Turning up the heat at King West grill
“No shorts?” asks chef Steve Gonzalez.
Normally I’m determined about my no-shorts policy. If I didn’t break in Israel, or Texas, where the weather had more persuasive methods at its disposal, I certainly won’t yield to the barbecue on the patio of Valdez.
But this isn’t your backyard gas grill that you flick on to char lines into pre-cooked hotdogs. This is a steel drum filled with white-hot charcoal. And we’ll be standing in front of it as lunch customers fill the rooftop patio, in the condo and party district of King West, and order from a predominately meaty menu of grilled ribs, quail, swordfish, chorizo and flank steak.
The last item wasn’t selling well as “carne asadas,” so Gonzalez anglicized it for the King West crowd. He doesn’t brag on the provenance of his meat. I only know that it’s from a good supplier because later, when I stop by my butcher, he asks how his short ribs are doing, as a parent might inquire how their child is doing in school.
Opening the prep fridge just long enough to assess what backups he needs, Gonzalez remarks on the heat. “You can’t leave these fridges open for more than two seconds.”
Despite all the delicious food in the fridge, the chef downs a bowl of instant oatmeal while writing his list. He’s got to make it through a double-shift. I’m just here for lunch service but Gonzalez came in at 9 this morning and will likely be here past 1 a.m.
First we run across the street to pick up bread from Forno Cultura bakery, cars whizzing around us.
Returning, Gonzalez puts me on tostadas, deep-frying tortillas.
The lunch rush at Valdez ends like a hit-and-run driver speeding off, leaving a palpable void in its wake
Then he plants me in the prep kitchen with a list of items needed upstairs: “arugula” (goes with the calamari), “flank” (marinated for tostadas), “squeeze” (bottles for sauces), “mojo” (like chimichurri with roasted garlic, more orange and cilantro), “gayness,” “kale” (for beet salad).
Thinking it’s Spanish, I ask what “gayness” means.
That’s what they call the micro seedlings, the small fronds of basil and amaranth used to garnish. I ask how that’s not homophobic.
Later, over the phone, the chef explains that it never occurred to him that some might find his nickname for the seedlings might be discriminatory or hurtful.
“I never even thought about it, honestly. It’s one of those things that happens in a kitchen that nobody says anything about. It just seems to be the norm.”
Expressing remorse, he promised to stop doing it. “As soon as you mentioned it, we changed all the labels.”
Back in the busy commercial and residential neighbourhood, the customers don’t trickle in. They rush in like when the gates open at a concert, a table of 10 ready at the stroke of noon.
While plopping meat down on the grill, Gonzalez shows me how to plate the tostadas, the beet salad, the calamari and so on. Most dishes get finished with a sprinkle of maldon salt and what he keeps referring to as “gayness.” When I ask if a particular dish gets seedlings, I’m met with an incredulous stare and told it needs gay.
Before I can get my deck feet, he radios for backup, using his walkietalkie to ask sous chef Andres Pena to come upstairs.
“It’s not that you’re not fast enough,” Gonzalez consoles me. “But I need Andres.”
Soon the orders come flying at us, the printer spitting out chits faster than space can be consolidated on the grill.
Though Gonzalez knows just how to finesse it: to put the marinated calamari on a medium-heat area so the oil will drip off without flaming the coals; carving out a section for the chicken and another for the beef; juggling separate tongs for raw meat and cooked. Andres assembles sandwiches of their homemade chorizo while I garnish and pump out CGS (chips, guacamole and salsa), expediting as needed and hoping I don’t send food to the wrong tables. Though I know I’m superfluous, my heart rate kicks up a notch as we work together, Gonzalez and Andres moving like the Flash, me trying to keep up, reaching under and around them to re-up sauces and garnishes.
The lunch rush ends with the suddenness of a hit-and-run driver speeding off, leaving a palpable void in its wake.
Andres tells me that it’s been an hour and a half. But it felt like five minutes.
The combination of sweat and sunscreen dripping into my eyes, I reach for my jug of drinking water. Flakes of charcoal ash, floated from the grill, bob on the surface.
“That’s what’s in my lungs,” laughs Gonzalez, “From working the grill.” And then he goes for a cigarette. Email mintz.corey@gmail.com and follow @coreymintz on Twitter and instagram.com/coreymintz