Three and a half weeks ago, I walked into a new job at Tabla, Danny Meyer and Chef Floyd Cardoz's fabulous walk into Indian territory. As far as I know, it is in a class all its own. It appears wonderful and a place-to-be-seen in the eyes of the restaurant scenesters and the press alike. I didn't expect that it would be as shiny and tasty on the inside as it is on the outside. Thankfully I have been proven wrong.
For starters, it is busy. All. The. Time. I walk in at 2:45 and it's busy. I get my toold together and go back to the Bread Bar, and it is still busy. Now that I have a third of the food we make under my belt, I have to stop what I'm doing and help my quit little firecracker of a line cook friend Emily plate this and that. I then go back upstairs, pack up everything I need as fast as I possibly can, send it down on the elevator (with a jog to the office for a key). I/"We" unpack everything, put it aside, and cut and refill and reheat and assemble like crazy until our sous chef (whose patience and precision and willingness to help and make everything perfect I cannot even calculate into how much I have learned from him) comes down, and givesw a stern lookover at everything. Nothing is ever perfect the first time at Tabla, so the next hour is spent correcting mistakes.
Then, folks, I promptly bend over and let the afflent folks of En Why See give my ass a stern kicking. And I kick back as best I can. Today I learned a boatload of "pointers" from my Chef-De-Cuisine, which I absorbed as best I could between Beef-Frys, Lamb Sandwiches (4 of which were fired and plated and then thrown out, remade, and sent out in a period of 20 minutes), Chickpeas, Kalonji's, and other gibberish.
I am terrified of fucking up the rice tomorrow, running out of Kadi Sauce again with no one to help me, screwing up the Lamb Sandwiches, and just about everything else. But I will swallow my anxiety, jump in, and send out every damn plate with complete perfection.
So if you want to get ahold of me, try me there.
Love, Johnny
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