{mosloadposition contad}Part One - Prep Time: Appetizers

It's a little before two o'clock on a cloudy Saturday afternoon, and the kitchen at Hugo's is starting to get busy. There is an air of controlled intensity in the room-a sense of anticipation for the busy evening to come. Hugo's has a relatively small restaurant kitchen-two long, narrow rooms, and a separate area for the dishwasher and coffee station. There's a fourteen-burner stove and all sorts of cooking equipment-some fancy, but most look like tools you'd find in my kitchen. Evans hands me a white apron (now I look like I fit in), but the truth is, I'm trying to make myself invisible as chefs whirl around me, grabbing fish and hunks of meat from the refrigerator. I stand next to Evans, like a kid cozying up to the teacher on the first day of school, ask questions, take notes, and occasionally dodge a hot skillet.

There are six cooks working quietly at their stations: chopping, sautéing, pre-assembling sauces. First thing I learn: organization is the key to the flow in a restaurant kitchen.

Rob Evans is a big guy. At six-foot-three-inches, he towers over everyone else in the room. With his brown mustache and gentle smile, he seems strangely calm for a chef. In the past year, his kitchen has been awarded several prestigious accolades. Hanging over the doorway that separates the main part of the kitchen from the prep and dessert room is a skillet inscribed with the words "Best New Chef, 2004. Food & Wine Magazine." Last year, Evans won his first James Beard nomination for "Best Chef, Northeast" (he lost to Chef Frank McCleeland of L'Espalier in Boston, a ten-time nominee). All in all, things are going well for Evans and his small restaurant in Portland.

On this Saturday afternoon, the Hugo's staff is preparing for a sold-out house. Evans is working on one of his special "Chef's Tasting Menu": a pre-ordered dinner of some ten to fifteen courses prepared by the chef himself. This special menu is a venue where Evans can really show off and try new things.

He chops vegetables and fresh herbs as we chat about the restaurant business. All the while, he keeps an eye on every corner of the small kitchen. He reminds me of a mother who is able to cook dinner while still watching the kids behind her back.

"This is what we need in Portland, Maine," he explains as he takes short ribs out of the oven. Short ribs-a particularly fatty, flavorful cut of meat-are generally served on the bone and can make for messy eating. But Evans trims them off the bone and transforms them into perfect rectangular shapes. He loves taking familiar foods and presenting them in unfamiliar shapes, paired with unfamiliar flavors. "The Beard nomination and the Food & Wine award legitimize what we're doing."

Evans has a built a reputation by thinking outside the box, in a manner that the press like to call "innovative." At Hugo's, I've eaten deep-fried caperberries, foie gras ice cream, and a pepper-flecked "ice cream cone" filled with a savory buffalo ricotta cheese and cherry preserves. For a special tasting menu, Evans has served a cod milt (fish semen) chowder.

"Yeah, we do weird food here, but ‘weird' is a matter of opinion," he says. "I don't go out of my way to shock diners. Cod cheeks are indigenous to Maine and are peasant food to me. Pork belly is weird for some people, but these are traditional flavors. If it's weird and I think it's delicious, I'll put it on the menu. I'm not posturing to be weird. I feel grounded as a chef."

{mospagebreak title=This is a custom title} One of the ways Evans continues to feel grounded and in control is by keeping things small. Hugo's is not a huge machine. With only fourteen tables and eight stools at the bar, this is a place where he can keep his stamp on virtually every detail.

The dining room was recently refurbished with fresh paint and new artwork. But it's still a simple room, nothing super fancy. It seems that in keeping the room simple, Evans lets the food do the talking. It's the food that lets you know just how serious a place Hugo's really is.

A little before three in the afternoon, Rick Tibbetts enters the kitchen. Evans calls him a "great forager," and today he has just returned from the Maine woods where he gathered ramps (wild leeks), something called "belly greens" (a watercress-like peppery leaf), and several varieties of wild Maine mushrooms. Evans takes everything Tibbetts offers; in season, Evans uses Maine-grown ingredients between 60 percent and 80 percent of the time). He begins working with his garde manger*, Jake Hurn to plan the specials. Hurn will use the ramps as part of tonight's "soup and sandwich" special-one of Evans's many plays on diner terminology. At Hugo's, "soup and sandwich" translates to a deconstructed Reuben sandwich-in this case, house-made corned beef tongue served with condiments on the side and a grilled potato-ramp soup with pickled ramps on top.

