Don't Try This at Home (20 page)

When I saw
that,
I pulled them aside.

"Kids, listen. In Italy, we have an expression that if you look the other way three times, you are stupid. And I'm starting
to feel like an idiot."

I presented them with a choice: "I'll give you one more chance. Be here at four o'clock tomorrow.
Or else."

Mitch—he's probably a lawyer today—jumped right in. "Yes, Mr. Luongo. That's perfect. I feel like the past few days, we've
just been breaking the ice."

"Listen," I said. "We're not breaking the ice. You're breaking my balls. Now get out of here."

The next day, with a fool's optimism, I pushed myself all morning and into the afternoon. I got
my
work done early so I could spend some time with Mitch and Missy when they arrived, show them how I expected them to work,
turn them into the kind of proud workers I respected.

I had been a busboy in my life. I had done everything you could do in a restaurant, and that's part of why I resented them
so much. I didn't care who their parents were; the fact that they thought they could disrespect my beautiful Sapore di Mare,
the place I had built with my own sweat and hard work—that was the most offensive thing of all.

You already know what happened next. They didn't show up at four o'clock. They didn't even show up by four fifteen. When they
finally did show up, at four thirty, I was sitting in the balcony overlooking the dining room. I watched them prance in through
the front door, even though Chico—hardworking, proud Chico—told them not to every day. As always, they were fresh from the
beach, with messy hair and that salty smell.

I don't know how much you know about the restaurant industry in New York, but if you read the papers here in the 1980s, then
you might have heard I had a temper in those days. I'm not going to deny it. I had a massive temper. And this was the kind
of thing that set it off.

"You two," I said as I stood up and charged down the stairs. They looked terrified, like they were about to be gored by a
bull.

"You know what? That's it. You better get out of here. In fact, you better get out of here right now. Actually, you know what,
GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. NOW!"

They didn't move.

"NOW!"

"But, Mr. Luongo," Mitch said. "What about our tips from last night?"

"Tips?"
I actually laughed. "You want your tips? I'll give you a tip: you go home and tell your fathers that you are
fired.
You incompetent, spoiled, rich brats." They stood there for a second, in shock.

Mitch jerked his head in the direction of the bar, suggesting to Missy that they have a drink before leaving.

"Now!" I bellowed. "Get the fuck out of here, you little brats. Out, out, out," and I chased them right out the door.

Both Mitch's and Missy's fathers called me, outraged, vowing that they'd never come back to Sapore di Mare again.

But they did. They had to. They were friends of Pino's.

3.
Teach Your Employees English

It's pretty common to have restaurant employees who don't speak English. It's so common that there's a pamphlet-sized book
sold in certain industry supply shops called
Kitchen
Spanish.
But if you ever open a restaurant in the Hamptons, teach your employees English. Or you might find yourself without a staff.

One summer day when I was working in the city as usual, Mark called me from Sapore and told me the following story:

It was a quiet weekday, and in the Hamptons, it gets so quiet that you can stand along the highway and hear the wind blow
through the trees. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, five black sedans screeched into the Sapore di Mare parking lot and surrounded
the building.

A group of federal agents marched into the place and began interrogating everybody on the staff. They didn't check for proof
of citizenship or ask to see green cards. Any employees who didn't speak English were simply corralled and taken away in the
cars, off to who-knows-where.

"Thank God I can still manage a Brooklyn accent or they might have taken
me"
Mark said.

I hung up the phone and looked around the kitchen. My crew was finishing their prep for that night's dinner. The
mise en
place
containers—the little stainless-steel vessels in which prepared ingredients are held along the line—were full and, having
been there since the early morning, the crew was winding down and thinking about going home for the day.

"Guys, listen up." I told them what had happened at Sapore, and that I needed them to go out to my car. I was going to drive
them to the Hamptons, they would work a shift out there, and I'd have them back by morning.

"Pino, no, please no," they begged.

But I had no choice. We had to be ready for dinner at the beach. So we piled into the car, drove out to the Hamptons, and
I assigned each of them to a station. They were real troupers, prepping and then cooking all night, only to pile back into
my car at eleven forty-five that night for the return trip to Manhattan.

