C & C Part 9

Martin was kind of the yang to Linda's yin. About the same age, early 40s, where she was an uptight party girl, he was a laid-back stoner guy, at least on the surface. Like Curtis, he rocked an impressive mustache, although his was gray, and he had almost twinkly eyes behind square wire-rimmed glasses. At first, he was kind of like a mentor or guru to some of the younger staff, inviting people over to hang out at his house to drink beer, listen to Windham Hill, Steely Dan,  and Rickie Lee Jones, and shoot the shit, but there was a lot more going on underneath that kindly, cool-uncle facade

Martin was from a long line of cooks; his father had been a chef, and his grandparents were restauranteurs in France. He had recently married his second wife, a woman at least 15 years younger than he, and he was estranged from his 20-something son from his first marriage. He was a soldier when it came to knocking out his cooking list every day, but it was clear to all of us that he felt this place and this food was beneath him. 

As time went on, there was muttering from Martin about how tight the roux in the common bucket was, and eye-rolling about the use of Uncle Ben's long grain and wild rice mix, and he obviously hated picking the shells from crabmeat or peeling shrimp. Sometimes he was sulky and grumpy, and soon there were clashes between Martin and Linda and Martin and Gertrude over silly things, but they all thought they knew best, and none of them were the type to back down.

One Saturday, it was Martin's job to stuff 140 chicken breasts with wild mushrooms and par-grill them for a wedding reception that night. He slogged through the task for most of the afternoon, counting out the finished product on sheet pans, covering them in foil, and sliding them onto a rolling rack. He personally loaded his entree into the truck. 

Martin and Curtis and I were all working the kitchen at the party that night, where the 250 guests had the choice of salmon or chicken. A service that big takes a while, and by the time we got to plating up dinner for the last tables, the waiters were almost ready to clear the first tables. 

"I need 8 chickens!" someone yelled. 

"That's impossible," Martin said.

I looked up from where I was placing julienned vegetables on each plate as it came by. 

"Count again!" Martin insisted, red-faced and searching the rolling rack for a sheet pan that wasn't there.

The line froze. Unsure what to do next, we looked at the owner who was running the back of the house. Just then, waiters started coming back to the kitchen with the plates they had cleared from the head tables. Several of them had leftovers from the generous portions we had served. 

"Don't throw those away!" snapped the owner. "Martin, slice those up into portions. With sauce, no one will know."

And Martin did it. The rest of the chicken dinners went out as medallions, instead of whole breasts, never mind they had already been to the party once.