Over at the dessert station, Bill Leavy works on the evening's sweets. He melts a block of dark chocolate for the chocolate and banana cream and then layers it with chocolate mousse, a chocolate cake base, and a toffee crumble topping. It will be served with lightly salted peanut ice cream. Simultaneously, he works on the petit fours, cheese plate, biscotti for the bar, a French pound cake with a cherry puree topping, and a toasted almond milkshake. He also places fresh rhubarb into a pasta machine to make "Rhubarb Pasta," another great example of how Evans likes to rethink food. Rhubarb is almost always served in pies and cobblers; its stringy texture and tart flavor is classically paired with strawberries. But by putting it through a pasta machine and creating long thin strips, rhubarb takes on a silky texture. The pale pink pasta strips are not bitter and crying out for sugar, but seem to take on a new dimension of taste.

At the stove, working near Evans, Melissa Coriaty, the sous chef, is in charge of fish and some of the meat dishes. She's been at Hugo's for close to a year and a half. The only woman in the kitchen (other than Evans' wife, Nancy), the petite Coriaty works quietly and with an astounding calmness. She wears a satisfied smile on her face as she rolls the dough for homemade ravioli and braises veal cheeks into a ragout for the ravioli filling. Evans comes over and adds paper-thin sheets of gelatin to the ragout. Gelatin, a natural thickener, is used a lot in the Hugo's kitchen. In this case, the gelatin will thicken the veal just enough (without the heaviness of flour) so that when the ragout is between the thin, delicate ravioli sheets, it won't fall apart. Coriaty then blanches spinach for the filet of lemon sole and prepares scallop gelee (a kind of savory jellied cube) that will top the potato soup, tonight's amuse-bouche, a tiny dish designed to whet the palate.

Chad Conley is working the meat station. A mere twenty-one years old, he landed a job washing dishes at Duck Fat, Evans' other Portland restaurant (a casual café that makes some of the best French fries in America, amazing panini sandwiches, homemade soda, and beignets. Evans "discovered" a passion in Conley. "I tend to hire on passion over resume," Evans says, explaining his young protégé. "This kid did dishes and had a really strong work ethic,  so I gave him a chance. But, I watch over him."

Conley doesn't seem to mind at all. He appears to be the kind of apprentice who is eager to take any feedback the chef offers. He's often the first to arrive in the kitchen at the early hour of 8:45 a.m. (early when you consider he won't leave until well past midnight).

By 3:30 p.m., the activity level in the kitchen goes up a notch or two. Sauces are simmering, cakes are baking, meats are roasting. The kitchen feels like a well-oiled clock-everyone taking care of their little piece of the whole, making sure everything is ready when the first guests arrive at 5:30 p.m.

Without my noticing, Evans has been preparing the dinner for the staff-braised chicken legs with meat so tender it falls off the bone. There are also super-fluffy mashed potatoes and a pasta dish. The chefs come over from their work stations when they have a free moment and grab a plate. There's too much work to even consider sitting down for dinner. I taste the chicken and wonder how plain braised chicken can be so tender and taste this good.

{mospagebreak} Evans has known his wife and partner, Nancy, since his first restaurant job twenty-three years ago. He may be the chef, but Nancy is "the backbone of the whole damn place," Evans says. She keeps everything on track. She doesn't walk so much as she sprints from station to station, trouble-shooting problems both large and small: replacing a burned-out light bulb; fielding phone calls; speaking Spanish to Maria Garcia, who is filling in for the dishwasher who quit without explanation last week. With a menu that changes frequently, there is always something new to deal with, dishes that require last-minute changes or substitutions.

Around 4 p.m., Nancy meets with the waitstaff to go over the evening's menu. Table One has an anniversary, another table has a birthday. "Let's get the candles ready now," she instructs a waiter. The details all add up. There is no such thing as too much planning. At 4:15 p.m., the phone is ringing with last-minute reservations. "Someone wants a table for four at 8:00," Nancy explains, rolling her eyes. She tries hard to fit the party in, but the place is just overbooked. "We could have the table ready at around 8:45," she politely tells the caller. But this is Maine; 8:45 is too late.

The dining room is vacuumed and cleaned, the window shades are opened, and the chefs begin pouring almost finished sauces and garnishes into small containers. Once again: you can't be too organized.

The smell in the kitchen is intoxicating. It's hard to tell if it's the Avocado Fritters dipped in tempura batter or the Rhubarb Pasta that Dessert Chef Bill Leavy is now poaching in an aromatic syrup flavored with lemongrass, grenadine, cinnamon, and star anise. The pasta will be paired with crème fraiche and licorice panna cotta.

