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Page 5 of 6 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.
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