Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Fortune Cookie
Madamn Fortune grinned twice yesterday. First, she propelled an improbable Yankee triumph. I was watching the first few innings, and looking on in despair as they fell to 10-2 against the abject Devil Rays. I saw them pull to 10-5, and then was called away. So imagine my surprise when I open the paper to find that in the 8th, Bernie WIlliams, bless him, ignited a 13-run 8th with a three-run, bases-loaded triple. Thirteen runs in one inning. They won 20-11. Fuckin' A. You can't buy that kind of power--oh, wait...
The other corner of her smile curled around a little restaurant called Aix, on 88th and Broadway, where I began training yesterday. This little restaurant is, in fact, quite large, to say nothing of immensely pricey. $39 prime rib. $24 glasses of wine. $20 for a Booker's Manhattan. No blender. All shaking, all the time. The New York Times gave it $$$. More to the point, it gave it **. They hired me Monday after my third day of job hunting. I figured What the hell, might as well give it a shot. I was dropping resumes in every restaurant and bar between here and the Soho Grand. The only two places, in fact, that I didn't shoot for were the Hard Rock Cafe and--can you guess? It's up around 113th street...
Yeah. I couldn't do it. I stood outside of the West End for a good few minutes, waffling. Finally, I just couldn't. I walked on.
So I swung by Aix after getting a bite at Le Monde, but it would have only been for daytime, when you make fuck-all. I had been offered a solid job with tremendous growth potential (yes, trust me, there is such thing in restaurants; I am going to describe what I mean presently, mostly so I can show off how much knowledge I've vampired off my father) at Rain, but it would have required that I wait tables until I leave, on the condition that upon my return to the US, I move to the bar. I had till Wednesday to make a decision. Rain had a lot of perks. The food there is fabulous. I could have eaten Heaven's Beef all day every day. Furthermore, Rain is a Main Street Partners restaurant. I've known these guys very well for years now--the job was offered to me, I'm very sure, because of whose son I was (the manager at Rain, who hadn't met me, saw my CV and said, "Sam Ashworth? You know Warren Ashworth?" "Yeah." You his son?" "Um...yup.")--and they also own Calle Ocho and Django. Django is in a price range around that of Aix. MSP are now also linked with the people at BLT (Bistro Laurent Tourondel), because their third place, BLT Prime, is occupying the space that used to belong to the very excellent Ashworth/Bogdanow-designed Union Pacific, which Rocco DiSpirito, whose own mother doesn't love him, drove into the ground. MSP still has the lease, though, making them partners in the BLT Prime venture. Beyond that, BLT Steak (BLT Fish is the third) is in the space that once housed another Ashworth restaurant, Sono (I adored Sono). I actually dropped a resume there unwittingly, and without knowing that the paterfamilias was working with BLT now (their whiskey selection was excellent). It's on 57th street, and when I walked in, it felt like I was back in Sono (I mean, I really adored Sono. I only went once, and that was years ago, but it has to rank along my all-time favorites. The toasted sticky rice, my God. The chef, Tadashi Ono, made his own plates and bowls out of clay. Fired them himself. The lamb was cooked in a clay oven that the waiter cracked open at your table. And the bar, oh my Lord. I think our friend Cliff Moran made it. It was just one split tree, planed and varnished. It was gorgeous), just flipped around. This is what Freud meant by the uncanny. Not the shock of the new, but the troubling resurgence of the forgotten or repressed familiar. It turned out I had been in Sono. How are we following so far? The father is redesigning BLT Steak
In any case, I say this to illustrate how well positioned I'd be at Rain. Between MSP and BLT, I'd be set. The only hitch was, I'm mortally afraid of waiting tables. I mean, I fear working on the floor like I fear a swarm of arachnids skittering up my legs. Terrified, paralyzed. I wouldn't want to have to start at a place like Rain, either. I was going to accept, though, because I doubted I was going to find a job, because no one wants a guy for a month and a half. Aix will probably fire me when I tell them, one week before I leave, that I'm going to be gone for over two months. I'm not telling them. When I come back, I'll talk to MSP or, better yet, the Union Square Cafe group. Tabla looks promising (USC is out of the question; I'm not good enough, and furthermore, no one ever leaves that place). But for now, Aix is great. Two stars is great for where I'm at right now. I'm going to have to bulk up on my wine and cheese knowledge, that's for sure. They use Riedel glassware. That's hard-core. Different glasses for Chablis and Sancerre. But the place is good. Easy work, fine money. I'm kind of amazed, actually. I dropped my resume with the hostess because the manager was in a meeting. She promised to deliver it. Usually, when you drop a resume with the hostess, the only place it gets delivered to is the wastebasket. But boom, fifteen minutes later, I'm resting my feet after walking all over the fucking city, and I get the call. The manager wants to talk to me. I more or less sprint over. The manager is an adorable squat old elf named Pierre. I start training tomorrow. Tomorrow is now yesterday. I was there almost seven hours, and the bartender training me said I did "very well." I'm excited. I'm good at this. I have to go back in two hours. The hours are a little weird, but I get out by about 11:30 apparently. I could even take a graveyard shift at the 24-hour French Roast two blocks down. Bring it on.
