1789 All-Access Behind-the-Scenes Pass.

1789 found their replacement to fill (or at least attempt to fill) Ris Lacoste's shoes, as reported by metrocurean today.

The last few weeks I've tried to capitalize on the little time 36th street has left with Ris. Every Sunday I walk a few blocks from my apartmant to eat family-style dinner with the 1789 chef staff, improve my dessert garnishing skills and burn myself at least twice from the intimidating power ovens.

It all started about a month ago when I sat in the empty dining room of '89 after class one afternoon with the Ris herself. We chatted about the expected topics— her demand for natural sunlight in her new restaurant (she hopes to open about a year from now), last week’s cauliflower selection at the outdoor Dupont market, the sixty pounds of stuffing 1789 will valiantly serve on Thanksgiving (and did!)—but then came the unexpected.

She offered me a job.

Who could say no to the golden opportunity to shadow one of the most prominent female foodsmiths in Washington? Certainly not someone who calls herself a food writer, and shamefully hasn’t actually taken a “real” cooking class. This was about as real as I could get.

In a place where every movement looks effortless and every plate appears hand-crafted by epicurean technicians positioning each rosemary sprig at just-the-right angle, you just assume the whole process is magical. But at other points, you just can’t help but ask, “how in the hell did they do that?”

It was time for one of us to find out.

Four Fridays ago, I wandered into the restaurant and in minutes became a novice in a white apron in charge of the dessert garnishes. If the edible glass was a bit off-centered on the Mexican Chocolate Cake or the pomegranate seeds were a tad over-sprinkled on the Tangerine Sorbet Sundae, please excuse the inconsistency.

Hardly anyone noticed my first few steps into the kitchen. Each pocket of the rectangular space was clearly focused on racing the clock. The salad chef was slicing forty red russet potatoes by a ten-minute deadline for Amanda the entrée chef and before I knew it, I was slicing crostini bread for the duck curry salad served as tonight’s amuse bouche.

Amuse bouche—(uh-MYUZ-boosh). Literally meaning, “mouth amuser,” it was my first 1789 vocab word. A tiny tidbit often served as a freebie appetizer, not to be confused with an hors d’oevure, the taste is just enough to keep diners happy while they wait for the first course. The amuse bouche allows the chef a range of flavors and textures with which to experiment—all in just a gulp, few licks or bite.

But back up a few steps. As soon as I got to the restaurant, Ris paused from her key duty – the authoritative check on all plates exiting the kitchen – and offered me a warm bear hug. “Everyone, this is Erin and she’s going to help us out tonight.”

The chef staff is divided into parts—hot appetizers, entrees, salads, cold appetizers and desserts. Each cook turned around, stopped flailing their heavy, sizzling pans and sai hello. Within seconds, it was back to business.

Ris tossed me a starched white apron still-creased from the iron and introduced me to Sue. For the next six hours I would learn from this five-foot-two L’Academie de Cuisine grad who immediately handed me a knife and loaf of bread. “Chop these into crostini,” my next vocab word for the night. Small, thin slices of toasted French or Italian bread.

Patient (thankfully), yet impressively quick-witted and giggly, Sue was a cross between mother hen and cool older aunt—just what I needed to feel welcome and inspired.

“Easy there on the duck curry, guys,” she warned the servers as they scooped the amuse bouche liberally. She would make sure last night’s remaining duck, the curry sauce, craisins and apples would last the evening. And when the servers complained of dryness while scooping, Sue was ready with a dollop of mayonnaise to make everyone’s life easier.

While starting to gab about my five month-old food blog and “deal” as English major, the shape and texture of the crostini began to suffer. For a moment, I forgot that my bread would be toasted and crunched by the finest of Washingtonians. Sue gently grabbed the knife and demonstrated a clean, crisp swipe, cautioning me from the “sawing” tactic. She had definitely refined the skill of chatting and slicing—clearly, I still had a long way to go.

After graduating from crostini cutting to “roughly” chopping the pistachio nuts, a garnish for both the Ice Cream Sundae and duck curry, the knife was temporarily retired. Now almost 6:30pm, dessert orders were being placed and Sue could feel the energy hitting her like clockwork. It was on to the real stuff.

The tangerine sorbet machine needed cleaning, the birthday and anniversary plate rims needed personalized calligraphy in chocolate frosting and we already had an order of Mexican Chocolate Cake printing.

Each of the desserts are made earlier that day by a pastry chef and heated each evening in daunting power ovens when ordered. Within seconds they are garnished with rare nuts, edible glasses, and one of the many eccentric flavors of ice cream or sorbet. Tonight was white chocolate, tangerine, an apple-liquor flavored ice cream, and the traditional vanilla and chocolate for the special (traditional) requests.

“Want some?” Sue scraped the freshly whipped tangerine sorbet into a white ceramic bowl. With one swallow, I tasted the apotheosis of fresh-squeezed orange juice. How could muster that much citrus out of one tiny honey tangerine? How could the sorbet be so deliciously feathery? So wonderfully icy?

At points I could hear Ris yelling in the background. She was sprinkling some dried sweet potatoes and nutmeg over the pumpkin ravioli – the one that wowed Iron Chef America judges early October – when I stopped to visit her in between Sue tasks.

Ris stood in front of the hot entrée chefs, surrounded by an easel of garnishes— plump raisins, bacon, chopped bell peppers, and sesame seeds. Then she asked something I never anticipated, “Have you decided what you want off the menu for dinner yet?”

Sampling the drunken Goat cheese from the appetizer platter or learning how to garnish tangerine sorbet with pistachios was one thing, but to have my pick at any of the entrees from the menu? That was a separate (heavenly) issue altogether.

Normally indecisive— especially when Washington’s premiere chef hands me the keys to her kitchen—the decision was surprisingly clear. Considering all the positive press of the seasonal pumpkin ravioli and my far-fetched wish to resurrect Halloween just once more before next year, I made my choice.

Peering over at Sue, I noticed her forming polka dots from cinnamon chocolate syrup in a semi-circle as she ripped off a freshly-printed receipt for another dessert order in her right hand.
Apologizing twice, I felt bad for leaving her stranded, but she didn’t think much of it. She placed a clean white ceramic plate in front of me, as if I was ready to graduate to the big leagues.

“Five dots on this side like so, then three on the other.” The chocolate cinnamon syrup alternated with the caramel syrup to envelop a flourless, warm-centered Mexican chocolate cake. With the help of a toothpick, the dots became layered hearts bleeding into one another. After polka dotting the dessert plates with syrups until it actually became “easy,” Ris brought over the bowl of my ordered pumpkin ravioli.

That’s right. My meal was just personally served to me by Ris Lacoste, and there I was, still with the residual tastes of aged cheeses in my mouth. I nibbled each part of the pasta separately at first, wanting to understand the complexities of each bite – the pumpkin puree, chanterelle mushrooms and dried sweet potatoes sprinkled on top.

There’s not much else that can top that. So I have decided to quit while I’m ahead.
Ris, Sue and the entire 1789 gang made this and all the other culinary-gymnastic mysteries that she would reveal throughout the night look like cake.

I’d say the pun was unintended, but there is not one thing that happens behind the swinging 1789 kitchen doors that falls into that category.