AQ

   

      Riding the BART back to Oakland, I spot him.  Wearing the same hat he had on while prepping, headphones on, not noticing me.  It was one of the cooks I had worked with while trailing at AQ.  I look away, pretending to be enthralled with the nylon strap which I am clutching, struggling to balance in this packed, sardine-can of a train car.  I glance back over.  He sees me seeing him.  Shit.  We both reluctantly take off our headphones and play nice.  I notice a flask of whiskey jammed in his back pocket which puts me at ease a little.  This signifies that he is, in fact, fallible.  Maybe we did have something in common after all.
     

Wine Room

       Why was I so timid around this person?  That's not me at all.  What happened at that restaurant which made me feel like I was on time-out, cast in the corner to think about where I went wrong?  Of all my trails and time spent toiling in the bowels of this industry, why was it AQ which made me feel so insecure?  Was it the "Best New Restaurant in the Country" James Beard thing?  Was it the 29-year-old owner, capable of making me scour my past life for shortcomings?  Was it the Chef, seemingly unaware of my existence during my stage.     ...Yeah, the root probably lies somewhere in there.

       But here I was, already sweaty from the over-crowded train ride, staring that irksome experience in the face one more time.
       It's been three weeks since that stage!  I tried to write about it, but to no avail.  Every time I sat in front of the keyboard to type, I felt compelled to start drinking, just to keep myself from chewing the inside of my bottom lip too badly.
       Okay, the food was good, the chefs are tireless perfectionists, the dining room, counter tops, ceiling fans, bar trim and all, gets re-designed seasonally, eating there was a monumental pleasure.  Maybe it was good no one spoke to me during my time there, maybe they knew better than I, that it was time to shut up and watch.  In a business where attitude means everything, AQ definitely had it.

Staff Meal

     
       Lets talk about AQ's concept.  At least what I perceive to be their concept.  It was so damn hard to get a word out of anyone there, I can't tell you verbatim what their vision is.
       After enjoying a superlative meal,  and finally, working a shift behind the line, I can surmise that they do have their priorities in order.  Aside from creative, delicious food and luminary service, there is a shared vision, a unified effort to deliver something special that no other restaurant in the area is touching right now.  AQ is a representative, a prophet, an outright temple of the seasons; unabashedly relishing in the perennial offering that is our natural environment.  They source locally, they cook in respect to the seasons, they make the little annotations and parenthesis on their menu stating the origin of each ingredient.
       But then again, so does everyone.  You can't hold water in this town if you don't do that.  As far as the hip, conscious San Francisco dining public is concern, if you're not supporting that organic farm in Marin, or Bill Neiman's ranch, if you don't know the name of the boat which caught your halibut, you might as well pack your knives and go fuck yourself.

The line at 8:00 pm

       AQ knows this, takes it to the next level, and thrives on it.  The restaurant gets a quarterly face lift, courtesy of the sprite, ambitious restaurateur-owner.  I was present just days after the "summer look" was installed.  Lighting design was altered, chairs were changed out, linens were swapped, the trim around the bar was replaced, chef's aprons changed color,  the lofty flower arrangements which crept up door frames and trellised through-ways were re-designed, dark marble counter tops were replaced with a lighter, rough-finished fir plywood, server's uniforms had a new style, the herb garden which surrounds the bar was also changed to reflect the new menu.  An interior designer's wet-dream, boasting an army of deep-pocketed investors.  AQ is an institution of seasonal change.  It was not a mistake that this was the first thing noticed upon entering that brown-stone facade.      

Potting station with grow lamps:
Herbs & micros for kitchen and bar use

And than this happened:

       So here I was, about an hour into my stage, cutting okra into oblique shapes,to then be roasted.  The kitchen is completely exposed to the dining room, a fitting stage for this theatron of a restaurant.  Everything you do is on display for the discerning public to see.  Not a new concept for me as this style of kitchen has transcended the "trend" faze right into commonplace amongst the restaurant world.  
   
   Turn 90 degrees and cut, turn, cut, turn, cut. 

