Monday

[update - I am putting a "fuzzy patch" over all identifying features in this and future posts]

I had reserved a table for two at 8. But getting a chance to sample the cuisine was not my primary reason for visiting the restaurant that night. Truth is, I wanted a job. There are only a small handful of kosher restaurants in the city that live up to treif-world standards when it comes to service, décor and – of course – the food itself. This place is one of them.

Everyone had told me that Frank was a “nice guy”. He was well known for mingling through the dinner crowd, schmoozing with the customers and making personal recommendations and suggestions when it came to choice of food and drink. I knew that he had, on occasion, hired people like me – no formal training, only a passion for the kitchen.

But the stocky guy yakking away into a cell phone on the sidewalk wasn’t what I expected. He looked really young. And he sounded more like a vintage cab driver than a refined gourmet. Nonetheless, when my dinner counterpart arrived I waved him over. “Is that Frank?” I asked. My friend nodded, and went inside to hold the table while I waited for the chef.

Finally, the phone conversation ended and Frank walked over to me – he had seen me waiting. We shook hands and I introduced myself. Always the warm host, Frank recognized my name from the reservation list. Then, I took the leap and told him that I was really there because I wanted to work in his restaurant. After exposing my true desires, Frank began to laugh. Then he began to rip my dreams to tiny little pieces.

You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to get into this business. How much money do you think chefs make? (I don’t know) Ten dollars an hour! If you’re lucky!

Are you a frum guy? This is no job for a frum guy. You can’t start a family with this life. You can’t SUPPORT a family, that’s for sure.

You don’t know the first thing about cooking. If you went to culinary school, it would still take you 5 years until you really knew what you were doing. You’d be 29 years old before you’re even ready to do anything.

Do you have a girlfriend? (No.) How are you going to date? You realize my guys work until midnight every night?

If you really want to work in the restaurant business, be a mashgiach. They at least make decent money. Why don’t you do that? (Well, I really want to be a chef…)

Don’t be a chef! Go to law school. Go to grad school. Don’t get into this business, I’m telling you. You want to work in my kitchen? I guarantee you will cut yourself. You will slip, fall, crack your skull.

You think you can open your own restaurant? How much money do you think it costs to open a restaurant like this, huh? How much? (Uh, a couple hundred thousand dollars) Yeah, exactly how much – say how much! ($350,000) Ha! It costs at least 1.3 million to open a place like this. You got any rich relatives? (No) Well then, good luck.

You like to cook? What do you like to cook? (Well, that’s sort of a vague ques…) Do you like vegetables? Huh? Do you love nature? Do you have a fine appreciation of nature? Do you like hiking? Look at that sunset [grabs me by the shoulders and turns me to face the sunset]. Beautiful, isn’t it? If you want to be a chef, you need to love the natural world. You need to be willing to shell out $6 a pound for the freshest fruit straight from the farm.

You don’t know anything about food. And this isn’t the career for you.

This went on for about half an hour. I held my ground. I told him that I didn’t care and still wanted to work for him. I told him it wasn’t about the money, I understood all the cautionary advice, and still wanted to do it. He sighed, and he said that I could come in the next day if I wanted to. He’d put me at the mercy of Eddie, his sous chef.

I smiled in victory, and went off to enjoy my dinner. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” shouted Frank. I told him that’s the last thing I would say.

Dinner was great. The sweetbreads were a little salty, but it was a treat just to have them. My venison entrée was a little pricey, but I felt like ordering the venison was just another test from Frank to see if I really appreciate fine cuisine. Plus, it tasted phenomenal. For dessert, I sampled some of their homemade sorbets – if you go, I can tell you that the banana and passion fruit sorbet were the best sorbets I have ever tasted, hands down.

Wined, dined and lined (up for a trail), I left Frank’s happy as a clam, eager to start my first day.