Adapted from Chapter 12: In the King's Palace

Monaco

The Hotel de Paris is massive, possibly better classified as a palace than anything else. Built in 1864, it’s a luxury hotel the size of a city block. Emerging from the taxi, I stood before the majestic edifice for several moments without moving. The sky was a perfect blue behind the gleaming white limestone building and the air was heavy with the scent of the sea. Then, I remembered who and where I was and went to look for the restaurant.

Inside the hotel there didn’t seem to be an inch of wall space where money hadn’t been applied to elevate even the most ordinary element—a door handle or a wall switch—to an item worthy of a fine art collection. This wasn’t anything like my world. Besides feeling groggy from the trip, I suddenly felt alert to the fact that all of the clothes I was wearing weren’t worth an inch of the carpet I was walking on. And, like all intruders, I had the alarming feeling that someone was going to catch me and drag me out—that I had a purpose for being there would neither be believable nor matter. I walked quickly and pretended to not be fazed by my surroundings.

Just as Didier (the chef at Ducasse’s New York restaurant) had said, there was an equestrian statue in the lobby and the restaurant entrance was just around the corner. I entered Louis XV and a hostess immediately led me to the business office, and into one of the manager’s offices. Vincent spoke English—if I had never seen him again, that would probably have been the only fact that I remembered. It was a huge comfort to be able to communicate with someone and finally be told some details, like where I was staying and when I was working. Vincent gave me a run down and was walking me out when we ran into Ducasse.

I had departed New York early Saturday evening and arrived at the restaurant sometime in the middle of the afternoon on Sunday. I was bleary eyed and in need of a shower and a shave. Ducasse had left New York that morning (on the Concorde or private jet), so although he had left a day after me, he had arrived four hours before me. Though it was the first time I had seen him even somewhat unkempt (he was unshaven and had his suit jacket off), he was already working.

“Bienvenue” he said.

“Bonjour, chef,” I responded as I followed him into his office. It was a cook’s idea of a study more than an office. It had wood paneling, a bookshelf filled with cookbooks, a mahogany desk, and firm black leather chairs.

“Ça va?” he asked.

“Oui, ça va bien,” I replied as I always did.

Before he sat down, he stuck out his hand for me to shake and said, “Ça va. How are you? How was the flight?” I had never heard him speak English before. Most of the cooks at ADNY thought that he didn’t know English. Unguarded, with his jacket off, he was speaking English to me. That was it, though, and our meeting was over. As I left, I felt anxious to start working. And, while I had managed to get by on kitchen French for a while now, I decided that I’d learn the language for real.

Before leaving the office, I was given the details about my hotel and then was given a ride to it by a young French girl who smiled warmly but understood no English. I actually wasn’t staying in Monte-Carlo or even the Principality of Monaco, which wasn’t surprising, since the accommodations in Monte-Carlo are mostly for the super wealthy, celebrities, and royalty. I was staying in Beausoleil, in France, which was just up the steep, winding road and only a ten-minute walk away. Once inside the hotel, I was pleased to find that I had my own bathroom and a balcony with a stunning view of the wide blue seascape. Then, I crashed.

I got myself out of bed as early as I could the next morning. I had to be at the restaurant by 7:00 a.m., but I was heading down the hill that leads to Monte-Carlo at a little after 6:00. I could see the sea in the distance and the sky meeting it in the lightest of light blues. It was as perfect a backdrop as I had seen yesterday when I stood gazing up at the Hotel de Paris, and this beauty would impress me throughout my entire stay. Each morning, I felt energized by the magnificent setting, although most of my days were spent in the windowless kitchen at Louis XV.

Walking into that kitchen the first morning, I was struck by both its vastness and the army of men who were everywhere. Space was not an issue at Louis XV, as it is in most New York restaurants, and the place was nearly filled with the best equipment possible.

