing them to the nineteen three-star Michelin chefs at the time, and eleven highly regarded two-star chefs.

The responses were not encouraging. In fact, twenty never bothered to respond at all. Five said I'd have to pay them for the
privilege of working in their kitchen (fat chance). Four said no.

The single favorable reply came from Alain Chapel, a three-star master chef, who said I could work for him at his eponymous
restaurant, but that he wouldn't pay me and that I'd have to stay for two years.

I made the necessary arrangements and set off to France, arriving by train in Mionnay, about twelve miles north of Lyon. As
I stepped onto the platform, I looked every bit the brash American cook, with my leather jacket, T-shirt, and pack of smokes.

I turned up at Chapel's restaurant in the middle of the afternoon, and what I saw when I opened the door floored me: it was
the day before the restaurant was to reopen for the New Year and Chapel himself was actually dining with the staff; they were
all sitting in the dining room, in their starched kitchen whites, having lunch and sipping wine.

I had never seen anything so civilized in my entire life.

Chapel noticed me standing there and before I could introduce myself, he asked me to leave, telling me to come back tomorrow,
"when the work begins."

I was embarrassed and scared, and I tore out of there.

I was also uninformed. What time
was
the right time? I came back the next day at eight o'clock, but it turned out I was an hour late. Fortunately, Chapel hadn't
arrived yet, and determined not to be sent away twice, I dove in and started helping out. Nobody questioned my presence—or
offered me any direction. I didn't really know what to do, so I tried to look busy, my confusion only enhanced by the setting,
which was overwhelmingly elegant: there were fresh flowers on all the tables, silver trays at the waiter stations, and in
the kitchen the equipment was flawlessly maintained, from the unmarred copper pots and pans to the Le Creuset casseroles.

It didn't matter that I had spent three years in one of the best restaurants in the United States—I felt like a total ignoramus.

Among the eighteen cooks, there were two Japanese guys, a pair of young Belgians, and the rest were French. But no matter
their nationality,
none
of them wanted anything to do with the dumb Yank who had shown up in the middle of lunch the day before and then come late
again that morning. They probably thought I'd be gone for good by the end of the day.

Soon enough, Chapel drove up with his little truck, bringing fruits, vegetables, and livestock from the market, as he did
several times each week. These market runs are legendary to anyone who has ever worked for Chapel, and for an American like
me, it was an epiphany to see this chef's profound connection to local farmers.

I joined the other guys, helping to unload the truck, trying to blend in and look like I knew what the hell I was doing.

Finally, Maurice, the chef de cuisine—a refreshingly soft-spoken guy for a French chef—introduced himself and assigned me
to the fish station, called
poissonnier.

I didn't really enjoy my first month at Chapel. I might have been part of the fish team, but I never touched a single fish.
Instead I would make tomato
concasse
(coarsely chopped tomatoes), pick herbs from the restaurant's garden, and act as a runner, retrieving stuff from the walk-in
refrigerator.

I got to know the walk-in very well, and I must say that there were things about it that fascinated me. I was used to big,
stainless-steel refrigerators back home. This one was a small box, about 10 feet long and 5 feet wide, and it was made even
smaller by the wooden shelves that lined its walls, reducing the area in which you could move to a slender
-foot aisle. The shelves popped in and out of little holes that made it easy to remove them for cleaning—a charming and old-fashioned
touch.

I was also fascinated by how well organized and immaculate the walk-in was kept. Stocks weren't stored in big white buckets
like they were in U.S. kitchens, but in stainless-steel canisters. The fruits and vegetables, some of them still in their
crates from the market and caked with dirt, were plumper and more vibrant than any I had seen. In the back were the fish and
meat, arranged neatly enough for a photo shoot.

But as much as I respected the treasures of the walk-in, I wasn't satisfied with the work I was doing. I had been a line cook
back home and here I was relegated to basic prep work.

One of the reasons I was so underutilized was that often, especially during lunch, there were more employees than guests.
It wasn't unusual to do just four covers for lunch, or sometimes none at all. There'd be more than a dozen cooks in the kitchen
and not one person in the dining room.

An additional reason for permanent residency on the bench was a cook on the fish station whom I'll call Sushi Guy. He was
from Japan, and had been referred to Chapel by a well-regarded sushi master. At first I found him impressive and intimidating—he
had beautiful sushi knives and did all the butchering. But in time I came to almost hate him. Though he never said a word
to me, his message was clear: I'll take care of the fish, New Guy, you deal with the petty stuff. And he was usually so proficient
that he didn't need any assistance. But one day he was hopelessly backed up, so I got my knives and my cutting board and set
up next to him, preparing to give him a hand. He turned toward me, muttered something in Japanese, and pushed me away—literally
shoved me backward with the palms of his hands.