The next day, I got my Sapore staff back. They weren't happy, and neither was 1.1 suppose I could've sued the government,
but I had other priorities, like replenishing my ever-dwindling reservoir of employees, a task that had become even harder
that morning with the new prerequisite that they speak English.

4. All Rules Are Open to Interpretation

One of my favorite images from Sapore di Mare was Ralph Lauren.

Not the brand. The man.

Within a few months of Sapore's opening, the clientele began taking the summertime theme to extremes. They'd show up looking
as though they had just come from the beach, which I'm

sure many of them had. There were wearing shorts, sandals, even bathing suits.

Many of our customers understood the spirit of Sapore, and would arrive in casual but elegant attire. The bathing-suiters,
however, were rapidly becoming the majority.

So we made a new rule: no shorts. Just like at the Vatican.

And then one night, Ralph Lauren, driving home with his wife and a few friends, decided to drop in for dinner. The friends
met our dress code, but Ralph was wearing shorts.

Ralph Lauren in shorts doesn't look like most people in shorts. I didn't see him when he came in, but I'm sure he was as fashionable
as ever.

Nonetheless, Ariel didn't want to make any exceptions. We didn't keep any pants in the cloakroom the way some restaurants
keep jackets. So my quick-thinking maitre d' ran into the kitchen and emerged with a pair of black-and-white checkered chef
pants, presenting them to Ralph Lauren.

Ralph, gentleman that he is, disappeared good-naturedly into the men's room and emerged in his new outfit.

By the time I heard what had happened and caught up with Ralph, I was mortified. But Ralph is a sport. He said it was no big
deal and that he was happy to comply.

And, you know what? He looked good. He looked so good that I'm surprised chef pants didn't become the next big fashion craze
out there.

Even in the Hamptons, I guess, absurdity has its limitations.

5. Most Mistakes Can Be Corrected

Okay, after all this bad news, let me share a story with a happy ending.

Saturday afternoon at Sapore was the eye of the storm between Friday night and Saturday night. It was also a time when many
of our celebrity customers came in for lunch, to enjoy the restaurant's patio away from the eyes of the masses.

One Saturday afternoon, we were hosting Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley, along with their little daughter Alexis, and another
couple that have also since gone their separate ways, Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger.

I was busy in the kitchen, getting ready for the evening service. The only management presence in the dining room was the
current occupant of our revolving-door position of receptionist-hostess.

At about three o'clock, I began thinking about the dinner hour and went into the dining room to see if Ariel had shown up
yet. There he was, the picture of Hamptons style, in a white linen suit with brown leather slip-on shoes.

With a list of that night's reservations in hand, we walked the floor together, determining who we'd seat where, a very political
exercise at a hot spot like Sapore. We also personally greeted Alec and Kim and Billy and Christie, all of whom were regulars,
and—I must say—absolutely charming.

As we made the rounds, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, pedaling up to the entrance on a bicycle, a woman in her midsixties,
or so I'd have guessed. It was tough to tell: she was wearing a straw hat and sunglasses so it was hard to see her face.

But something about her seemed familiar.

We couldn't hear the exchange that followed, but from the gestures—the woman spoke, the reservationist shook her head from
side to side, the woman shrugged happily, hopped on her bike and left—we could tell that she had been denied a reservation.

My sixth sense was speaking to me, telling me that something wasn't right. I sent Ariel over to see what happened. He returned
and informed me that she was looking for a table for four for eight o'clock.

"And?" I asked.

"The girl told her that we were fully—"

I realized who it was: "Jesus Christ, Ariel, that was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis."

He considered that for a moment.

"Oh, my God, Pino! You're right!"

I pointed to the highway: "Go after her!"

Ariel's jaw dropped, but he didn't move.

"We cannot allow this to happen. Go!"

"Pino, she's gone down the highway."

"So go chase her down the fucking highway! This cannot happen. Not here!"

With a shrug, Ariel began walking toward the road.

"You're not going to get her if you walk. Run!"

Ariel began running in his immaculate white linen suit, slipping his jacket off as he started. Our driveway was covered with
gravel, so he couldn't really pick up any speed until he got to the highway.

I went out to the edge of my property and looked down the sloping highway. I could see the former First Lady about half a
mile down the road, stopped at an intersection, straddling her bike, and behind her, coming up fast, my own Latin Gatsby,
running down the road after her to gallantly offer her a table.

