Here’s a story written by Jason Perlmutter about a day at Tremont 647. I feel I need to preface it by telling you he was late, and it made me a little upset, thus making our specials not ready on time. As for my staff you’ll read that I swear at them and am pretty intense- I love my staff and usually I am just playing with them….usually.

“Andy’s World”

The writer spends an evening with Andy Husbands and the Tremont 647 staff.

From an early age, I harbored reality-challenged fantasies of running my own dining establishment. After years of listening to my father’s horror stories – he’s a restaurant lawyer – I eventually decided I was better suited for a quieter career in finance. I’m a sensitive type. The restaurant biz is for people from tougher stock – people like his client Andy Husbands.

“Spend an afternoon with Andy Husbands and the Tremont 647 staff.” So reads the gift certificate handed to me by my parents for my 35th birthday. I’d been curious about Husbands – a man who has achieved moderate celebrity status within Boston in recent years, thanks in part to a 2002 cookbook that sold well nationally and a generous record of charitable works. My father is normally stingy with his praise – this is a man who boycotted Legal Seafood for 25 years after they served him a suspect piece of bluefish in 1977 – yet he had always spoken highly of Husbands, calling him not only a good businessman, but a good guy. I looked forward to a stint in the kitchen despite lingering concerns that it was an evening of unpaid labor disguised as a birthday present.

I arrive at quarter to three on a cloudy Saturday afternoon in mid April and I’m immediately whisked to the basement kitchen. Husbands excuses himself from a conversation with two of his staff to offer me a terse greeting. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m 45 minutes late and I’ll soon learn there’s no time for pleasantries in a fast paced kitchen. He hands me a uniform. Five minutes later it’s go-time. Andy grabs two rabbits and six ducks out of the walk-in fridge. Together, we get down to the business of butchering game and poultry on a large center table.

Pushing 40, with a hint of gray in each long sideburn, Husbands is an imposing presence. The heavily tattooed Seattle native isn’t tall, but he has a thick set of biceps and quads to boot, giving the impression of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kick your ass if you gave him any trouble. Fortunately nobody gives Husbands trouble. His staff is deferential, referring to him in all cases as “chef” like they do on reality TV. “Chef, do you need anything else today?” a line cook scheduled to have the night off asks. Andy’s response: “Yeah, I need you to get the fuck out of here.” Another minion asks how to handle a bowl of chutney simmering on an upstairs stovetop. Andy: “See if you can figure it out. If you can’t, I’ll be up in a few to show you how to do it, like I always have to.” His tone is not nearly as unkind as the words might indicate. The employee displays no visible ill will.

I begin hacking away at a duck. Andy’s instructions are simple: Separate the fat, liver, breasts, neck and carcass into separate buckets. Do not under any circumstances waste any breast meat. I cut with great trepidation. The early results are not good. “Cut toward the bone,” Andy tells me. “Turn your knife into the bone. Stop trying to gouge it. Let the knife do the work.” Later, he’ll tell my wife it took me two hours to do a 40-minute job.

As I work with Andy, snippets of his personality emerge. I try to make small talk, asking him how often he’s at the restaurant. “Maybe three, four times a week,” he tells me. “Dude, I do what I want,” he adds defiantly. He corrects my knife work again. He seems annoyed with my lack of progress, but he remains encouraging. I sense his urgency. I spy an older Asian man who Andy later identifies as head day chef Tsering Dongshi, smiling kindly at me as he watches me wrestle the duck. Slowly, I begin to get the hang of it. I’m cutting straight down, using minimal pressure with only the tip of the knife. Now the meat is pulling neatly away from the bone. “Better,” offers Andy.

From time to time, members of his staff – mostly young people, with the exception Tsering – approach and ask for cooking guidance. Husbands dispatches them rapid-fire. He claims on his Website to collaborate on new dishes with his co-chefs. I have no reason to doubt the claim, but it’s hard to picture such a conversation taking place. He responds to his staff’s questions almost before they’re finished asking them; this doesn’t have the feel of a democracy. The notion of challenging his viewpoint, or (gasp) disagreeing with him seems a risky venture. To break the monotony of my ongoing duck dismemberment, I ask if he has a favorite Boston restaurant. He scowls for a moment before claiming he doesn’t, but that he likes his friends’ restaurants. There’s an air of “You don’t understand my world,” as he brushes off my attempts at small talk.