While the crew was of course dispersed throughout the stations, it was obvious as I made my way to the entremet station, where I had been directed, there were more than enough cooks—and many of them shared my first-in attitude. I was early, but the kitchen was already filled. There were cooks of all ages from all over Europe and other parts of the world, like the sous chef who was from Japan. There were so many cooks it was astonishing that there was enough work to go around. In fact, plenty of the so-called cooks in this kitchen never cook a thing. Any thoughts I may have had about being a significant and necessary part of this crew dissipated when I showed up at the over staffed station, and the demi chef de partie made sure I comprehended this immediately (even if I couldn’t understand his words).

François (though I wouldn’t learn his name until much later in the day) said something in French while I followed his pointed finger, entrusting me to another cook on the station. The other cook, Michel, was obviously a commis. He looked younger than twenty and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Michel was actually the second commis on the station and, before I arrived, the lowest man on the chain.

I had just finished tying my apron and was opening my knife box when Michel put twenty artichokes in front of me. “Clean, yes?” he asked. I nodded and got to work.

When I was done cleaning the artichokes, he picked one up and said, “Bon.” I went to get my knife to turn them, but before I had returned he had placed a box of peas on my cutting board. He hadn’t said a word. I put the knife down and began shelling the peas on the counter.

People were moving around me non-stop, but no one seemed to be rushing as at most New York restaurants. Everyone seemed to be on tracks that took them to set destinations to do exact tasks. No one leaned on counters or stood around joking. It was still early in the morning and this was the prep work, but everyone was serious and focused.

Throughout the morning I learned that my responsibility wouldn’t be to do menial work; it was to do menial work for the guy doing the menial work. I wasn’t there to cook and I wasn’t there to learn by doing. I was there to learn by watching.

The entremet station in Ducasse’s kitchen is responsible for the hot appetizers. Just before service Michel had me set up butter with ice trays to keep it cold for everyone on the station. My only responsibility would be to make sure everyone had enough butter or anything else they asked for. During lunch service, my observational skills went into high gear. The service was run in complete silence, except for the chef, and was clocklike in its precision. There were no crises and no mistakes. Everything was perfectly orchestrated and excuted.

We were on break after lunch service, but no one told me this—not even Michel, who only spoke to me when he needed something. I knew it because soon after service was over and the kitchen was cleaned, everyone filed out. And, it was only when I directly asked Michel when we had to return that he told me we had two hours and then he turned back to one of the other young cooks with whom he had been talking.

During the break, I went in search of something to eat. I hadn’t eaten all day, but I momentarily forgot about my hunger as I came across a small butcher with several beautiful birds—completely intact with their heads and feet on—hanging in the window. Stepping into the shop, I saw neat rows of beef, veal, rabbit, and lamb behind the counter and sausages hanging from the ceiling. There were several men working—professional butchers, not kids. While this place seemed incredible and special, I quickly realized that there was nothing extraordinary about it. It was just another neighborhood butcher; one of many, including another one as good or better that I walked into just steps down the road.

I finally stopped gawking at food I desired and found some I could eat. I went into a take-out food store and ordered a croque monsieur several times until I was understood and had an involtini (fresh cheese wrapped in speck—smoked dry-cured pork—and marinated) while I waited. The sandwich was simple, cheap, and delicious. I devoured it in a few quick bites as I walked down the hill toward the restaurant. I must have been lost in the luscious ham or just not paying attention, because I didn’t notice the car that had pulled up next to me until its horn beeped. I was startled when I heard the beep and then again when I saw Didier in the car.

He was smiling brightly. “It is beautiful, yes?” he asked. I looked down at the Place du Casino and the pastel blue sky behind it and laughed. He was from these parts and looked entirely at home. It was probably the first time I had seen him relaxed, even though he was getting married later in the week. I suppose that stress was nothing compared to what he was dealing with in New York. As he leaned out of the tiny car, he seemed pleased to see me. And, it was good to see a familiar face—especially the chef at ADNY—even if it were for just a moment. Then, we both went back to our vacations.