Lately, I’ve been feeling nostalgic for my old kitchen...
Several years ago I was blessed to work with one of the best chefs I have ever known. Together we were constantly creating and learning; it is because of him that I truly found my love for food.
I wrote the below three years ago and it takes me back in time to those days surrounded by culinary passion and joy.
Miss you every day, Chef.
It was a chilly November evening and the riverside mansion was submerged in fog, a perfect setting for the authentic Italian menu we had prepared. The menu read like a wish list of comfort foods: homemade gnocchi, beef brasato in a red wine sauce, zuppa di minestra, and a warm scamorza salad with not one, but two pestos. By the time I arrived the kitchen was in full motion preparing for the small seated dinner. In the midst of it all, a tall hat was keeping his three chefs organized so that every element would be at peak flavor and temperature as the servers arrived to escort the plates into the adjoining room. The group was prepared, patiently awaiting service.
The ironic piece about being a chef is that often the higher you work your way up the brigade system, the less food you touch. Chef spends most of his time designing menus, organizing the kitchen and monitoring production. In our kitchen it is rare for him to get the chance to pick up a knife or stand over a hot stove. I have come to learn (through the few moments I have witnessed) that when I do see the tall hat cooking it means we’re in trouble and I better stay out of the way.
This particular night was a special event off campus and all focus was on the upcoming meal. Everything was perfectly on track: the table was set, the menu was phenomenal, the mise en place ready. Then, within a split second of the dinner orders arriving, the kitchen revved into high gear. The salad and minestra were quickly being consumed in the dining room, counting the kitchen down to the main moment of each entree. Orders flew in with each server: four gnocchi, six beef, three fish.
All of a sudden the tall hat was in the mix. I caught him dropping fresh chitarra pasta into a pot of boiling water. Moments later he was pulling out a sheet tray of strasinati broccoli rabe. My brain, conditioned, began to worry: Are we running behind? What are we missing? A panic ensued within me as I waited in the kitchen corner, unable to move or speak.
It was then that the Chef cut through a group of cooks on his way to the stove and said, matter of fact: “Sorry, I just really like to cook.”
The culinary industry is ruthless and ungrateful, so no one makes it far without a fierce love for the work. Even so, there was no need for him to explain himself in the middle of the kitchen that night. The man is constantly tempted with food in his kitchen that he does not touch. This night in particular, the menu was his proud creation and to sit back and watch it come alive was not possible. His body yearned to be a part of its production. There was no problem with the food or the staff, he just couldn’t stay away.
So now four chefs stood over a gas range all at once, cooking the piselli al prosciutto, straining the pasta, boiling the beet gnocchi and serving the red wine sauce. Eight hands, each with a different task, worked ferociously among the same small surface with ease. The silent focus in the room was deafening, yet to speak seemed intrusive. The pace slowed as plating began and a small line of sweat was beading underneath the tall hat. Each piece of the plate came together one by one until, like magic, it was suddenly a complete meal. Few breaths were taken and no words were spoken until the final piece of china made its way out the door.
The Chef looked up as if emerging from a trance. His face was exhausted but his eyes were glowing with excitement. “I love being in a kitchen,” he uttered quietly under his breath. Exhilarated by witnessing all that just flew before my eyes and eager to finally speak, I squealed, “Me too!” He didn’t hear me. He was still somewhere within his own head, reflecting on all that just happened and celebrating in each dish. “If I didn’t have such a wonderful family,” he continued, “I don’t think I would ever leave.”
No statement out of his mouth has ever seemed so perfect to me. These few raw sentences captured each half of his heart: his family and the kitchen. Forever dedicated to those people that mean the most to him, the Chef has remained close to home his entire life. He grew up less than a mile from the campus on which he currently works and the majority of his stories and memories take place within the Italian neighborhood of town. Last year we boarded a plane together for a work conference, making it his first time away from his family in twenty-five years. When he confessed the fact to me I was slightly stunned. My generation is the one of wanderlust, consistently seeking forms of escape and adventure. Never had I met someone who was overjoyed to stay exactly where he was. Blessed with an abundance of family and friends, he never had the need or desire.
It’s also clear that the kitchen is really his true home. There he feels the most complete version of himself, displaying his personality on beautiful plates and constantly imagining new flavors. He falls into his own state of mind when working in the kitchen. Focused and driven, he works with a passion that seeps into the entire space and spreads to those around him.
Later that night he drove home after dinner and was overcome with an enormous feeling of pride. “Each dish was as I envisioned it to be,” he told me the next morning after clearly spending the night tossing and turning. “When I designed that menu I wanted to impress myself...and I did.”
I wish for every person even half as much love for work as Chef has. It is not easy to find a passion for something as simple and magical as cooking. But if you ever do, don’t ignore it. Life is as brief as an evening fog and best fulfilled by moments that leave you gushing with pride on the drive home of a dark November night.
Photographs Property Of: Emily Baksa
