Step Into My Kitchen - Part I

I suppose the best way to start this out is to introduce myself and what I hope to accomplish on these pages and what better way to do that but to get down and give you a quick run through of my cooking experience.

When I was five years-old, my fate was sealed. After working in the kitchen with my mother, dinner was ruined simply because my mother failed to follow the directions in the cook book. What the cook book was and what we were cooking are lost to the ravages of time, but the story will survive to my dying day. Having wasted all of that work, I promptly told Mother to leave the kitchen and that from now on I would be doing the cooking. I even went so far as giving her the mantra, "Follow Directions and you won't need Corrections!" Of course my stamina as the primary cook of the house did not last as long as my necessity to rides bikes and play baseball, so my family was forced to suffer under the weight of my mother's cooking for another decade and then some.

At fourteen, I decided to make the jump from home cook to restaurant and started doing every position possible in my neighbors Italian restaurant. The old men in their guinnea-Ts thought I was crazy for wanting to work in the restaurant with them, but after months of hazing me with the worst duties possible, I was taken under their wing and taught the ways of the Italian Kitchen. This place was nothing special, just a small local restaurant staffed by a family of immigrants and their underage neighbor kid, but I loved it. It sounds ridiculous to me now, but that world was so exotic to a normal middle-class white kid. The fact that they made their own bread was enough to keep me gabbing for weeks.

At sixteen, I read about a new restaurant opening up at a local ski, golf, and tennis resort. There I was drawn in to what I had always dreamed of: the food of the rich. For some reason I was always drawn to what the rich whiteys were eating and I thought that to cook that kind of food was sophisticated and special. After eating veal patties and salisbury steak forever the idea of smoked scallops and black bean cakes just blew my little head away. Everyday was an adventure in learning. The chef was a volatile prima donna, and I quickly learned what I would never become. Nonetheless, I pumped that place for all of the information it could give me and in the meantime I got to cook for the governor, Supreme Court Justices, celebrities of varying degree and a whole lot of aging moneyed white people. The reason I bring race up so much in this portion is because I link the type of food produced at high end resorts to be aimed at their largest clientele and that clientele is the wonderbread whiteys. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I'm white afterall, but with a very blue collar. Maybe the kitchen was also my way of trying to be a social climber. Who knows? Maybe we'll find out as this thing goes on.

Finally in 1988, I graduated from high school and was forced to go to college by my father who was not hearing any more of this, "I just want to be a chef," stuff and packed me off to nowhere Ohio for a brief stint as an avid alcoholic and occasional student. I can't even tell you why I went, but it was for all of the wrong reasons.

My heart and head were already stolen by the white jackets and houndstooth pants that rested unused in my closet at home. There is something to be said for the uniform of the chef. Many people giggle about it and brag that they can cook without it and isn't it great because what do those guys in the funny suits really know anyway. Let me tell you, I have done it both ways and the uniform is one of both form and function. It's nice and traditional and ties you into something bigger than just one little restaurant. It's part of a history. Not to mention wearing the jacket at the very least protects you from splatters and burns better than any t-shirt I have ever seen. Not to mention a uniform is a uniform. It's meant to take the wear and tear. Regular clothes just stain and stink, then you can never wear them again for anything else, so why not save them and continually destroy your chef's jacket until the stains will no longer come out and the whole thing has gone a hazy gray from the continuous bleaching it has taken.