       The back-of-the-house is no longer alone as servers, hostess', bartenders, bar backs, captains, sommeliers, GM's all file into the dining room.  A wave of new faces has arrived to start their day.  An amalgam of responsibilities are carried out, culminating to, yet another, successful dinner service.
      I stop to take a drink from my deli container of water.  I look up and notice a well-dressed, stern-faced woman lock eyes with me.  She begins to walk in my direction with purpose.  ...This isn't right.  

       -- Like the only unknown face in the room, noticed mere seconds before a catastrophic act of terrorism unleashes, Die Hard 2-style -- 

       "Excuse me.  Yeah, Hiiii.  My name's Shellyyy. I'm with the Department of Public Health."  

...Oh no.

--"You just took a drink from your cup and placed it back down on your work surface.  That's in direct violation of code-blaah blah blee blaahh."  

...Oh shit.

       Immediately, the front line clears of every cook.  I am left standing alone, face to face with what could be the only individual on earth capable of removing the balls of a notable San Francisco chef.  

      Knowing exactly what to do, I run.

Beautiful Dry-aged Squab,
Waiting to be seared medium rare 
+corainder &honey, pickled blueberry,
sprouted lentils, licorice herbs.

       In the downstairs kitchen, the entire team, chef and all, are scrambling (with their lives on the line;) packing up left over staff meal in quart containers and putting them on ice, playing Tetris with the walk in, throwing out livers that were being cut on the bench top, sweating, yelling, "DID YOU KNOW SHE WAS COMING?!"  "HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HERE FOR?!"  Panic has ensued, the likes of which had not been seen since Y2K.  All this pandemonium amazed me as the kitchen, from what I had seen, was immaculate.
  
   The dust cleared.  The health inspector did what she came to do, consulted quickly with the chef in the office and left.  He emerged from the office door with a smile of relief on his face.  "Everything is fine." He said. "We got an excellent score with the exception of a few tiny details."
     I cringed at that last little remark.  I knew what that tiny deduction was about...  In a business where "perfection" is the goal, even a tiny slip-up can mean your balls on the cutting board.  They knew. I knew.  Nothing more was said.  I look like an asshole.  
       
    The cause of me having to spend the next three hours shucking a deep hotel pan of fava beans is becoming more clear now.

Wild Pacific Salmon (an awesome year for this fish)
+summer melon, truffle & white soy, young turnips.  

    Finally!  Fingernails impacted with fava shell, dark circles forming under my eyes, the faint memory of a past life in the outside world, I emerge from the basement ready to greet the dinner service already in progress.  

The Pass

   



     I step out on to the line having no idea where to put myself.  Orders are fired and called back with a "Yes Chef!"  "Saute!:  One Salmon, two squab!"  "Garmi!:  Three Peaches, one halibut, one cucumbers!"  Orders are called back to the chef verbatim.

       Fish skin blisters and pops on the plancha.  Broilers are slammed closed and adjusted in one seamless motion.  "Click, click, click," as spoonfuls of clear butter are hurriedly basted over squab in a heavy saute pan.
       As I walk down, I glance, wide-eyed at the plates being produced.  I'm instantly curious how they achieve such vibrant purees, how they balance those rolls of cured meat like that, how the make that salmon skin shine while maintaining its potato chip-like crispiness.  After that numbing three hours spent in the basement, my senses become flooded. I have to readjust.  I feel like I just took the "red pill," and this is how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

       No one looks up to direct me.  I ask Chef, "Where would you like me to work?"  No response...

  Here I was, behind the line at AQ, feeling more albatross than ever before.  Then it hit me.  No one is telling me to do anything.  On the other side of it, no one is telling me not to do anything either.
   
       I walk over to the garde-manger station and watch.  Carefully arranged segments of nopales, delicately rolled slices of house-cured ham, a light dusting of cheddar cheese powder, micro greens tweezered on to garden-like arrangements of quinelled chicken liver mouse and summer berries.
       I study the calculated movements of the cooks as they call and receive orders.  I wait, like a kid timing the revolutions of a jump-rope before throwing themself in.  Then I hear a call I recognize.  With out asking, I begin assembling the dish.  The line cook steps aside and lets me finish.
                                         
                                          I place it in the pass for the chef to garnish before sending out.  
                              
                                                    Nothing is said.  
                               
                                                                 Service continues.  

                                                                                  ...Redemption! 

12:00 am.
After-service menu consultation