Eating at the Restaurant WITH OLIVER!

I had been counting down the weeks, then days and lastly hours until Oliver arrived in San Sebastian and so had everyone else in the kitchen. This place is amazing in the respect that you have absolutely no privacy. None. I’ve never seen anything like this. Our entire kitchen knows EVERYTHING about EVERYONE whether it’s true or not. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that we spend a minimum of 73 out of a weekly 168 hours together or that we both work and live with far too many people in the physical kitchen and in our respective flats. We are constantly exposed—physically and emotionally—there is never any relief. We can’t go to the bathroom without asking, we can’t cut ourselves without—at the very least—a head chef knowing, as we have to ask for bandaids and medical supplies. What’s astounding to me is just how much the four head chefs know about each and every one of us—our personal lives, what we did Sunday night, an hour ago, or really, at any moment. It’s almost like being on the Truman show, except we are aware that everyone is constantly watching us.

For instance—

Flo met her current boyfriend the second week after we arrived. They had their first “romantic evening” on a Monday. On Wednesday morning (our Monday), the four head chefs openly discussed Flo and Paco getting together in the center of the kitchen, calling out to both of them in their respective stations (primeras and pescados, across the kitchen from each other), asking questions and teasing them. I think it’s part curiosity, part amusement and mostly wanting to make it known that nothing can get past them. Paco works full-time at the restaurant and I got the feeling that they were making sure that he knew that they were watching him. Nothing could, should, or can affect his performance in the kitchen. In a sense, once you join this kitchen full-time, all of your business becomes their business.

In any event, that’s a long way of saying that everyone knew that Oliver was coming to town. During the lunch service on the day that he arrived, our executive chef called me into the center of the kitchen to tell me that I could eat with Oliver at the restaurant that night and that I didn’t have to come in on Sunday. I felt lucky. It was the best gift anyone could have given me—Ol and I now had almost a full day more together than we had expected.

I never imagined that I would have the opportunity to actually eat at the restaurant—to experience being a diner and a patron. To be honest, I felt jaded. Working in the kitchen is demystifying. I know how each dish is put together—how most of the components get from conception to physical form. I couldn’t imagine that I would undergo any feelings of wonder or awe or bewilderment—feelings that you certainly hope to have when eating at a three star Michelin restaurant. But I was determined to approach the evening with an open mind.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. From the moment we walked up the steps and into the grand mahogany double doors, on which and through which I had never walked previously, it felt alluring and enchanting. Maybe it was because it was the first time in six weeks that I had seen my husband, but I was overcome with how glamorous and luxurious it felt to walk into the space. We were greeted by the maître d, Felipe, one of my roommates, Wander, and the sommelier, Antonio. They greeted us in English with many, “Good Evenings!” I couldn’t help myself and laughed out loud. I’m used to seeing Felipe in some terrible European button down at a bar, Antonio standing next to him, singing loudly with one arm pumping the air, and Wander in his fuzzy fuchsia bathrobe and black and orange Polo Sport flip-flops. Their seemingly civil, refined and genteel manner was ironic and comical. These were not the heathens that I had spent the last six weeks getting to know. They helped us take off our coats and Felipe even offered me his arm as we walked to our table. I was in disbelief.

The first thing that struck me was how eerily silent it was. Oddly enough, the restaurant doesn’t play any music in the dining room. It was unnerving. Oliver and I felt like we had to whisper. The environment was as stiff and heavy as the perfectly pressed and pristine white tablecloths blanketing the dining tables.

Much to our surprise, our executive chef created a menu for us that included almost every dish in the restaurant. They had also arranged a wine pairing for almost each course.

Everything happened so fast and I developed a new respect for my colleagues in the front of house. (I later learned that Felipe is the youngest maître d, at 25, of any three star Michelin restaurant in the world, and that the restaurant’s service is considered to be practically perfect by some of the harshest industry critics.) They worked in perfect harmony—communicating with their eyes and silent gestures, dropping plates with white-gloved hands at precisely the same moment. I am certain that the amount of elapsed time between courses was exactly the same. When I accidentally dropped a bit of sauce on the tablecloth, Jose emerged from nowhere, swiftly and gracefully covering the soiled corner with a square of fresh linen, not having said a word, not making me feel embarrassed. In fact, he operated so smoothly and quickly that I didn’t fully recognize what he had done until he had left the table. Everyone expressed genuine concern for how well we were enjoying ourselves, the food, the wine, and the experience overall.

The diners spanned a large age range—some were as young as Oliver and I and others were older, perhaps around seventy. The dress covered an equally diverse array—some casually clad in jeans, others dapper in immaculate, handmade suits. We fell somewhere in between.

While I didn’t necessarily experience feelings of wonder and bewilderment, Oliver did. It was all over his face and I surprised myself by how excited I was to explain each dish and how it was made. My moment, so to speak, was more of an “Aha!” moment—I realized just how much I have learned in such a short period of time. I also gained a much better understanding of how and why our tasting menu is laid out the way it is. I could follow the method and reasoning and determine why we were having what when.

We were invited back to the kitchen at the end of our meal. I was stuffed (not uncommon for me, I realize) suffering from a disconcerting heartbeat and abnormal pulsing throughout my body. I was also drunk. I hadn’t had that much alcohol in one evening in months and it was circulating through my blood stream rapidly. It wasn’t exactly the state of mind and being I needed before introducing Oliver to Spain’s most decorated Michelin star chef in botched French.

Standing in our kitchen in dress clothes was an experience in and of itself. Everyone stared at us—Oliver mentioned under his breath that he felt like a zoo animal. Even though I had been permitted (invited even!) to eat at the restaurant, I felt guilty. I knew just how hard they had worked that night, how tired they were, how they had one more busy service to gear up for and how the last thing they wanted to do was scrub down and clean. By contrast, I was overly content, on my way to a beautiful hotel and could sleep as long as I wanted. Having spent six relentless weeks inseparable from a staff that is truly generous, kind and caring with one another, the evening became bittersweet when I entered the kitchen. I was grateful to be the recipient of the intense care and consideration that went into making our meal and slightly distressed that I hadn’t been there to participate.

Our executive chef took our hands in his and made sure that we had enjoyed everything. Oliver was also greeted by my chef instructor and one of the four head chefs that oversees primeras. Given the language barrier, our conversations were brief, but I think we were able to express our gratitude and awe through gestures, smiles and rosy cheeks.