I can’t blame him for being this way. His energies are focused on the monumental task of preparing for the evening. Unrelated conversation is mere noise. I fetch two eggs from the walk-in, which he promptly smashes and decants with professional acumen. He tears his way from one flare-up to another; faster than the normal person, (by which I mean me). His staff is equally focused. To my left, a silent unshaven man constructs lamb ravioli six at a time, while across from me Andy’s Chef de Cuisine Yura chops onions with the speed of an M-16. Tsering peels 30 avocados in the time it would take me to do four.

At five, we head upstairs to the Sister Sorel bar, a 2001 expansion of the original Tremont 647 space, which has evolved into a hangout for locals. Andy stands behind the bar, arms folded sternly, as his wait staff sits on the bar stools and awaits his instruction. He pauses, not unlike General Patton – or George C. Scott’s version of General Patton – until he has everyone’s attention. After introducing me as the evening’s stage (st-aw-j), he admonishes the wait staff for leaving late night diners who paid their bills at the restaurant. “If it happens again, it will result in immediate termination,” he says warmly. Once that unpleasantness is over with, he previews the duck and rabbit dishes we’ve been preparing, which will both serve as special appetizers on the evening menu. “Don’t offer these specials until you see them first,” he says. I get the sense somebody has made this mistake in the past. He finishes by reminding the staff they have 101 reservations this evening and are expecting 40 or more walk-ups. The unspoken message: It’s an important night for the restaurant. Don’t screw up what I’ve built here.

Pep talk complete, he ushers me into an adjacent party room where the staff meal lingers. It’s a fairly unimpressive tray of tortillas and Swedish meatballs. “These suck,” he tells me, popping a meatball into his mouth. “We served them Thursday night.” I try one and it tastes delicious.

Back in the kitchen, he renders the duck breasts fat-side down onto a large frying pan, draining the liquefying fat into a tin. Then he whips out the rabbit loin, cubes it and gives me a 30 second seminar on the art of breading. If you’ve ever breaded something at home you know your fingers often end up breaded as well. Andy demonstrates how to avoid this by keeping one hand dry and one hand wet. I dip a slice of rabbit loin in some flour. He gets irritated when I don’t shake the flour off with enough vigor. He pinches an edge of loin and shakes it far more vigorously than my limp-wristed effort. I liken his movements to a man shaking off his wiener after taking a leak. He nods his head without looking up. “Yeah, that’s not bad.” It’s as close to a chuckle as I’ll get out of him on this day.

When I finish encrusting the rabbit loin in pistachios, Andy hands me a large tray of mashed white and sweet potatoes with peas, along with an ice cream scooper. “Take a half- no, a full scoop,” he says. He shows me how to roll it in breadcrumbs and mold thick 3″ cakes out of it. I am competent at this task, which enables Andy to focus his attentions elsewhere. He races upstairs to check on the rhubarb chutney. I look at the clock. It’s almost six. Where did the time go? Andy pops back in and orders me to join the food assembly upstairs.

I re-greet Alex, who I met earlier in the ransacked back alleyway smoking a Parliament. The narrow, slack-jawed line-chef looks like he’s 19, but he’s actually in his mid 20s. Earlier, I had heard some of the other staff discussing him downstairs. Comments ranged from, “He likes to talk,” to, “He’s a bitch.” Alex talks like he works – warp speed. He’s passionate about all things food, but also helpful and friendly. He anoints me as “man in charge of bread-basket assembly.” It might sound like a mundane task, but Tremont 647 serves three different kinds of bread including a pain-in-the-ass flatbread that crumbles easily. I’m already falling behind after the two lousy bread orders. Alex teaches me a more efficient order of operations. My speed improves.

