In restaurants, the line is where the action is. Working the line is reserved for the talented and the desperate. After I interrogated the new chef at the Deerfield Inn on his local food buying practices (foraged mushrooms from a guy named Roger, barramundi fish from Turner's Falls and produce from the Bars farm in Deerfield), he invited me to cook on the line so that I could learn that the restaurant business is a lot more than buying locally.
Tell-all books written by people like Tony Bourdain reveal the excitement of saut?ing, frying and broiling at restaurants where cooks hide their knives and towels in an atmosphere of booze, drugs and sex in the walk-in. At the Deerfield Inn, yes, you need your own knife, yes, you clean up after yourself, but the rum is kept under lock and key until it is needed for sauce and I never saw the walk-in.
Chef Asheley St. Clair III is new to Deerfield. A Trinidadian, St. Claire has multiple decades at various Marriotts around the world and early years in the military. Before the dinner rush, Chef holds a meeting with the staff to introduce the night's specials. "Here is the risotto with jumbo shrimp and lobster claw," he said. "The side special tonight has a lovely mango cr?me fraiche. Who knows what cr?me fraiche is?" Silence. "Who knows what cr?me fraiche is?" More silence and then from a member of the wait staff, "Cr?me fraiche with mango?" "Yes, he booms.
Time is everything. It's five to five and an overflow of hungry guests at the Inn's bar, formally known as the Tavern, are beginning to spill into the dining room.
Joe, a guy I am shadowing in prep, has been with the restaurant two years. He is efficient and constantly exasperated. "Yes, chef," he says. "No, chef." Then, under his breath, "Jesus Christ, chef!" "Like this," he says, showing me how to pipe florets of chive butter on a baking tin. I hold the bag and squeeze but the floret is a blob. I try a couple more and Joe shows me the double grip but the butter is melting. Joe takes a spatula and wipes the baking sheet clean. "The good thing about butter is that you can start over," he says. Who is this guy, Julia Child? Joe has a second job at a gas station in Greenfield and wants get the hell out the area. "What will you do?" I ask. He says, "Parris Island. Marines."
I move over about 10 steps to Chef's station on the other side of the line. He stands at a tiny computer that spits out orders. "Joe, two side salads, one Caesar, one corn pudding," he barks. "Yes, chef." "Brian, 14 filets all day, five medium well, seven Pittsburgh and two rare." "Yes, chef," says Brian, the sous chef who got his chops at Chandlers Tavern and The Depot.
Chef pulls me aside. "Pittsburgh is a filet, a steak, that is just black and blue," he says. "That's old school. You know, people just order it to see if you know what you're doing. Ha! Joe, where is my corn pudding?"
Now I'm put on the line. "Hey, Brian, have the lady make a Prima," barks Chef. I walk over to the burners, which are all on. The only one with anything in it is on fire—a rum sauce. Brian points me in the direction of white bins containing meticulously chopped vegetables. "Four of this, two of this," he says, jabbing a finger at the bins, and then grabs a fry pan and throws it on one of the lit burners. "Oil this—stuff goes in and get it going— then the risotto over here&. use the thyme rosemary, not the thyme rosemary basil dill over there&." The pot is very heavy. People come by saying "behind," and "to your right."
The food in the pan is coming together until I add the risotto (partially cooked in advance). To my left, a guy with dreadlocks wrapped in an orange T-shirt drops a pan of butter on the floor. It spills onto the burner and somehow onto my collarbone, the only exposed part of my body except for my face and hands. The innkeeper, Karl, comes in to inquire about the ventilation and another order is spat out of the computer, prompting Chef to yell, "Two shrimp, four filets all day, three prima, three specials." Brian runs over to where I stand with dreadlocks guy. "Clear my path, out of my way," he says and proceeds to cook all 12 orders in about nine minutes.
At the bar, the atmosphere is hushed and elegant. There is a game on a discreet TV, parents of a Deerfield student are cozying up to their martinis and the barman confides in me a yen to write about his travel adventures. It is leaf season. The restaurant is fully booked for the evening and there are no more rooms at the Inn. A tour bus from Colorado has arrived and in the Bee Hive Room, 56 people are celebrating a birthday party. Chef watches while I taste his risotto special. "Tell me, is it the best thing you've ever eaten?" he asks. "Yes, Chef!"