She was about to start pedaling again, but he called out to her and she stopped and turned around. They spoke. She nodded
and he waved good-bye.

Ariel returned to our parking lot, drenched in sweat. He reported his success. She had accepted the reservation and his apology.

I was so happy. I had always admired Jackie O. Not just her style, but also her strength after her husband was assassinated
and all those stories about how she had raised her children, Caroline and John, Jr., to be humble and polite. She clearly
lived those values herself. I mean, here she was in the Hamptons, where
everyone
wants you to know who they are, and she didn't even divulge her identity to get a table at a restaurant.

I had to compliment Ariel on his triumph: "I'm proud of you, Ariel. You did what the best maitre d' in the Hamptons should
do, and you should feel good about it."

He nodded, still catching his breath and fanning himself off.

"Thanks, Pino."

I looked him up and down. Sweat was literally dripping off his suit.

"Now, go take a shower," I said. "You stink!"

I'm telling you, our work is
never
done.

Our Big Brake

MARY SUE MILLIKEN
AND SUSAN FENIGER

Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger first came together at City
Cafe in Los Angeles in 1981, and have been business partners for
more than two decades. Today, they own the popular Border Grill
restaurants in Santa Monica and Las Vegas at Mandalay Bay, and
Ciudad restaurant in Downtown L.A. They have authored five
cookbooks, taped 396 episodes of their television programs
Too Hot Tamales
and
Tamales World Tour
on Food Network, and host
the show
In the KFI Kitchen with Mary Sue and Susan
on KFI
640AM Los Angeles. Milliken and Feniger also created the Border
Girls brand of fresh prepared foods for Whole Foods Markets, and
a line of pepper mills manufactured by Vic Firth.

S
O, IT WAS 1983 and the two of us were running our little City Cafe, near the corner of Melrose and Martel in Los Angeles.
It was a small place we had opened two years earlier, about 900 square feet, with ten tables and eleven seats at the bar;
the entire staff consisted of the two of us, with a dishwasher who doubled as a busboy and a waitress who dabbled in heroin
addiction when she wasn't on duty.

Ah, those were the days.

In terms of our industry's culture, this was an era ago, because there was no such thing as a celebrity chef. Sure, there
were television cooking teachers like the great Julia Child, but no fellow whisks had risen from the restaurant world to national
prominence. To put things in perspective, Wolfgang Puck had just recently opened Spago, and not long before that, Alice Waters
had launched Chez Panisse.

Because there was no such thing as a celebrity chef, it wasn't as common as it is today for folks who do what we do to participate
in big-ticket charity events where for a couple hundred bucks you can sit down to four courses prepared by four different
chefs, or maybe stroll around tasting signature dishes from up to fifty chefs at little food stations.

The idea was starting to catch on, however, and people like Wolfgang were at the forefront of the movement. We hadn't been
a part of this new trend, so we were flattered when we were finally invited to participate in a benefit: the organizers for
a prominent national food and wine group called and asked us to "do a course" for a dinner set to take place in the ballroom
of the Biltmore Hotel, an art deco relic of Old Hollywood that was past its prime but still maintained a faint air of glamour
and did a steady business in its ballroom, which was to be the site of this event.

Today, prepping and packing for a benefit are as innate to a chef as sharpening a knife or caramelizing onions. Young cooks
learn this art at their first jobs and know what kind of containers to buy, the perfect-sized cooler, and how to seal everything
so it travels without spilling so much as a drop. But we had never packed up our food for anything, much less cooked for 250
people, the number expected at the dinner.

We were charged with preparing the first course, and we settled on one of our most popular appetizers at the time, Seared
Eggplant with Tomato
Concasse
and Hollandaise
Glacage.
We figured this to be a transport-friendly selection because we could sear the eggplant slices at City and bring along some
buckets full of
concasse
(coarsely chopped, cooked tomatoes and herbs) and hollandaise. When we got to the Biltmore, all we'd have to do is lay out
the eggplant on sheet pans, top them with
concasse
, whip some cream and fold it with the Parmesan into the warm hollandaise, nap it on, and flash it under the broiler. Easy.