Microgreens grow under UV lamps on top of the highest shelf in the kitchen, which has no natural sunlight. Tiny sprouts, the length of a baby's finger, are snipped to garnish the plates. The trout is cleaned, the pork belly is cooked, and the herb-scented "cones" are lined up ready to be filled with Evans's ricotta cheese and cherries. And the veal ragout, which has now thickened, is ready to go in the middle of the ravioli dough.

A waitress comes in to check with Evans about the special chef's menu. "I have some changes," he informs her. She laughs. This obviously happens all the time-the result of spontaneous creativity.

Five o'clock is the calm before the storm. The sudden quiet comes on hard. You can almost feel everyone going over the evening to come-are the sauces ready? Are the garnishes in place? Is the duck ready? Are the ovens warm? Nancy oversees the biscuit station. Hugo's signature biscuits are made to order, served piping hot on a rectangle of black slate. Made from Maine potato flour and served with lightly salted Maine-made butter, these biscuits are so good you could spend an entire evening eating them and never move on.

At 5:15 p.m., the place is so quiet you can hear yourself think. "What's the tensest time?" I innocently ask Evans. "Now," he answers.

{mospagebreak} Part Two - Showtime, or The Main Course

It's just before 5:30 p.m., and I can't get over the feeling I used to have when I performed in school plays. It's a magical moment just before the curtain rises. I'm backstage, feeling excited but also a touch nervous. Now, when I look around the kitchen, everyone looks utterly calm. Chefs chatting, cracking jokes, laughing. Why am I the only one who seems to feel the jitters?

Evans has his prep area set up on a small table right next to the kitchen door. Through a small window on top of the door, he can keep an eye on the dining room and see how things are flowing. He also can see every plate before it leaves the kitchen. Quality control.

The first order comes in close to 6 p.m. Showtime! The waitstaff-dressed in black shirts, jeans, and black bistro-style aprons-take their work seriously. They seem truly proud to be serving food this good. The biscuits are warmed and brought out on the black slate slabs. The soup is piping hot, and a small disc of scallop gelee is placed on top.

At 6:10 p.m., the guests arrive for the special chef's menu. But there's a catch; they tell the waiter that they had called to cancel the chef's menu a week ago and want to order off the regular menu. Rob shakes his head. He doesn't rant and rave or throw anything. I keep thinking a monster chef, a reality TV kind of crazy man will emerge. But if this news doesn't rattle him, nothing will. One of the women is pregnant, can't eat raw fish, and worries that the menu will be too much. Calmly, Evans instructs the waiter to ask the party if they would be interested in a modified chef's dinner. Perhaps, eight courses (instead of the usual fifteen)? No raw fish? "Offer them a price break, too," he instructs the waiter. A minute later, the waiter reappears and the table has accepted his offer. Evans shrugs and gets to work.

"Ordering," calls out a waiter. And the procession begins. An order of soup goes out, but it's no ordinary bowl of soup. Surrounding the bowl with the hot soup is an even larger white bowl. Inside the rim of the outer bowl are sprigs of fresh herbs and ribbons of lemon zest. When the waiter serves the soup, he pours from a pitcher of boiling hot water over the herbs and lemon, thereby releasing an aromatherapy burst. The scent of the herbs is meant to complement each sip of soup.

Yellowfin tuna is served with aged shoyu (soy sauce), avocado fritters, cucumbers, and a Greek yogurt sauce. "Three soups and sandwiches," calls out a server as she leaves the kitchen with a cold-smoked Casco Bay cod dish served with "foraged Maine vegetables," tempura fiddleheads, and a dulse vinaigrette. The plates all return empty. The look like they've already been through the dishwasher.

It's all like a well-choreographed dance. Coriaty crisps the skin on a trout by placing the skillet over a hot heat. As she cooks, she teaches Conley how to tell when the fish's skin is crispy enough.

It starts to get busier, with orders piling up. "Three trouts, two ravioli, and three soles," comes the request. Nancy needs to help in the back room to get out the salads and appetizers, and asks if I can be in charge of the biscuits. "Who me? Yeah, sure." It's my moment. Nancy teaches me how to cook the biscuits to order: seven minutes on one side, gently turn, and seven or eight minutes on the other side. I'm terrified of burning them, but my first order comes out golden brown and smells like a grandmother's house in Vermont on the first day of fall.

I notice some of the chefs talking to themselves as they cook, kind of like self-coaching. At first it seems odd, but I realize it must be a great way to release tension.

{mospagebreak} At 7 p.m., the first dessert goes out, and more orders fly in. Evans calls it out: "I need three short ribs, two salmons, three pork bellies."

