Portrait of a Line Cook, Franco Gonzalez

"My name is Fran." 

Franco didn't understand the male/female variation of his name translated into english. 

"Your name in english is Frank, Franco."

Head shaking no.

"No, my name is Fran."

Me shaking my head no.  This was a common discussion between the two of us while we worked together.  He was a helluva fish cook.  He also made a mean staff meal... always when staff meal had already been done with for hours.  Usually behind your back.  Sneaky, fast and proud, I always found Franco fun to work with (when we weren't tormenting the living beejeezus outta each other).

He was a native of Pueblo and his entire family worked at the factory in town, a factory which made parts for Volkswagen.  My old boss, James, sold him his old VW Golf, and even though Franco couldn't drive manual, happily stalled it to and fro, proud to be able to have a car his family may have well produced.  Almost every cook I've ever met from Pueblo has been a incredible cook.  They just get it.  They can wring flavor outta just about anything given a second to think about it.

 







Every once in a while Fran/Frank/Franco would show me some random kitchen catalogue and ask me if something was, "a good price".  He was piece-mealing his dream of opening a taquería back home, and small fryers, flat tops and butane stoves were his obsession at the time.  A good dream if you ask me, I still want my own place.  Heck, I wouldn't mind owning a taquería.  Mexican food kicks ass.

We had our differences at times and he was known for pulling the occasional prank.  I was butchering beef tenderloins for a party when he decided to drop a sixth pan of ice water down my back.

I hit him with a tenderloin.

Then I grabbed my own pan of water and chased him through the kitchen.  

He was too quick for the second part of my revenge.  Lucky for him.  I miss Fran.

The Show

There's a certain showmanship that goes with a successful restaurant.  Can you honestly say you've never watched what the table next to you has ordered, with the anticipation of your own pleasure or displeasure awaiting for you?  Have you ever just sat down to see the table next to you order a souffle, and watch the waiter pierce the top and pour sauce in the now deflated carcass before them, and while you drool, decide that, you too must have that pleasure as well?  Or sat at a bar and seen the bartender shake a martini fifteen times over his head (even though there's no reason to do so) and as they pour it into the chilled glass before them decide that, "Hey, I could go for one of those..."

I try to think about this as much as possible, especially when writing menus.  The French knew this style of service well.  You might not want to pay a few hundred bucks for simple sustenance, but we'll all pay for a show.  Think about how much you'd pay to see The Doors if the Lizard King himself came back from the grave.  Tableside crepes & cheese carts fill the same pleasure spot in our brains.

Take the night I proposed to my wife, August 23, 2004.  The restaurant, Tru, was the stage that I was to perform.  I'd been working some insane hours at Karma and unbeknownst to Anne, had a diamond broker meet me at the restaurant during a quick break to show me settings a few weeks before.  The ring was burning a hole in my pocket (actually my sock drawer), and I made the excuse that I needed to see another fine dining restaurant to give me new ideas, inspiration, and some peaceful respite.  She bought it hook, line and sinker.  When I made the rez, I told the FOH what I planned on doing, and they told me they'd play along.  Awesome.

Tru has a show kitchen of sorts, with windows that let you see parts of stations and the cooks working.  They also have a cheese cart, caviar staircases, live goldfish in bowls under one course, a dessert cart, multiple people waiting on you, a cool bathroom... you can't not talk about it, and that's the point.  I lucked out, as the head waiter was one of my old chef's cousins and our waiter, Fredrick, was the sommelier at Le Francais when I cooked there.  Crazy.

So we get 3/4's of the way through the meal and Anne excuses herself to powder her nose.  I grab the waitstaff and tell 'em I'm ready when she gets back.

I proposed in between salad & cheese courses.  She said yes, and the crew took pictures as it happened.  When she teared up, they brought out a box of kleenex in a chrome tissue box.  And they printed the pics on the menu we ate and as we finished, gave us a tour of the kitchen.  The show here was great.  They did misspell congratulations in chocolate on our dessert plate... at least Gale wasn't in the kitchen that night.

Oh, BTW, Happy Anniversary, baby!  As of Monday, 6 years married, 12 years together, and we're still stupid for each other.