The first course was to be served at seven fifteen. Not wanting the hollandaise to sit around getting stiff, we planned a
most efficient itinerary: we'd load up the car at five thirty, arrive by six thirty, and be ready promptly at seven fifteen.

And our vehicle to greatness? Suze's rickety old red Datsun station wagon, a car so decrepit, so run down, so patched with
authentic Toledo rust and punctuated with dents, that it was a wonder California renewed its registration every few years.
The car was truly disgusting, not only on the outside, but also on the inside, with frayed fabric underfoot, tears in the
seat upholstery, and debris in every available receptacle. Susan never had time to clean it, and we both drove Honda scooters
to and from work. The only time we were in that old jalopy was to get to and from the fish market and various other purveyors.
The interior emitted an unfortunate aroma that was the by-product of the coming together offish juice, herb scraps, and whatever
else had dripped, fallen, or grown on the carpet.

But it was a reliable vehicle, and we had a great fondness for its character. We even loaned it to one of our best customers
to move some plants. She decided to return it with a full tank, and while pumping the gas a thief grabbed her keys, punched
her in the jaw, and made off with that trusty old Datsun. The police found the car and returned it later that day—I guess
the thief couldn't take the smell. This made the car somehow even more loveable to us.

So there we were on a typically balmy Thursday afternoon in Los Angeles. We had the seared eggplant slices packed up in a
couple of empty orange crates (hey, they came free with the produce), with paper towels between the layers, and we loaded
the crates in the way back along with a couple of buckets of tomato
concasse
and grated Parmesan. The backseats had long since refused to fold down so we set the buckets of warm, silky hollandaise on
the seats directly behind us. The buckets—originally holding dish soap—were covered with plastic wrap, and held in place by
packing tape. But to be safe, we supported them with sundry other items, like bowls of utensils, rolled-up aprons, and so
on. We would have strapped them in with seat belts, but those were long gone.

We were still shouting last-minute instructions to the skeleton crew who would be manning the stove as we got into the car
and slammed the doors shut. As usual, Mary Sue—known for her speed behind the wheel—drove, even though it wasn't her car.
We pulled away from the curb . . .

. . . and immediately had to stop.

Because we were in uncharted territory.

Rush hour.

We had heard of rush hour. And we knew that rush hour in Los Angeles was supposed to be among the more onerous on the planet.
But rush hour is when chefs are just getting ready for the body of their workday to commence, so we are safely ensconced in
our places of business. We suppose we had
seen
rush hour before, maybe through the windows of the restaurant. But rush hour cannot be fully appreciated until you are in
a car, caught in the snarl, and have someplace to be.

Rush hour sucks. And to this day we do everything possible not to drive in L.A. between 3 and 7 p.m.

In search of less clogged roadways, we gradually snaked our way down to Sixth Street, bumping along the sloping, potholed
streets of Los Angeles, the crates of eggplant bouncing up and down and the hollandaise lapping up against the sides of the
bucket. Taking Sixth, we began our exodus east to Grand Avenue. With the time ticking away, Mary Sue began driving more aggressively,
weaving in and out of the right-hand lane to pass the slower drivers, or those who simply didn't have to be at the Biltmore
Hotel to serve a first course to 250 foodies in less than an hour.

So there we were, running our little automotive slalom course though the streets of Los Angeles, when all of a sudden some
jerk runs a stop sign on an adjacent street, screeching out right in front of us.

Mary Sue slammed on the brakes and we came to an abrupt, lurching stop that threw us into the dash and caused the boxes of
eggplant to smack against the seat backs, and the buckets of hollandaise to fall over on their sides. The liquid sloshed forcefully
enough against the plastic wrap to dislodge it. We both instinctively threw an arm back from the front seat but not before
we heard the unmistakable
splash
of 10 gallons of hot buttery emulsion being deposited in the disgusting, fish-scented foot wells behind us.

Some of the sauce seeped through the space between our seat backs and seats, catching us on the rear, and as the warm hollandaise
soaked through to our butts, we looked at each other in horror: "Oh. My. God."

Susan peered over the headrest into the foot wells. "You're not going to believe this," she said, reaching down and grabbing
one of the buckets, verifying that there was, in fact, just about 3 inches of sauce remaining. "You're really not going to
believe this."