As he oversees production, he is working on one of his more innovative dishes for the chef's tasting-Cold Duck Smoked "A La Minute." Evans fills what resembles a large, empty paint can with burning apple wood chips. He closes the lid to contain the smoke. Coming out of the lid are two thick, black rubber tubes. He then blows on one tube and forces sweet apple woodsmoke to come out of the other one. The smoke is blown into a small, narrow bottle placed on top of a bowl of ice with a skewer of rare duck breast placed inside the bottle. The smoke swirls around the ice, getting trapped inside the bottle, "smoking" the piece of duck, and creating a wildly dramatic presentation. When the kitchen door opens people are audibly ooohing and aaahing.

At 7:45 p.m., chefs at every station are working hard and moving quickly. Evans hasn't lost his cool once. Nancy notices that microgreens are missing from a plate of pork belly. Everyone is looking over everyone else's shoulder to make sure each dish comes out perfectly. I put in another batch of biscuits (it seems to be my full-time job at this point), and I've got it down. I think I show great promise and say so. The chef has time to give a half-laugh!

At 8:25 p.m., the kitchen runs out of the scallop gelee for the soup and prosciutto gelee is substituted. I'm asked to place a small cube of gelee on top of each bowl of soup. I must be doing something right; my job has diversified. Guests at the chef's table are only half way through their meal. I've lost track of time and place because, you know, I'm a very important, integral part of the kitchen now.

Garcia, the sole dishwasher, fills the machine and empties it over and over again. She seems tireless. At 9:15 p.m., I notice everyone slowing down a bit, but the plates keep going out and they look every bit as good as they did at the beginning of the evening.

A waiter comes in and asks the chef if he will say hello to Table Six. Evans is the kind of guy who seems more comfortable behind the kitchen door than in the dining room. He smoothes his white chef's jacket and goes out. There is gentle applause.

He comes back quickly after making small talk and shaking hands with another table. A waitress brings in a plate of half-eaten sole and Evans scratches his head. "When people don't eat something, it doesn't offend us," he explains. "But I do want to know: do they just not like this in general or what?"

At 9:30 p.m., Evans announces, "We're at fifty-eight dinners." For most restaurants that's not a lot, but at Hugo's, where every plate is overseen by the chef, it's a big night. The last orders come in at 9:45 p.m., and Evans invites me to the bar for a drink. "But I still have a batch of biscuits in the oven," I tell him. "It's cool. Someone will get them," he says. The truth is: I was hoping to pop one of those biscuits into my mouth.

{mospagebreak} Part Three After-Dinner

It's ten o'clock, and the place is starting to empty out. We sit at the bar and order a glass of wine. We enjoy the soup and then the olive oil-poached salmon with deconstructed tapenade, tomato jam, and buttermilk basil emulsion. The fish melts in my mouth. Evans tells me a bit about his background.

"I got into cooking out of trade school. I was studying to be an electrician. One day I walked by a restaurant, and a guy leaned out the window and said, ‘I need a cook!' I loved being surrounded by food all day. I was nineteen, and was eating lobster and prime rib every day!"

He grew up near Worcester, Massachusetts. After cooking for a few years, he became "disenchanted" and began doing kitchen renovations. "Two years later, I went to Hawaii and worked on a cruise ship. I saw teamwork, met European chefs, and thought seriously about cooking as a profession for the first time."

Evans has worked at many restaurants over the years (the Inn at Little Washington in Virginia and The French Laundry in Napa Valley, California), but he is essentially self-taught. He opened Hugo's seven years ago and feels committed to Maine. "We're here to stay," he says.

A little past 11 p.m., he tells me it's fine to take off. But everyone is still in the kitchen checking supplies and organizing their stations. Nancy is at the bar eating a salad and the trout. I step back into the kitchen to say thanks and goodnight to the crew. Truth be told, I'm exhausted. I feel like I've run a marathon without training. My legs ache from standing up for nearly ten hours, but I'm happy and filled with delicious food. As I drive home, I realize this team will wake up early tomorrow morning and do it all over again. I'll be at my desk, dreaming about my career as a biscuit baker. I'll also be dreaming about that soup, and the salmon, and the banana cream pie.

Hugo's, 88 Middle Street, Portland, Maine. A four-course prix-fixe dinner is $68. The Chef's Tasting Menu must be ordered in advance. Hugo's serves dinner Tuesday through Thursday from 5:30 p.m. to 9 p.m., and on Friday and Saturday from 5:30 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. Call (207) 774-8538 for reservations.

Beginning this winter, Hugo's will move away from the prix-fixe menu and develop a new menu that Evans calls "a fresh, new concept." Check www.hugos.net for further details.

Duck Fat, 43 Middle Street, Portland, Maine, (207) 774-8080.

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