In February 1983, the twenty-five hours a week I worked at Stratton’s Restaurant didn’t produce enough revenue from my side of the bed, so I answered an ad in the Los Angeles Times—“Line cook for busy, Hollywood restaurant”. I drove to the address given over the phone for a 4:00 p.m. interview full of confidence until I saw the small lettered sign, “Trumps”. Trumps was the latest in spot—stark architectural details, a celebrity chef, a daring menu, and hard-to-come-by reservations. Knowing my place, I walked around to the back door and met Dean, the sous chef. “What can you do?” “I can do whatever you want” “Put on some whites and prep for dinner”.

The dark, employee dressing room had little in common with the elegant illusion created for Hollywood's A-list. The smell of old socks and foody bodies hung over banged up metal lockers, doors agape, spilling out K-Swiss shoes and rumpled T-shirts. Not wasting any time there, I changed and entered the fray. I diced, minced, whisked, butchered, grilled, sautéed, and sweated until midnight. “You’ll start on the grill”, said Dean. “Five until one, five nights a week”. I passed another test, and started another new job.

Michael Roberts, chef/owner of Trumps, was a 1980's Renaissance Man. Like Dennis, my first LA chef, Michael was tall and handsome with a temper and an attraction to the bottle. But his interests were found at the Los Angeles Museum of Art, rather than at Chavez Ravine. Michael Roberts cared nothing about sports, had a Batchelor’s Degree in Music Theory and Composition from NYU, and studied cooking in Paris at the prestigious Ecole Superieure de Cuisine. The wait staff loved Michael and Michael, in return, protected them from Dean’s sharp tongue. 

"Cheffie's" protection did not, however, extend to the line cooks. By eight o’clock his glass had been filled too often and he was flushed with the heat and the drink. As the demands of service intensified and the orders piled up, he forgave no omissions or mistakes. He adjusted every plate that left the kitchen, tasting for quality, checking for presentation and demanding perfection for each table. One busy Saturday night after an over-cooked lobster and a badly trimmed rack of lamb pointed accusingly at the grill, he wheeled around, pointed at me, and yelled, “Out!! Get Out!! And don’t come back!! I looked at Dean, who hadn’t missed a beat, and muttered “Now what?” “Don't you dare leave, he won’t remember a thing” Sure enough, by midnight Michael was his sweet self—congratulating the cooks on a wonderful night’s work and pouring champagne into our huge 7-11 glasses.

Whenever my Mother came to visit from Vashon, she and I ate at my current work environment—that is, the front-door-linen-on-the-table environment. The more realistic back-door-blood-on-the-floor version could wait for another time. For a Trumps employee, however, becoming a customer was difficult. Due to the brisk drug trade previously carried on at the bar by members of the wait staff, employee reservations had to be blessed by the restaurant manager. My first virtue—doesn’t do drugs—came in handy; Muth and I were cleared for late afternoon high tea. This time, I walked in through the front door. I smelled good, there was no food on my clothes, and I carried a purse, not knives. We had a marvelous time—the waiters (whose big tips I’d saved many a night) came in strong for me. They bowed, scraped, and treated us like the Queens of England.
 
I had never before been in the front and could hardly take in the difference. The illusion created for the golden side of the swinging door was stunning. Diners never knew the havoc and controlled chaos that reigned on the florescent side of the kitchen door. Their candlelit side was sparkling crystal and Limoges; our fluorescent side was plastic 7-11 glasses and dented sauté pans—the candlelit side, a jazz piano and the murmur of conversation; the fluorescent side, ear-splitting salsa music and swearing—the candlelit side, a recent manicure and a well-kept coiffure; the fluorescent side, rag-wrapped wounds and greasy hair stuffed into baseball caps.

Occasionally, some residents of the candlelit side came through the swinging doors to watch life on the florescent side. The women Jimmychooed cautiously into the kitchen, trying to avoid the overflowing laundry bags and just-mopped spills. The men struck up manly conversations with the burly, red-bearded grill man giving him “barbecue” tips. We, the unwashed, rolled our eyes and swore under our breath waiting for the washed to return to their table. It worked well for both sides.

Trumps' Bread Pudding

1 cup dried fruit—prunes, cherries, apricots, mangos
3 whole eggs
4 egg yolks
3 cups half & half
½ cup sugar
1 tsp. vanilla

Marinate prunes or other dried fruit: Heat white wine, pour over 1 cup dried fruit and let stand 1-2 hours. Drain & chop in Quisinart.

8 cups cubed white bread (preferably stale)

Line loaf pan with buttered parchment paper.

Combine eggs, egg yolks, and sugar—whisk until light yellow colored.

Heat half & half and vanilla. Add to egg mixture. Strain.

Alternate: 1) Layer of bread 2) Prunes or other dried fruit 3) Sprinkle of sugar.

Pour custard over layers in loaf pans. Press down top cubes of bread to soak with custard. Bake in water bath for 1-1 ½ hours at 325 degrees or until knife comes out clean.

Chicken with Port

Add butter to hot sauté pan. When foaming has stopped, brown chicken breast, skin side down. Pour off fat.

Add 2 T. shallots, 2 parts red Port to one part chicken stock to sauté pan with chicken. Roast in 400 degree oven for 10 minutes.

Remove pan from oven, remove chicken breast and keep warm. Reduce liquid (port/chicken stock) to syrup.

Add ½ c. heavy cream—reduce until thickened.

Add 2 T. stilton cheese, and whisk in 2 T. cold butter. If the cream sauce separates, just add a little water to the pan and swirl around.

Sweet Pea Guacamole

2 T. virgin olive oil
2 T. fresh lime juice
1/4 bunch cilantro trimmed of long stems
1 jalapeno, seeded or ½  Serrano, seeded
1 lb frozen peas, defrosted
1/4 t. ground cumin
3/4 t. salt
2 shallots, finely diced

Combine oil, lime juice, cilantro and peppers in a blender or food processor and blend until cilantro and peppers are roughly pureed.

Add peas, cumin and salt and blend until smooth. There will still be some lumps, but this adds to the textural interest of the guacamole. Scrape into a mixing bowl and add the diced shallots.