On a Saturday night at the end of July, the departing chef cooked his last pasta with basil pesto and grilled chicken.

We had until Monday at 7:30 in the evening, when Micky, my boyfriend and the soon-to-be chef of my restaurant, would present a tasting menu to the owners and 20 friends. We had a long, wooden table set up in the garden. Everything was green and blossoming.

On Tuesday, the restaurant would open for dinner service.

There was not a fraction of a moment to spare. We said goodbye to the now former chef, and Micky got to work. He started stocks in giant pots and organized the kitchen that was still scattered with gorgonzola, truffle oil, and chicken breast—but was now his.

The Plan

The tasting menu had ten courses. I loved the cold beet borscht salad. It had so many contrasting textures and flavors: tapioca infused with beet, whipped horseradish yogurt, sweet roasted beet, crispy parmesan, and a small mound of herbs.

There was "rain bowed" trout: rainbow trout crowned with a rainbow of vegetables and served with blue foot mushrooms and ricotta gnocchi. Also: pan-roasted corn ravioli with corn crème fraiche, pickled corn, and caramelized corn purée. Diver scallop "islands" in a sea of clam consommé. Long Island duck breast with our own duck sausage and brined cherries. Braised and glazed short ribs with bacon melba and tarbais bean puree.

In other words: amazing. And a heaping pile of work. Each dish had a long list of components and an even longer prep list. This was a tiny kitchen with a small, inadequate scattering of equipment. The biggest challenge, though, was to find a team to help Micky make his extraordinary food.

Finding Staff

Without connections in Philadelphia, we turned to Craigslist. We got hundreds of responses and interviewed dozens of people. There were ex-cons and ex-fast food employees, people of all ages and walks of life.

But where were the experienced, passionate, promising cooks? After many hours talking to one potential employee after another, Micky looked discouraged.

"Was there anyone promising?" I asked.

"No."

So we posted more ads, and Micky interviewed more, and more, and more.

He wanted to hire young people with a lot of hunger to cook and learn, people who were sponges for knowledge.

So he plucked from his previous Big Restaurant: a young, tattooed cook. We knew he had a problem with drugs and a difficult past (and he was only 20!), but Micky believed in him. He was a good cook, and he had a good heart.

The second person we hired came late on his first day. So there was no second day for him. (Micky believes it's better to have a shortage in the quality of staff than to have a shortage in the quantity.)

The third person was amply pimpled, just out of high school, and dreamed of cooking professionally. We had the requisite drive. He was hired.

Troubled Waters

Micky began what was to be the first of many, many days with a measly modicum of sleep and food. He was working, working, working. His only breaks were quick puffs of cigarettes out back.

One of my servers quit via email half an hour before the big night. Now I was down one, but there was nothing I could do. I know we would lose staff during such a dramatic change in direction.

It had been my job to plan the tasting. We had agreed on 20 guests. The problem: not everyone RSVP'd. And the owners brought more friends than I new about. There were at least 22 people expecting dinner.

Micky was angry. He had planned for 20. There was no food for more.

"Can't we just make smaller portions?"

"No," was the answer. Drama ensued. I uninvited the previous chef, at one of the owner's requests. Then the other owner became furious. I re-invited him.

Beautiful Night

I was in a state of serious distress when I got a wonderful phone call. Two regulars, a couple, called to say they were so sorry, there was a family emergency and they would not be able to attend. These sort of miracles seem to happen in the restaurant biz. Sometimes disaster resolves on its own. (Note to self: try to remember this while in the middle of next disaster).

It was a bizarrely perfect summer night, not too hot, not too humid. The guests drank prosecco and ooed and ahhed ad nauseum about the food. But actually, it was music.

I was so proud of my vastly talented boyfriend. I was proud of my staff for pulling off the night smoothly and professionally. They could all answer questions about the pâte à choux and the artichoke salad. It got dark, and the hours passed, and still the guests ate and drank and laughed and enthused.

It was almost morning when we cleaned up and toasted the night. In a few hours, the kitchen staff would be back at work. The next night, we would have to do it all again.