Free Don't Try This at Home by Kimberly Witherspoon, Andrew Friedman Page B

summer. Inside, the dining room had space enough to comfortably accommodate about a hundred people—significantly
     more than the Harbor Cove—and a bar from which we could already imagine the flow of white Zinfandels and Fuzzy Navels, the
     drinks of the moment in 1980s Rhode Island beach towns.
    We headed straight back to the Harbor Cove and started making up dishes for the new place—doing our thing with lobster, filet
     mignon, and veal—running them as nightly specials starting that very day.
    Over the next four months, we did everything in our power to ensure that when the restaurant opened in the summer, it would
     make a big splash—continuing to evolve those dishes, designing the kitchen, and so on.
    Come summertime, Frankie planned a big opening party for the new restaurant. We had what was supposed to be our last meeting
     a week before the party, but on the day of the party, Frankie abruptly summoned us to another meeting. When we arrived, Fernando
     and I were in sky-high spirits, chattering about how much fun we were going to have that night.
    And then, Frankie threw a big wet blanket over the two of us. "Listen, fellas," he said, "the rest of the investors and I
     talked it over and we decided that, since this is really an invite-only party, you two shouldn't be there."
    It took a moment for this to sink in. After all, how could the chef and sous-chef not attend the opening of the restaurant
     they'd just spent four months getting ready? Did it mean we were being fired? I glanced over at Fernando, who looked equally
     worried.
    "Shouldn't one of us be there?" Fernando said, taking a shot at an appeal.
    Frankie shook his little gray head.
    "No. You guys did a great job getting the food ready, but I really need you to stay back at the Harbor Cove Inn and make sure
     things run smoothly there tonight."
    Heads hanging low, and wondering if our livelihoods were at stake—not to mention feeling considerably insulted—we returned
     to the Harbor Cove Inn and did what cooks do: our jobs, sullenly starting to prep for that evening's service. In an attempt
     to take my mind off the situation, I turned on the radio I kept at my station, and even started making a big vat of spaghetti
     sauce for the next day, stirring it with a long, paddlelike wand as it simmered away.
    But Fernando was consumed with anger. For the next hour, I watched it boil up within him. He didn't say a word, but everything
     he did was fueled by fury. When he'd put a saute pan to the flame, he'd bang it down like he was clubbing someone over the
     head. When he'd cut a cucumber, he'd bring the knife down so hard, I was sure he was picturing Frankie's neck there on his
     cutting board.
    One thing was certain: if Fernando didn't get a grip, this was going to be a long night.
    Less than an hour before service, Fernando was still stomping around, slamming refrigerator doors and flinging pans into the
     sink. The kitchen staff was on edge and the waiters were nervously keeping their distance. I took it upon myself to perform
     an intervention.
    "Chef, what're we gonna do about this? We gotta find a way to chill out."
    Fernando ignored me, continuing his sadistic vivisection of yet another hapless vegetable. But then, suddenly, he was gripped
     with inspiration. He put down his knife, turned, and looked me in the eye. "Fuck this!" he said. "You wanna know what the
     fuck we're gonna do? I'll tell you what the fuck we're gonna do!"
    I stepped back, thinking, Oh, shit. This ain't gonna be good.
    Fernando was possessed with a dark clarity that, if it weren't so scary, would have been impressive. He began barking orders
     to the kitchen staff: "You, go get me a bucket. You, go get me three bottles of vodka and two bottles of triple sec. You, go get a big mess of limes and squeeze 'em, and bring me the juice. You, bring me some ice."
    Those of us who weren't scattered about to do Fernando's bidding stood there in rapt anticipation, watching our