Fine dining is a dangerous game

By Tom King

Friday, November 5, 2004

Click to play video of Pachamama's kitchen in action (Video by Dayton Segard)

The Playing Field

Fine dining is indeed a dangerous game. The hours are long and hard; you work with a difficult segment of the public (at fine dining prices, everyone’s a connaisseur); the work is complex and exacting, and conducted at a nearly desperate pace; time allotted for research and experimentation, the fun part, is eaten at and often completely consumed by an endless procession of minutiae, from dirty compressors to sick dishwashers (try a Saturday night without a dishwasher) to bruised birds, pre-menstrual hosts and corked wine; a flimsy equation subject to a galaxy of variables and very few constants, other than worry and exhaustion.

The demands of the fine dining business routinely dissolve marriages and old friendships. They devour savings accounts and credit ratings, not to mention good old humanism. Days off become bittersweet memories, and the bottom line becomes your own Jim Jones.

And once in a while come those lovely nights: when the lights are right, the house is full, and the crew is on; when there’s laughter and ice clinking in the glasses; when the plates are perfect and beautiful; and when everyone—crew and customers alike—has a wonderful time; nights you know that most of your guests will go home and make inspired love… The love of those nights—the goodwill and the redemption and elusive synchronicity—compels the best fine dining restauranteurs from their barely warmed, allium-scented beds each moonlit morn.

Fine dining houses, on the average, keep from minus zero (hotels) to around eight percent of the gross—three to five percent is the average. McDonald’s keeps around 18%. Over 80% of fine dining houses close near their first anniversaries: beloved dreams, gallons of sweat and pints of blood, and a big pile of money, down the drain.

The numbers don’t lie, and by the numbers, fine dining is risky business.

The Players

Misguided restauranteurs are easy to spot: those bland, nose-talking figurines in au courant ensembles, their faces permanently plastered with expressions of bad-oyster distaste. They know nothing of the business, they fear sweat and dirt. They pretend an important purpose, but posing and gossiping is all they’re worth. “Seagulls” is the trade descriptor for this ilk of restauranteurs—they swoop in, make a lot of noise, distract and disrupt, crap on everything, kipe something and then take off. Happily, such attitude-based enterprises are usually the first to go: only villains abuse the impeccable virtues of good food and welcoming as a vehicle for petty pretensions.

The “naturals” aren’t easy to spot because they’re deep in their houses, hard at good work (and vice versa). Naturals are artists focused on their art, and fine dining is just another stage in their progress. Naturals tend gardens by their kitchen doors. They nurture their crews and their customers. They put a week’s worth of effort into each 24 hours: inventing, tinkering, refining and polishing—happy all the while.

Why invest so much in an enterprise with such low returns? Why singe your eyelids, cut off your finger, sweat over bank reconciliations and listen, once again, to a customer waxing about her grandmother’s divine meatloaf (the secret is powdered ranch dressing in the mix), that you really should put on your menu?

Fine dining restauranteurs—the good ones, those who prevail—they just can’t help it.

Fine dining—the principle, not the concept—is unsullied and high-spirited. Fine dining is tasteful rebellion and respectful re-invention—a medium of intelligent creation. Fine dining is Art.

And fine dining chefs who change their menus monthly—a daring tango, ankle-bound by budget, fired by passion—chefs like Pachamama's Ken Baker… For dancers like that, the art is in the bone.

If I was a genius genetic engineer, just back from a week in Jamaica, with a dream laboratory, and I crossed a chunk of that salt-silk Caribbean vibe with a bit of anything off the floor of Flogging Molly’s dressing room, and added to that a scraping of Ken Frank, a scant teaspoon of Keith Richards, a pinch of Astaire and a full fist of the young Thomas Keller, then either fermented or braised the mixture (I’d know at the time), and served it up, plated like a painting, in a comfortable setting, with ice-cold Red Stripe or a flinty Sancerre, Tosh in the air and a side of dang hot peppers—I’d call it Ken Baker.

Stay tuned for Part 2, wherein we talk to Baker and take a look inside Lawrence's only fine dining experience.

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Posted by liz (Liz Weslander) on November 5, 2004 at 9:23 a.m. (Suggest removal)

Thank goodness, something that's not election-related! My younger brother was a long-time employee of Pachamama's. They treated him well, and I have always enjoyed eating there when I have a spare $100 to blow (not very often these days). Could one consider the Hereford House fine dining? I've never been there, but I know it's damn expensive and the other big ticket spot in town besides Pachamama's.

I do want to say that I think flippant references to women with PMS are cheap and sophomoric. Especially considering the fact that the world of fine dining is brimming with asshole chefs with egos the size of Montana, most of whom are male. Maybe the host (do people say hostess anymore?) is just pissy because she has to keep up a cheery exterior under stress, while the chef gets to go back in the kitchen and throw things and berate his cook staff.

(I'm not talking specifically about Ken, I don't know him, and like I said, my brother loved working there)

Posted by jayneway (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 9:50 a.m. (Suggest removal)

PMS'y hosts? Are you freakin kidding me? It was very nice writing except for that stereotypical slam.