The other corner of her smile curled around a little restaurant called Aix, on 88th and Broadway, where I began training yesterday. This little restaurant is, in fact, quite large, to say nothing of immensely pricey. $39 prime rib. $24 glasses of wine. $20 for a Booker's Manhattan. No blender. All shaking, all the time. The New York Times gave it $$$. More to the point, it gave it **. They hired me Monday after my third day of job hunting. I figured What the hell, might as well give it a shot. I was dropping resumes in every restaurant and bar between here and the Soho Grand. The only two places, in fact, that I didn't shoot for were the Hard Rock Cafe and--can you guess? It's up around 113th street...
Yeah. I couldn't do it. I stood outside of the West End for a good few minutes, waffling. Finally, I just couldn't. I walked on.
So I swung by Aix after getting a bite at Le Monde, but it would have only been for daytime, when you make fuck-all. I had been offered a solid job with tremendous growth potential (yes, trust me, there is such thing in restaurants; I am going to describe what I mean presently, mostly so I can show off how much knowledge I've vampired off my father) at Rain, but it would have required that I wait tables until I leave, on the condition that upon my return to the US, I move to the bar. I had till Wednesday to make a decision. Rain had a lot of perks. The food there is fabulous. I could have eaten Heaven's Beef all day every day. Furthermore, Rain is a Main Street Partners restaurant. I've known these guys very well for years now--the job was offered to me, I'm very sure, because of whose son I was (the manager at Rain, who hadn't met me, saw my CV and said, "Sam Ashworth? You know Warren Ashworth?" "Yeah." You his son?" "Um...yup.")--and they also own Calle Ocho and Django. Django is in a price range around that of Aix. MSP are now also linked with the people at BLT (Bistro Laurent Tourondel), because their third place, BLT Prime, is occupying the space that used to belong to the very excellent Ashworth/Bogdanow-designed Union Pacific, which Rocco DiSpirito, whose own mother doesn't love him, drove into the ground. MSP still has the lease, though, making them partners in the BLT Prime venture. Beyond that, BLT Steak (BLT Fish is the third) is in the space that once housed another Ashworth restaurant, Sono (I adored Sono). I actually dropped a resume there unwittingly, and without knowing that the paterfamilias was working with BLT now (their whiskey selection was excellent). It's on 57th street, and when I walked in, it felt like I was back in Sono (I mean, I really adored Sono. I only went once, and that was years ago, but it has to rank along my all-time favorites. The toasted sticky rice, my God. The chef, Tadashi Ono, made his own plates and bowls out of clay. Fired them himself. The lamb was cooked in a clay oven that the waiter cracked open at your table. And the bar, oh my Lord. I think our friend Cliff Moran made it. It was just one split tree, planed and varnished. It was gorgeous), just flipped around. This is what Freud meant by the uncanny. Not the shock of the new, but the troubling resurgence of the forgotten or repressed familiar. It turned out I had been in Sono. How are we following so far? The father is redesigning BLT Steak
In any case, I say this to illustrate how well positioned I'd be at Rain. Between MSP and BLT, I'd be set. The only hitch was, I'm mortally afraid of waiting tables. I mean, I fear working on the floor like I fear a swarm of arachnids skittering up my legs. Terrified, paralyzed. I wouldn't want to have to start at a place like Rain, either. I was going to accept, though, because I doubted I was going to find a job, because no one wants a guy for a month and a half. Aix will probably fire me when I tell them, one week before I leave, that I'm going to be gone for over two months. I'm not telling them. When I come back, I'll talk to MSP or, better yet, the Union Square Cafe group. Tabla looks promising (USC is out of the question; I'm not good enough, and furthermore, no one ever leaves that place). But for now, Aix is great. Two stars is great for where I'm at right now. I'm going to have to bulk up on my wine and cheese knowledge, that's for sure. They use Riedel glassware. That's hard-core. Different glasses for Chablis and Sancerre. But the place is good. Easy work, fine money. I'm kind of amazed, actually. I dropped my resume with the hostess because the manager was in a meeting. She promised to deliver it. Usually, when you drop a resume with the hostess, the only place it gets delivered to is the wastebasket. But boom, fifteen minutes later, I'm resting my feet after walking all over the fucking city, and I get the call. The manager wants to talk to me. I more or less sprint over. The manager is an adorable squat old elf named Pierre. I start training tomorrow. Tomorrow is now yesterday. I was there almost seven hours, and the bartender training me said I did "very well." I'm excited. I'm good at this. I have to go back in two hours. The hours are a little weird, but I get out by about 11:30 apparently. I could even take a graveyard shift at the 24-hour French Roast two blocks down. Bring it on.
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