—perfectly every time. It was getting four or five of them hot to the table simultaneously, though they all required different cooking times, and doing so while phones rang and children squealed and pets wound their way between her feet.
Gutstein is the college boy who took a short-order job and never left. He is the one who, instead of feeling trapped by the grinding routine, found it liberating. “I never in a million years thought I would be doing this,” he says. His father was a travelling salesman who studied trumpet at Juilliard; his mother was an office manager and a part-time caterer. In high school, he played defensive end on the football team and was good enough to earn a scholarship to Holy Cross.
Like the restaurants in the casino, the hotels on the Strip are just subsets of other corporate megastructures. The Flamingo used to belong to Caesars Entertainment, which also owned Caesars Palace, Paris Las Vegas, Bally’s, and fourteen other properties. Then, this past June, Caesars Entertainment was bought by Harrah’s Entertainment, which owned twenty-five casinos.
Standing shoulder to shoulder at the griddle that morning, they looked as oddly matched as three champions at a dog show, and just as self-possessed: Martin was dark and slender, with a debonair mustache; Joel was short, angular, and efficient; Debbie was tall and matronly, with a pale, sweet face edged with melancholy.
The whole sequence took about three minutes. Meanwhile, four new tickets had printed out, the potato bin needed refilling, the last five orders were ready to flip, and Debbie had asked for some over-easies to go with a chicken-fried steak. On Martin’s side, the omelettes were multiplying—there were fifteen now, all with different ingredients—nearly crowding the egg pans off the griddle.
On early mornings, well before the first rush, Gutstein would let me work at the over-easy station for an hour or two. After a few days, I could crack seven or eight eggs in a row without breaking a yolk—good enough for Julia’s but not for a rush at the café. When Joel cracked eggs, his fingers were as loose and precise as a jazz guitarist’s. He held one egg between his thumb and his first two fingers, another curled against his palm.
Holy yolk!
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