Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz

The French Laundry. “You want to move all the way to California to work here?” It looked barely more impressive, from the outside at least, than the Achatz Family Restaurant. I scurried away lest I be seen lurking around a day early.
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    Chef Keller told me to arrive at the restaurant at noon. I showed up at 11:30, making sure I was on time. I unlatched a small wooden gate and walked through the entryway, past a walk-in cooler, through another screen door, and onto what looked like the porch of someone’s home. Baskets of vegetables were arranged on small shelves and the savory smell of veal stock filled the air. I approached the doorway to the kitchen and was nearly run over by a cook wheeling around the corner. “Hey, man. How are you?”
    â€œI’m okay. I am here for a tryout. Is chef Keller here?”
    â€œYep. He’s right inside.”
    I entered the French Laundry kitchen and saw a tall lanky man sweeping the floor. His back was toward me and he didn’t hear me enter, so he kept doing his job for a few seconds. I peered past him looking for chef Keller, waited a few seconds for the sweeper to notice me, and when he didn’t, approached him. “I’m Grant Achatz, here for a tryout. Is chef Keller in?”
    â€œYeah. That’s me,” he said, letting out a laugh. “You’re early, Grant.”
    He stuck out his hand and shook mine vigorously with an exaggerated up and down motion.
    I thought to myself, “Holy shit. He’s the first one here, and he’s sweeping the floor. What kind of restaurant is this?”
    â€œI’m going to set you up with Kevin. He’s in the back putting away produce, but he can show you around and get you started.”
    â€œYes, Chef.” My tryout had begun.
    Kevin Kathman was a wiry guy with jet-black hair that he wore slicked back into a long ponytail. He looked like a young Steven Seagal, complete with muttonchops and pronounced, angular features. Along with a cook named John Gerber, inexplicably called “DJ” by everyone, the two made up the morning commis—or prep cook—team.
    Kevin, who had almost run me over when I first walked in, came racing back into the kitchen before I could get out the door. “I’m with you,” I said.
    â€œOkay. Come and help me and DJ put away this order.”
    DJ was outside removing the papery skin from yellow onions and placing them carefully in a large woven basket. “Hey,” he said, not bothering to look up from his task.
    â€œI’m Grant. Here for a tryout today and tomorrow.”
    â€œAnother one,” he mumbled toward Kevin with a slight smile.
    I helped organize the produce while cooks started to arrive and walk by us. A few would make sarcastic remarks at Kevin or DJ and the guys would fire back. It was in good fun, but there was an underlying tension to the place. It felt competitive. After the produce was put away I moved inside.
    The kitchen had eight cooks in it now, each quietly producing the mise en place for their station. I helped Kevin roll and shape a batch of russet potato gnocchi while we quietly chatted. “So, where are you coming from, Grant?”
    I hesitated. I remembered chef Trotter’s admonishment, “If you don’t work here a year, you never existed.” But I could tell that Kevin was sizing me up. “Trotter’s,” I said.
    â€œOh. Trotter’s. How was that? How long were you there?”
    â€œNot very long,” I said. “It wasn’t what I expected.” Thankfully, that ended the conversation.
    We finished up the gnocchi and he put a cutting board down for me right next to his. “We’re going to cut some brunoise. You okay with a knife?”
    Kevin demonstrated the tiny dice, pushed the pieces over to the far corner of my board and said, “Leave those there for a reference.”
    I began cutting the turnip, carrot, and green leek tops into