Husbands pops back upstairs with the rendered duck we’ll be using for the special. He demonstrates to Alex how he wants the special to be prepared. Then he calls the wait staff over and everyone gets a quick taste before Andy disappears again. Alex examines the duck and opines that the skin should be crispier. I agree, and ask him if he’s going to tell his boss what he thinks. He looks at me like I’m crazy.

During my time on the line, I gain better understanding of the restaurant’s fragile human dynamics. There’s friction between Alex and John, a pleasant intern from Johnson & Wales (Andy’s alma mater) in Providence. John isn’t as polished as the other line chefs. While he and Alex are constantly yapping at each other throughout the evening, it doesn’t stop either one of them from working as a team when the orders come flying in fast. Alex whips up dishes of tuna tartar, buttermilk fried chicken, and wedge salads with lightning speed. John splashes the gravy on a plate of chicken, but Jura spots the dribbles before the plate leaves the kitchen. He chastises John for his sloppiness. You’re not in cooking class anymore, kid.

Downstairs, I use the opportunity to wipe my brow and chat up the female Alex – Andy’s pastry chef. I’m loitering, but what is Husbands going to do, fire me? Alex is a kind woman in her 30s, not unattractive by any means, with a noticeable Boston accent. By day, she works in finance, but she says she owed it to herself to pursue her passion. As she double dips hazelnuts one at a time in a caramel coating she tells me she hopes to open a hole-in-the-wall café some day. “You know, like the cafe in Friends, she tells me. I seem to recall the one in Friends was rather large, but I keep this to myself.

Back upstairs, Andy has taken on an expediting role. Now that the orders are rolling in, he stands at the counter and assigns different dishes to the line chefs. When the orders come flying out to his satisfaction, he heaps praise on them. Glancing over, I catch a view of a man at the height of his powers – the restaurant version of Sergio Zawa. He seems, dare I say, happy. When a dish gets sent back to the kitchen, for good reason I might add, there’s no blame-game. It’s just part of the business. I’m sure he’ll save the yelling for later. Now that the action is heated, Alex and John have stopped snipping at each other. No time for argument. Andy has them focused on the goal at hand, which -when you get right down to it – is survival.

Now in peak dining hour, I’m feeling overwhelmed. I try to scoop some corn bread off the grill, and it slips off the spatula. “Where’s that bread for four?” shouts Alex. I can feel my blood pressure rising again. Then I hear the familiar voice of Liz, my wife. She has mercifully arrived at the restaurant, which means I’m free to go back to my dull life and escape the madness of this place. Before I rip my uniform off, Liz asks that I make a spectacle of myself for her and our friends’ enjoyment. She clicks a photo of me on her cell phone camera as I prepare one last breadbasket. I need a drink.

We sit down directly across from the open kitchen area. The difference of a few precious feet of real estate is remarkable in this case. Where before I was in a virtual war-zone of barked-out orders and frenzied activity, I now only hear the happy chatter of people savoring a Saturday evening meal. The soundproofing is well conceived; I no longer hear Alex’s angst ridden diatribe. Only the occasional “hot food!” manages to sneak out of the dining room.

We drink wine and order the two appetizers I was principally (ok, partly) responsible for. The first one – sliced duck breast served over a sweet potato and pea cake and topped with rhubarb chutney – is a hit. The acrobatic sweetness of the strong flavors is almost, but not quite overwhelming. They could serve it for dessert. The second appetizer – pistachio-encrusted rabbit loin served in a stewed saddle meat broth with carrots, celery and onions – is not quite as pleasing. It seems to lack seasoning, though it’s possible I’m missing out on the dish’s subtleties thanks to the big red wine we ordered.

Late in the meal, Andy approaches and asks us how the food is. I tell him the duck was fantastic, but that the rabbit maybe lacks “oomph.” I gesture with my hands for impact. Andy’s reply is in character. “Well, when it’s your circus mcgurkis, you can make the food decisions.” At first I’m offended, but then I just realize that’s just Andy. He’s not trying to be rude, he just genuinely unaffected by my opinion. He did it his way. To that, we all drink a toast to him, his staff, and an afternoon I won’t soon forget.
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