Posted by lazz (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 10:15 a.m. (Suggest removal)

part 2 --- can't wait. great stuff, tk. and indeed, great writing. (as for the PMS comment, you've gotta swing from the hook of your own making for that one -- can't protect ya there, pal).

let me, in my own deeply food ignorant ways, address the hereford house comment, liz, by stating what I can tell you with personal confidence: The big KC Strip at Set 'em Jacks on East 23rd (yup, it's a bar) is the best I've ever had in Lawrence. It's always on the menu, and is on special for about $10.95 on Saturdays. I've never had anything at Hereford House that comes remotely close to the taste and overall perfection of that Jacks' steak. A modest, fun-as-hell beer hall serves the best steak in town ... so, read into that as you will ....

Posted by irish (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 11:59 a.m. (Suggest removal)

Well done Tom. I loved reading this. You put a serious addiction into beautiful prose. I liken the business to the theatre. It is thankless, and always a constant struggle, but once the hook is in, you can not get enough of the good nights. Those magical nights. Fantastic.

can't wait for part 2
be well tom

Posted by lazz (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 12:25 p.m. (Suggest removal)

hey, the picture's a movie! cool! what'll they think of next ...

Posted by smerdyakov (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 2:17 p.m. (Suggest removal)

OK ladies! Can't have your cake and eat it, too. Not on the internet anyway. Either (A) you have this uniquely American freedom to be irrational/intolerable while it's "that time of the month" and you deal with people making reference to it OR (B) give up the guise! Both sexes experience chemical fluctuations -- only difference is somehow it's taboo to refer the the female version. Nice, honest writing Tom.

Posted by lazz (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 2:44 p.m. (Suggest removal)

oh lord, i'm running for cover ...

Posted by mitzibel (Misty Nuckolls) on November 5, 2004 at 6:53 p.m. (Suggest removal)

Fantastic writing, Tom. I personally thought the premenstrual reference was funny, but then I'm an ignorant sexist pig, so what do I know? I do find it particularly amusing that everyone is jumping your ass over that and ignoring the word "kipe", which is of course only one letter off from the original racist euphemism for theft. Hey, I'm not saying anything against you, I struggle too sometimes to find another way to say something that my redneck upbringing taught me. Just thought it was funny, is all.

Posted by liz (Liz Weslander) on November 5, 2004 at 8:14 p.m. (Suggest removal)

I'm perfectly comfortable with the notion that men and women experience chemical fluctuations, I just want to come up with an insulting name for men's chemical fluctuations. Perhaps Penis Insecurity Stress Syndrome (PISS) would work. I would also like the right to blame any grumpy behavior and bafoonery on the part of men on PISS.

So assuming that a host's grumpy behavior is related to PMS and not the stress of running the front end of a fine dining establishment, then a chef's marriage and friendship ruining behavior must simply be a case of PISS and not a symptom of the stress of trying to run a kitchen and perform his artistry.

But we are digressing. I simply think that Tom, being the good writer that he is, could think of a less simplistic way of describing the front end climate on an off night at a high end dining establishment. Just my two cents.

Posted by counterlife (anonymous) on November 5, 2004 at 9:35 p.m. (Suggest removal)

Words, words, words - - little black marks on paper (or screen). Mr. King, your little black marks here make a lovely combination. I look forward to Part 2.

To Liz: why respond to what you perceive as a generalizing, limiting, stupifying label with yet another? I refer here to your use of "PMS" - a label I note you and others accuse Mr. King of using, although he did not - surely "pre-menstrual" can be merely descriptive of a moment rather than a "syndrome". I am a middle-aged woman who has seen far too many efforts to reduce all types of common and unique humanity to some tedious generalization (e.g., PISS, PMS, ADD, ADHD, OCD, typical males, typical females, old farts, young dummies, liberals, conservatives, Christers (my personal favorite) and etc., etc.) I wish we could just stop it. We are all in this together, for better or worse, and we don't gain much understanding of each other by using generalizing labels or suggesting competing ones. Not only that, we are missing the opportunity to reflect on some of Mr. King's lovely turns of phrase in this delightful and, I agree, thankfully not political, blog. I am particularly keen on the last paragraph, which gets me to anticipating Part 2 and more description of Ken and his restaurant.

P.S. Lazz, don't be afraid.

Posted by mr_lawrence (anonymous) on November 6, 2004 at 4:57 p.m. (Suggest removal)

This is not food writing. This is purple prose, Bourdain want-to-be at best. Where is the discussion of food? I was of the idea that at a truly good fine-dining restaurant, the service is so good as to be unnoticed and the food is what it's all about. I don't want to hear about the kitchen b.s. either. Not all kitchens are like you say. The really great ones are full of serious professionals interpreting their chef's ideas to the best of their ability. And the best chefs are not the screamers.

Posted by Feents (Caterina Benalcazar) on November 6, 2004 at 11:58 p.m. (Suggest removal)

Actually, i've worked with, and known, many chefs. A few of them I would consider the "best." Suffice to say, they were screamers. Trust me mr. lawrence, kitchen drama, although not traditional food writing, makes for great reading. Yes, it may be b.s. but what job isn't? It's really all in the telling, and señor king tells it well.

So there.

Posted by 1981 (Jason Barr) on December 22, 2004 at 3:47 p.m. (Suggest removal)

Merry Christmas Tom!!! I miss talking with you! Your on my fav's of 04! Keep on keepin on!

Fine dining is a dangerous game

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