I tried to explain that I was trying to help, but he wouldn't have any of it. He just gave me an intense stare, made marginally
frightening by the knife in his hand.

I was so offended that I wished we were back home so I could wait for him out back after work and have a good, old-fashioned
street fight with him. But we didn't do that kind of thing in Mionnay.

Things got better, though, thanks largely to a big-hearted guy named Bernard. An accomplished cook at just twenty-five years
of age, Bernard was French but spoke English and wanted to practice his English on me. Our station's
saucier,
he would let me help him, teaching me all kinds of classic sauces. Best of all, he instructed using English—until Chapel caught
us. "No, no, no," he scolded Bernard. "English is the language of politics. French is the language of cuisine."

So Bernard and I spoke French from then on. By that time we were friends anyway. His acceptance was like a stamp of approval.
One by one, the others started to befriend me. First among the converts were the other fish guys, Anton and Ernest. Then came
the two Belgians, Carl and Xavier, big, strapping guys who worked the meat station, along with a seven-year veteran of Chapel's
kitchen named Freddy. Carl and Xavier were as goofy as they were huge—well over 6 feet tall—and they loved to make fun of
the lone American.

"You stupid American," they would say, shaking their heads in mock contempt. And I'd answer back, "If it wasn't for us Americans,
you'd be speaking German!" Then Carl and Xavier would crack up, laughing their big, meaty chuckles. It was a routine we did
at least once a day.

Eventually I got on well with everyone in the kitchen, including the pastry guys—though I can't remember their names anymore—and
the
other
Japanese guy, Mitzu, a great cook with an infectious grin and a great sense of humor. I loved singing to Mitzu; my favorite
song was a faux Irish number that I serenaded him with every day:
"His name was Mitzu, oh
Mitzu, O'Reilly"

So, once the ice was broken, things were great for me at Chapel. I loved waking up in the morning and coming to work, then
going out with the guys after the dinner shift. I even saw my enemy, Sushi Guy, humbled. One night after service I was going
out to a
moules-frites
joint with the Belgians and Sushi Guy forced himself on us, tagging along without an invitation. We got crazy-drunk, and Sushi
Guy spent the entire night out of control, fighting off bouts of nausea and being unbelievably loud and undignified—bursting
out in laughter one moment, and looking like he might pass out, or throw up, the next.

In the morning, when we got to work, Sushi Guy sheepishly tried to apologize to us and explain himself. Big mistake. We really
didn't care; if anything, his night of debauchery had humanized him. But in apologizing, he firmly established himself as
King Geek of the Universe and his clout in the kitchen plummeted. Even in a French kitchen, it's possible to be too square.

By the third month, I was as at home at Alain Chapel as I ever was in New York or New Jersey. Maybe
too
much at home . . .

One day, things in the kitchen were particularly laid back. It was one of our dead days for lunch, and all morning Anton,
Ernest, and I were picking on the Belgians.

"Hey, shut up, you stupid American."

"You know if it wasn't for us stupid Americans, you'd all be speaking German right now."

"Ha ha ha ha ha."

Like that.

This had been going on for hours when I went into the walk-in to get some fish. Carl and Xavier were in there and as soon
as they saw me, they started up with the whole stupid-American routine again.

I was so at ease by this point that I had totally reverted back to my childhood self—which wasn't really that far in the past
anyway.

I stepped up to Xavier, pulled his arm toward me in a wresting maneuver, spinning him around and getting him in a headlock
from behind. As he struggled, we both twisted around, grazing one of the shelves. Its contents bounced violently, then settled.

At some point during my struggle with Xavier, Anton and Ernest had wandered into the walk-in; the next thing I knew, Carl
and Ernest were going at it. They weren't punching each other—there was barely enough room in there to throw a decent haymaker—no,
they had grabbed each other by the shoulders and were grappling for control. Finally, Carl—the 6-foot Belgian—managed to gain
some momentum and thrust Ernest into the back of the walk-in. The shelves there—built for easy removal—broke away, like in
an action movie where staircases and windows explode on contact. I remember thinking, like a little kid, how cool that was,
and I let Xavier push me into the shelf behind me so I could be like a superhero myself. Sure enough, as I connected, the
shelves in my path gave way: rectangular plastic containers of perfectly chopped shallots, carrots, and celery came crashing
down to the ground, spilling their contents all over the place.