|
Page 3 of 6 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.
|
