Don't Try This at Home (18 page)

I have never, since then, cooked a mousse. I have never cooked
quenelles de brochet
again, or lobster Don Carlo, which was a particularly crap dish of lobster with
sauce gribiche.

I occasionally hire a French chef at Locanda Locatelli, mainly for the pleasure of firing him, but I have never cooked another
pomme souffle, and I never wear a tall hat. And I still feel just a little bit sick every time I see a button onion.

A Night at the Opera

MICHAEL LOMONACO

A native of Brooklyn, New York, and a passionate proponent of
regional American cuisine, Michael Lomonaco earned his
culinary
degree from New York Technical College, and was the
executive chef of
f
2V and Windows on the World before taking
the reins at Guastavino's. Lomonaco is the co-author of
The '21' Cookbook
and
Nightly Specials,
and host of the Travel
Channel's
show
Epicurious.
He previously hosted
Michael's Place
on
Food Network. He began his career in such legendary New York
restaurants as Maxwell's Plum and Le Cirque.

I
N MANHATTAN, a city full of mythical beings and institutions, ' 21 ' has always shimmered and sparkled just a bit
more than the rest. First opened as a speakeasy on New Year's Eve in 1930, the restaurant evolved over generations into a
fabled landmark, a legend in its own right, as famous as many of the luminaries who dine there.

' 21 ' is the fulfillment of everyone's notion of how an exclusive, clubby New York City restaurant should look and feel.
The wood-paneled rooms and upholstered leather chairs contribute to this effect, as do the hundreds of toys that dangle from
the ceiling in the central Bar Room—miniature trucks and other vehicles mostly, gifts from prominent regulars—in sharp contrast
to the power brokering that goes on beneath them. Then there are the remnants of the restaurant's speakeasy days, like the
wine cellar that can be entered only by inserting a long, wiry rod into the lone proper hole among a hundred indistinguishable
ones on its vaultlike door.

Ironically, you couldn't call ' 2 1 ' a hot spot. It doesn't attract young, glamorous movie stars, or even much media attention,
though it used to. There is no velvet rope outside. But for generations it has catered to certain select subspecies of New
Yorkers awash primarily in old money: political giants, titans of industry, Park Avenue socialites, the media elite, and so
on. It has been graced by foreign heads of state, by astronauts, athletes, even by fictional characters (Gordon Gekko takes
his young protege there for lunch in
Wall Street).

Most notably, every American president since Franklin Delano Roosevelt has dined at '21.' During my tenure there—as sous-chef
from 1987 to 1988, and executive chef from 1989 to 1996—I was privileged to cook for Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan,
Richard Nixon, and on one memorable evening, Gerald and Betty Ford
and
George and Barbara Bush. Mrs. Bush was exceptionally charming. "Can I have dessert?" she asked as she turned her empty dish
up at me, proudly declaring herself a member of the "Clean Plate Club."

'21' isn't a private club, but many of its regulars dine there so often that they treat it like one. If a new staff member
doesn't comport himself properly, or if something is askew, they are apt to wave over a dining room captain and, with a stern
frown, let him know, so strong is their sense of propriety and possession. Patrons also think nothing of making special requests
of the dining room or the kitchen. For instance, it is perfectly normal for a customer to say to his waiter, "I feel like
some lamb chops. Do you have any lamb in the house?" When the order makes its way to the kitchen, the chef takes a rack of
lamb, butchers it into chops, and prepares it however the diner likes.

I kept all kinds of provisions on hand for special requests like that. There was peanut butter and jelly—once famously ordered
by Cary Grant long before my time—and pasta, although they weren't featured in any regular menu items. There were even some
items we kept stocked for the express purpose of feeding Frank Sinatra, who still swung through town once or twice a year.

Some chefs take umbrage at special requests, but I embraced them. I always thought of that kind of customized cooking as cooking
on the edge, flying by the seat of your pants. Plus, I
loved
it when I'd set a dish of chicken hash before a guest, prepared just the way he liked it.

Even a billionaire wasn't above smiling like a little kid when I got it right.

