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“I do,” I tell him, laughing. “It’s the order I gave you. But hey, lesson number eight: it's your restaurant. Do things the way they work best for you. Screw the staff.”
He chuckles, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. Sadly, he’s still too anxious to ask the question.
This should be a fun morning.
As we’re walking, I remember the contraband in my pocket and I deposit it in the next trash can we pass.
“What was that?” he asks.
I take a moment to count the syllables before I answer.
“New lesson: if it's coming out of my pocket, it's none of your damn business, Wilks.”
“Oh,” he says, “okay.”
“Wilks, for God’s sake, loosen up, will you? You’re the fucking executive here. I’m just the washed-up bastard who’s filling in the gaps for you,” I tell him. The glory of always being that unassailable character starts losing its luster. “If you’re going to run a kitchen and keep it running, you’re going to need to work on your confidence.”
He lifts his head a little as he walks, but just as quickly lowers it again.
“All right,” he says.
“Okay, we’re coming up to our first stop,” I tell him. “Now, we’re going to go in there and get some fresh monkfish, and whatever he quotes you on price, I want you to talk him down by at least 10 percent. I’ll help you a little on this first one, but you’re taking the lead.”
What he doesn’t know is that I’ve done almost all of the shopping for the next day or so, only leaving the items which absolutely must be same-day fresh for him to find his sea legs.
A lot of chefs nowadays like to set up contracts with suppliers that will ship wholesale ingredients right to the restaurant, but it’s a lot better for everyone if you take the time to give a shit what you feed people. Fortunately, Wilks already knows that much.
“Shit,” he says just loudly enough for me to hear. “All right.”
We walk to the fishmonger’s shop and walk up to the counter.
“Ah, Mr. Paulson,” Martin, the 60-something, perpetually scale-flecked proprietor says. “Come in for to teach the new chef today, huh?”
“You know it,” I tell him. “Don’t go easy on him, Marty. He’s got to learn how to deal with crooks and swindlers like you.”
“With all the fish I give you so cheap, you should be nicer to me, Daniel.”
No, Daniel’s not my name, but for the finest fishmonger in the city, I’m willing to suffer a few small indignities.
Wilks, naturally, is unaware of this.
“I thought your name was Dane,” he says.
Now, Wilks has gone and pissed Martin off.
This was expected.
Most of the time, these people are really easy to work with, once you get to know them. Everyone has bad days, though. In order for those bad days to not transform into profit-margin-killing price hikes, one must learn how to negotiate a sour mood.
“You let him talk this way to me, Daniel?” Martin asks. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
The only difficulty I’m having in this moment is keeping a straight face.
“Don’t piss off the seller,” I tell Wilks, “or it’s caveat emptor to a degree which I seriously doubt you can even imagine.”
“Isn’t it always caveat emptor?” Wilks asks.
“Make the buy,” I mutter, and nudge him.
