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his kitchen that reads “Sense of Urgency.” He teaches his cooks how to tie and untie plastic bags and how to open and close refrigerator doors. He works toward a perfect method for everything. That level of control—one that workers in another industry might resent and deride as micromanagement—is welcomed by the cooks at The French Laundry because they want to learn from Keller. The atmosphere of mutual striving delivers what they want: not only the ultimate manifestation of cuisine, their chosen vocation, but the ultimate manifestation of themselves as professionals and as people.
KITCHEN GUIDES
    Long ago the chef and the priest were one.
    In Japanese Zen Buddhism, the head of the kitchen, or
tenzo,
held one of six high offices in the monastery. A Buddhist monk in Japan named Eihei Dogen in the year 1237 wrote about the sanctity of the cook in a treatise called
Tenzo Kyokun.
“Instructions tothe Tenzo,” as the title translates, described the tasks of this priest/ chef—a post to which Dogen believed only the most masterful monks should be appointed—and the importance of order and cleanliness in the tenzo’s work. On a deeper level, Dogen displays how the work of the cook can instruct anyone outside the kitchen on how to approach all kinds of worldly work with reverence.
    Dogen writes of preparation—that tomorrow starts today, at noon, when the ingredients for the next day’s meals should be assembled—and of cleanliness (“Clean the chopsticks, ladles, and all other utensils . . . conscientiously wash the rice bowl and soup pot”). Dogen also details a process for everything: He decrees the careful conservation of space (“Put those things that naturally go on a high place onto a high place, and those that would be most stable on a low place onto a low place”), of movement (“Do not throw things around carelessly. . . . Handle ingredients as if they were your own eyes”), of ingredients (“Do not allow even one grain of rice to be lost”), and of time (“All day and all night, the tenzo has to make arrangements and prepare meals without wasting a moment”).
    The profound counsel infusing these instructions boils down to presence. “The tenzo must be present,” Dogen writes, “paying careful attention to the rice and soup while they are cooking. This is true whether the tenzo does the work by himself or has assistants helping him.” Dogen urges a presence as much mental as physical, a presence manifested through awareness (“Keep your eyes open”); in communication, as when he advises the tenzo to seek input from the five other high-office holders about meals; and by acceptance: Dogen writes at length about the tenzo’s responsibility to work humbly with the ingredients at hand.
    Presence manifests for the tenzo as focus and commitment, turning work into a form of meditation.
When sitting, just sit. When cooking, just cook. Care for nothing but the work when you work.
“My sincerest desire,” Dogen writes, “is that you exhaust all the strength and the effort of your lives . . . and every moment of every day into your practice.” Dogen saw this form of complete immersion as a connection with the Divine: “To view all thingswith this attitude is called Joyful mind”—a curious juxtaposition of exhaustion with joy that resonates with modern chefs and cooks.
    In the end, Dogen saw the tireless work of the tenzo as a gateway to personal growth.
In serving others with magnanimity, joy, and with the care of a parent,
he counseled,
you are working to better your self.
To Dogen, service wasn’t soft or self-effacing. On the contrary, Dogen advised his tenzo to compete with his masters. “If great teachers in the past were able to make a plain soup from greens for only a pittance, we must try to make a fine soup for the same amount. There is no reason why we cannot [surpass] the