One fall night in 1990, not long after I had returned to '21' as executive chef, Bruce Snyder, the dining room manager, came
into the kitchen and told me that he had just received a call from one of our regulars, a prominent Park Avenue socialite
who was attending the opera that evening—the premiere of Verdi's
Un
Ballo in Maschera
(A Masked Ball) featuring the great Luciano Pavarotti—and wanted us to set a table for herself and about twenty guests.

Since they were coming from the Metropolitan Opera House, just uptown at Lincoln Center, they wouldn't be arriving until about
eleven thirty, much later than we would normally accept a reservation, especially for such a large party.

But because she was an important customer, Bruce had agreed. We did whatever we could for our most valued regulars.

Oh, and there was one other reason.

Luciano Pavarotti would be their guest of honor.

At the time of this story, Pavarotti was at the height of his powers, a true living legend. You didn't have to know opera
to know Pavarotti, the gigantic, bearded figure who had attained a new level of popular success that July when the Three Tenors—Placido
Domingo, Jose Carreras, and Pavarotti himself—debuted as an entity at the World Cup in Rome.

Our customer didn't want a private room, asking instead that a large table be set up in the middle of the Bar Room, the heart
of the restaurant. With a standing bar at one side, diners seated on the outskirts of the room, and all those toys hanging
from the ceiling, it had the air of festivity and conviviality that she wanted to lend to her little soiree.

When Bruce told me Pavarotti was coming, I was ecstatic. Between working at ' 2 1 ' and at another bastion of celebrity, Le
Cirque, I had become accustomed to cooking for the rich and famous on a daily and nightly basis. But there were certain figures
who transcended the crowd, even in places like those. Mick Jagger was one, as was the King of Spain, who used to visit Le
Cirque at the very tail end of lunch service or late in the evening, when most dinner guests were sipping their digestifs.

Pavarotti was such a figure, one who would siphon the attention of even the most jaded New Yorker. And he was coming to our
restaurant for dinner.

It was then, and remains today, my firmly held belief that moments like these are reason enough to live in New York and work
at a place like ' 21 . '

* * *

The news that such a guest is coming triggers all sorts of extra activity: the front-of-the-house team ordered flowers especially
for this table of honor and let a few waiters and busboys know they'd have to stay late. The wine steward made a survey of
the cellar and took the liberty of chilling a variety of champagnes, including our house Billecart-Salmon; a rose; and so
on.

As for me, I was getting more excited by the minute.

Before I became a chef, I was an actor. If you look real close, you can see me wordlessly menacing Woody Allen in a scene
toward the middle of
Broadway Danny Rose.
For a time during my acting years, I made a living as a stage manager, and all of those old instincts kicked in on that night.
I wasn't just getting the kitchen ready to produce food; I was getting ready for
our
performance.

The first thing I did was solicit volunteers from the staff, securing a sous-chef, two line cooks, and a pastry cook who were
willing to go as late as we had to. I don't think they quite shared my level of enthusiasm—it would have been hard to—but
they were game for the challenge.

Next, I checked my inventory, to make sure everything was perfect. I tasted soups and sauces with even more scrutiny than
usual, sniffed raw fish and oysters to guarantee utmost freshness, and examined all the vegetables.

I also made a mental note of ingredients that looked especially fresh, like the assorted wild mushrooms, in case I was called
on to do a little cooking on the edge—
especially
if I were asked to do it for the great Luciano Pavarotti.

At about ten thirty, as most of the tables started to empty, Bruce orchestrated his team. They pushed a number of tables together
in the center of the Bar Room, draped a huge, white tablecloth over them, then laid out the finest glassware and silverware.
A procession of busboys appeared with the flower arrangements and proceeded to carefully decorate.

I continued to pace nervously around the kitchen, retasting and stirring soups, reassuring myself by reassuring my crew, and
generally shuffling about.

As concerned as I was about Pavarotti coming to '21,' I was equally—if not more—daunted by the prospect of his
not
showing up. After this buildup, the disappointment would be crushing.

Shortly after eleven, the private party began to arrive, in subgroups of two, three, and four. They were fresh from the opera
and younger and more vibrant than I expected; most were in their mid- to late forties. They were in full opera dress, designer
tuxes for the men and evening gowns and glimmering jewelry for the women. Like so many visitors to '21,' they exuded the casual
confidence that comes naturally with power and privilege.