We pulled over to the curb, got out, and shifted into crisis mode. Quickly, we ran through the possible options: Go back to
our place and remake the hollandaise? Well, that would have been a fine idea but not for two chefs who set off on their little
adventure with a mere fifteen-minute contingency. Ask the hotel chef to help us out? Surely he'd have eggs, but did he keep
gallons of extra clarified butter just laying around? Doubtful. More than likely he used that fake canned stuff, anyway.

We should add that this was in the prehistoric days before cell phones were prevalent, so we couldn't call out for reinforcements,
or even get answers to our questions from the hotel's chef.

Maybe we could stretch the paltry amount of surviving hollandaise by adding even more cheese and cream to it? No, probably
not a good idea: the yolks wouldn't set up when flashed under the broiler, and with too much cheese the sauce would certainly
break and turn our elegant appetizer into a greasy mess.

"What are we going to do?"

There was only one answer. The moment that followed was akin to the one in desert-island tales, when the poor shipwrecked
souls decide they have to turn to cannibalism, or perish. We looked down into the pools of hollandaise sitting in those foot
wells, those disgusting, fish-juice-stained foot wells, and, without a word, we nodded to each other, solemnly acknowledging
what must be done. Then we each took a bucket, got down on our knees, and with cupped hands began bailing the hollandaise
from the car floor back into the buckets. Glancing up at each other we knew that we had both come to the same unspoken decision—that
as long as we didn't actually touch the unspeakable floor of Lake Hollandaise, dislodging its bacteriological horrors, we
could live with ourselves.

We have to add here that we'd
never
do such a thing today—heck, we'd never find ourselves in this predicament today—but twenty-plus years ago, for two gals who
were just starting out, the moment was as hilarious as it was horrific, and it wasn't long before the two of us were shuddering
with laughter at our predicament, thanks in part to the questions we'd ask each other:

Mary Sue: "You
never
let Stella (her dog) in the car, right Suze?"

Susan: "Is that black pepper . . . or dirt?"

Mary Sue: "You promise you won't tell anyone?"

As the amount in the buckets began to finally exceed the amount left slopping in the car, we gave each other status reports:

"How's it goin', Milliken?"

"Pretty good."

"How much do you have?"

"About a gallon and a half. But if I go much deeper I might hit carpet."

Hit carpet. Tee hee. We started laughing again at the very thought of the godforsaken floor.

And so it went.

We got the buckets as full as they were going to get, secured them extra well, and hopped back in the car. The rest of the
journey was spent recalling Mary Sue's mom's strong convictions about food that had touched the floor being GOOD for you because
ingesting a few foreign particles helped your body build it's immunities and people who were too germ-a-phobic had weak systems
as a result.

"Right, Milliken, we're doing these diners a favor they won't even know about! Whatever you need to tell yourself is fine—but
let's figure out how we're gonna explain our butter butts."

"I don't know about you, but I'm gonna wear two aprons, front and back, and say it's a fashion statement."

When we arrived at the hotel at the corner of Fifth Street and Grand Avenue, it was just minutes before seven o'clock. An
assistant manager was waiting for us at the entrance and when he sighted us, his brow relaxed and he picked up the house phone
to call for reinforcements; within seconds, we were greeted by an army of cooks who descended on the car like vultures, flying
all the food back to the kitchen.

We joined them and oversaw the assembly-line production. Before anyone could get a good look at the hollandaise, Susan cranked
a ton of black pepper into each bucket to help camouflage any "extras" we might have picked up accidentally. We didn't dare
make eye contact with each other, or we would have burst out laughing again.

At exactly seven fifteen, we served the dish. It was a big hit. We watched from the kitchen door as the diners, 250 of Los
Angeles' most savvy food lovers, dug into the eggplant with gusto. Some of them even soaked up the last remnants of hollandaise
with their dinner rolls.

After dessert, the chefs were introduced to the gathering and asked to talk about their dishes.

When we got up, Susan took the microphone and proceeded to tell everyone how honored we were to be there, at our first benefit
event, and described our dish by its new name: "Seared Eggplant with Tomato
Concasse
and
Black Pepper
Hollandaise."

Like they say, necessity is the mother of invention.