Under the Chef
Nordo is always talking about how food inspires art. How our dining influences the way we see the world. Yes, he employs the royal we. We, are his audience, his guests, his canvas. Hovering above the range, this leads to many a metaphor. On our good days I am his paintbrush. His lens. When Henrietta has not been properly brined or the Expediateur forgets the garnish, I become his black spot, a paint by number. Such is the dichotomy of Sous and Chef. It is nothing without mutual respect.
This is a relationship steeped in culinary tradition, our initial meeting was anything but. I first laid eyes on Nordo Lefeski in a bar. A strip club, actually. That may make it sound seedier than it is...a strip club in Las Vegas. As ubiquitous as a coffee shop in Seattle.
I had a room at the Bellagio and a thousand dollar chip, courtesy of a lucky hand at 21. I ducked into the bar to celebrate my good fortune: for once, a convention weekend would yield something beyond blisters and a bruised ego. For I was not ensconced in this artificial Olympus for pleasure. Please! It was the much touted gala convention for the James Beard Foundation. As Sous Chef to Homoro Canto - Chicago's premiere gastro-scientist at Moto Cuisine – this stolen drink was not on the menu. Though a king of innovation, Canto preferred rubbing elbows with celebrities to slaving in the subterranean vat that is a four star casino kitchen: silently molding, freezing and sculpting thousands of ketchup foam fries for the fois gras of the industry.
So to me, sheepishly starched in my formal whites, the “honor “of convention Chef de Cuisine.
Fortunately Las Vegas knows no last call. But before I could so much as scan the cocktail specials, a waitress oiled in pink glitter plunked a drink on top of my winnings.
“It's someone's lucky night in more ways than one” as she eyed my blood stained sleeves and dark circles. “The gentleman sent this over.”
As if I had stepped onto the sound stage for a Douglas Cirque film; a handsome man buys a young lady a drink. I certainly wasn't dressed the part. And it wasn't your typical French 75 but Glenlivet. Neat.
“A beautiful woman should never look like she needs a drink. You need a drink.”
That was his approach ,but beautiful was all I needed to hear. As he signaled the waitress for two more it all came out – my struggles at the restaurant, “A sous chef is middle management! All powerful to the line cooks, a spittoon for the Chef.” There were the 90 hour work weeks, the midnight sick calls. The misplaced credit and shifted blame. I did what no good under chef should ever do...I gossiped.
Nordo had disguised himself in the tux (as I later found) but he did not disguise his opinion of my boss.
“It's no wonder you're unfulfilled...working with a science project instead of Food.” I would later learn what the capitol 'F' meant to him.
“It may not be steak and eggs to you, sir” I shot back “but it is certainly an experience for the diner. And that is what I wish to create.”
Nordo calls this exchange my first interview. Hardly fair, as I did not grasp the weight of our conversation until the following afternoon, having escaped from the scullery to join the crowd for the piece de resistance of the convention...a demo from the mysterious chef who toured the continent in a refrigerated truck, bringing his food philosophy to the masses in a onslaught that was compared to that of the Merry Pranksters.
Resplendent in white, wielding his knife. He winked at me, the bastard. 
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