As they entered the Bar Room and began ordering champagne and martinis, and nibbling on the caviar and foie gras hors d'oeuvres
we had set out, the room began to buzz. Word had spread among the late-night diners seated at the smaller tables along the
perimeter of the room that this was Pavarotti's group, many of whom, it was clear from their conversation, had enjoyed a private
audience with him backstage after the performance.

Before too long, the restaurant was pulsating with one shared thought, as vivid as a flashing neon sign: "Pavarotti is coming.
Pavarotti is coming."

As I stood outside the kitchen doors, leaning against the wall, I seemed to be the only one bothered by the unmistakable fact
that Pavarotti had not arrived with this crowd. Was it possible that he wasn't going to show? Between my personal connection
to the performing arts, a fondness for music,
and
an Italian American background in which the likes of Pavarotti constituted a certain kind of royalty, I was unabashedly excited
at the opportunity to cook for him. But this uncertainty . . . it was killing me. I must have looked like a nervous wreck.

Joe, a veteran captain of whom I was enormously fond, stood by me for a moment, witnessing yet another of my sighs.

"Ah, Joe, he's not coming," I said, shaking my head.

"Not to worry, my boy," Joe said. "He'll be here."

As reassuring as Joe could often be, I wasn't convinced. Neither, it seemed, were our guests, who began to cast sideways glances
at the door, searching for the great tenor. They were also nursing their drinks and taking smaller nibbles out of the hors
d'oeuvres, stalling for time, in order to avoid being seated.

That magical aura was beginning to fade and the air was fast going out of the evening. Soon, I heard the feared question surface
throughout the room, "Where is the maestro? Where is Pavarotti?"

At about a quarter past twelve, an air of resignation had settled over the Bar Room. Masking their dejection as best as they
could, the party took their seats and ordered dinner.

In the kitchen, my skeleton crew and I were going about our work, preparing oysters, smoked salmon, salads, and other first
courses. But we did it silently, with very little enthusiasm.

We were supposed to be cooking for Pavarotti. Now we were just cooking for a bunch of people who only had a table because
they said Pavarotti would be there.

In those days, you entered the kitchen at '21' though two swinging doors with huge glass panes set in their centers. You could
stand at the salad station and look right though those doors to the restaurant's front door. As I helped prepare food for
Pavarotti's crowd, I kept glancing up to see if he had finally arrived.

He didn't, and the first courses were served to the Pavarotti-less gathering.

Human beings are resilient organisms, so it's no wonder that the party, with time to adjust to the situation and replenished
by the first bites of their first courses, had regained its rhythm and was again emitting the happy sounds of an opening-night
feast.

I made a few perfunctory rounds, checking in on the party and making sure everything was to their liking. I smiled. I shook
hands. I laughed at jokes. But I had my own little internal production of
Pagliacci
running in my head, because Pavarotti was still nowhere in sight.

At about twelve twenty-five, I was back in the kitchen. More out of habit than hope, I stole a peek through the looking-glass
doors.

But this time, I saw a large, bearded man, dressed in a theatrical manner, floating in as though on a parade float.

I squinted. Could it be?

Another look confirmed that it was unmistakably Luciano Pavarotti, still in his costume from
Un Ballo in Maschera.
Done up as Riccardo, the governor of the opera's town, he was wearing a blue brocade jacket with a billowy white shirt, and
a scarf tied extravagantly around his neck. Below the waist, huge, puffy pantaloons stopped at the knee, where they met bright
white stockings that flowed into shoes with big brass buckles. The image was topped off by a black wig with a knot in the
back.

Larger than life, indeed.

Word trickled ahead of Pavarotti and broke across the Bar Room. "The maestro has arrived. The maestro has arrived." Waiters,
managers, and diners were craning their heads to get a look at the operatic superstar.

Finally, he made it to the party: Pavarotti stood in the entrance to the Bar Room. His dinner companions and the rest of the
diners—many of whom had also been to the opera—rose to their feet. "Bravo, maestro. Bravo!" they shouted.

Pavarotti took a huge, sweeping bow and with a broad smile joined the party, seated at the head of the table.