It was mid afternoon on a Wednesday. I was putting my
station together on the line, as my sous chef and I were going over plans
for the evening. Out of the corner of my
eye I saw Michael bounce into the dining room. “CHEF, CHEFFFIE”, he shouted. “We
got it! Four stars! Two for me, and two for you!”
I knew when we opened Levain that it would be a success. Not that
I was personally assured of success; I knew full well that there were nuances
about this market that I didn’t yet understand. But I also knew that Levain was
a good copy of 71 Clinton (fresh food) in downtown Manhattan. Wylie had nailed
the casual theme with high end food. It worked with stunning success and
eventually launched his career to a new level, which led to WD-50. 71 Clinton was
a killer concept that cut through the airs of classic fine dining restaurants. It
was an environment that put people at ease but didn’t sacrifice the food; it
pushed fine dining forward with a greater focus on flavor and less on being
precious.
The moment I heard the words come out of Mike’s mouth I felt
embarrassed. I turned to my sous chef, who extended his hand in congratulations.
I knew by the expression on his face that he was disappointed.
I continued setting up my station. Service was going to
happen the same way it would have anyway. Nobody walking through the door was
there to celebrate the restaurant. They were there to eat. As dinner drew closer I asked for the proteins
to be delivered to the line. My sous chef made a point of doing that himself. It
was clear to me that he had been stewing on our new rating for a couple of
hours. I knew him, and exactly what was going through his mind.
“You know,” he started, “this is not a four star restaurant.”
I turned to face him: “Does it matter what I think?”
“Of course it matters!” he shot back.
“I didn’t write the review. What the fuck am I supposed to
tell him? To reconsider? He is going to do whatever the fuck he wants. He doesn’t give a shit what I think.”
Slowly and coolly he gestured toward the open dining room and
repeated, “This is not four stars. You know that. We know that. We have been to
the mountaintop, and this isn’t it.”
I scratched my head and turned slightly away. I stared at
the sconces across the dining room on the far wall and as gently as I could I
said, “I know. (insert pause, deep breath, hand gesturing) Look at it this way,
you go to the bar and your friend’s friend shows up. She’s hot, smokin’. Holy
shit. You come to realize she’s checking you out. She’s flipping her hair,
getting her groove on. Shit! At that moment, are you going to tell her that you’re
some fucking shlub? ('Baby you’re way out of my league. I don’t look any better
with my clothes off.') No fucking way. You’ll
hear yourself making shit up, like 'My grandmother inspired me to be a chef. It was her strength, her vision.' Shit. You’ll
pull her chair in and out if think you have a shot. In the morning, on your way home, I
guaran-fuckin-tee you’re going to stop at church, get on your knees, and say
thank you for looking the other way just for one night. No? Hey man. Can’t you just look up and say thank
you? Take what life gives you and make the most of it?”
“Thank you.” he said.
“Put your ego away for two seconds. Think about what we’re supposed to do now. Are
we supposed to act like we think this is the best we can do? Is this how high the
bar is set? Where are we supposed to go now when there is no up? Open your eyes. This is bullshit.”
“Yeah, it’s bullshit. Life is fair all of a sudden? Are you
really gonna fall on your sword over this?”
He looked at me like I had shit my pants, turned around, and
walked away. We never spoke about it
again.
He was right of course. Where were we supposed to take
it? So yeah. I think stars matter if only because they give you an indication
of where that bar is set and where up is.
