Hello, Sunshine

And I heard the implication. Make yourself scarce. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to sit in front of the computer and see what was going on with Amber and Ryan. I wanted to break into Danny’s email and see if he had calmed down yet, and was ready to talk more reasonably about our small relationship hurdle. I wanted to strategize for the first night of work with Chef Z.

“That’s a good idea,” I said.

She sighed loudly, as if she were unhappy with my response. “What are you going to do there?” she said.

I couldn’t answer that. If Rain thought I was doing anything to stay, she would make me leave. “Do you really care?”

“I only care that you don’t wake us when you’re back,” she said.

Then she shut the door.

23

You name a favorite world-class chef, and I could probably tell you about an experience I had at his or her restaurant. Thanks to Ryan (and his various attempts at cross-promotion) I had been in some of the most spectacular kitchens in the world. I’d spent an afternoon learning from Thomas Keller how to make his signature oysters and pearls, a creamy tapioca pudding infused with caviar and oysters. On the next episode of A Little Sunshine, I gave it a farm-girl twist—substituting juicy mushrooms for the oysters, caviar making way for sustainably cured salmon. I’d spent an evening at Blue Hill at Stone Barns learning how to cull the most perfect piece of lettuce.

So you might think it’s surprising that I’d never met Chef Z before. There were a couple of reasons why I never met him. The main one was that in the modern cooking world, where TV shows and Instagram feeds were king, Z was as reclusive as he was talented. He didn’t play the food-as-porn game. He didn’t fight for Zagat reviews or a guest blog at Epicurious. No one even knew what Z was short for—it was a name he chose not to share with anybody—which told you a lot about Z: a Le Cordon Bleu trained chef who spent years as the executive chef at Michelin-starred kitchens in France and Spain before relocating to New York, where several investors got in line to open his flagship restaurant. It was located in a former Midtown West bank, which had been done and redone to Z’s exact demands.

The reviews during the soft open were stellar. Z was set to rival Daniel and Jean Georges. But a week after opening—that’s right, one week—Z had an enormous fight with his investors and fled. The investors sued, and he countersued, and the whole thing went on for years. All the investors wanted was for Z to return to the restaurant, and all Z wanted was to never again have anything to do with a restaurant of that size, which he thought made it impossible to focus on the food the way he wanted. Eventually they settled, and everyone thought that was the end of Z. Until Z moved to the Hamptons, where he opened 28 to worldwide acclaim and the elusive three-star New York Times review.

After which, rumor had it, Louis (my former publisher and friend) offered him a $600,000 advance for a cookbook entitled Z. And Z wrote back: Not for six times as much.

Z refused to do any press about 28 at all, except one interview he did for a small magazine about botany that his friend edited. In the interview, he spoke mostly about his garden and how the vegetables and fruits he grows dictates 28’s menu. He did take a swipe, though, at his former business partners, and grand fare dining in general. “It is a step away from a wedding,” he said. “Unless you’re personally controlling every plate that hits your tables, you’re a caterer.”

So even when Ryan had made some headway at having A Little Sunshine do a special lunch at 28 (Z’s silent investor hired a PR consultant who apparently liked Ryan), I declined to pursue it further. Z wouldn’t have attended, but it didn’t matter. I had no interest in returning to the Hamptons or discussing the Hamptons. And I certainly had no interest in honoring a nasty chef who would hate any press we got him anyway.

Which made it somewhat ironic that I was now walking into his kitchen, willingly, convinced that he was the only person who could get me out of my current jam.

The kitchen was pristine and mirrored the dining room in its simplicity. Everything was sterling silver and chrome. Everything was spotless. Workstations glistened, every chef and waiter already at work, moving through their early evening prep. The waiters were all dressed in their simple uniforms. Button-d

own blue shirt, dark pants. Loafers.

I knew enough not to disturb anybody, so I kept my eyes out for Lottie and watched the kitchen move. Sous-chefs were chopping and sautéing, waiters folding napkins. Everything was eerily silent and Chef Z was nowhere to be seen.

Lottie walked briskly past, not noticing me and heading to the other side of the kitchen. She put her hand on a cook’s shoulder, whispering something into his ear.

When she looked up, I caught her eye, and she waved. Then she pointed at a heavyset guy, sweating profusely as he walked up and down the cooking line.

“Douglas,” she mouthed.

It was as if he heard her, because he looked up. And she pointed at me. “Her,” she said.

Douglas walked over quickly. “I’m Douglas,” he said. “I guess you’re following me tonight,” he said.

Nothing. Not even a smile.

“There’s a uniform for you in the break room. Get dressed and come back in here. I move pretty quick so try and keep up.”

He said it with a straight face, but something about his girth made me wonder if he was kidding.

“Get your instructions from me. Talk to no one but me. And no matter what you do, never look at Chef Z. If you make eye contact, you’ll be fired.”

“Is he here tonight?”

Douglas shook his head. “Those kind of questions, and you’ll be fired. And don’t think I don’t know, okay?”

He added it in so quickly, so smoothly, I thought I’d misheard him. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t pretend,” he said. “Sammy.”