One chilly morning I awoke with a serious Marvin, which is British slang for “starvin’.” All I had in the way of ingredients was some stale baguette, olive oil, and a dozen eggs. So I cut the bread up into croutons, fried them in the oil until golden brown, then poured in three beaten eggs seasoned with salt and black pepper. And voila! The birth of Fried-bread Scrambled Eggs, and let me tell you, in times of little funds and few ingredients, FBSE really hits the spot. Bacon? Who needs all that saturated fat? Butter and jam? That’s for wooses. Cheese? Hey, this ain’t Wisconsin! There’ll be plenty of time to bulk up on bacon, butter, jam and cheese – but for now, when the going gets tough, real men eat Fried-bread Scrambled Eggs.
Winter on Cape Cod is quiet and beautiful, but it can be lonely. Autumn had stirred longings for shared candle-lit evenings in front of a roaring fire, but they were not to be. The majority of the residents who lived on the Cape all year round were men, and the few women there were all spoken for in one form or another. I painted my room in twelve different shades of blue, no doubt reflecting my state of mind. Somehow, Cape Cod was a place I never could find romance, at any season. Ten years later I would work on the Cape again for a summer, as Executive Chef at a fine-hundred seat restaurant, a “food factory” in another village. But so far as my personal life was concerned, it would be the same story. When autumn arrived, the same longings would arrive with it, and I would again be left wondering where all the beautiful women had gone.
At the East Bay Lodge, meanwhile, Leah Keston was fast approaching the end of her first pregnancy. Assuming that the baby would take up most of her time, she and her husband had gone in search of a new hostess for the restaurant. Enter Polly Halloran, a petite, attractive middle-aged restaurant professional, with a noble style and a gracious manner, discovered by the Keston’s during a trip to Palm Beach. The staff regarded her as a classy addition to the restaurant’s ambiance, and a welcome relief after Leah Keston.
Polly had only been there a month or so when the baby arrived. After a brief trial at staying home, Mrs. Keston decided she would rather work. Without warning, Polly was called into the office and informed that her services were no longer required.
I stopped by Polly’s home that evening and found her devastated. She had been persuaded to uproot herself from her Florida home and job, and move to Cape Cod at the start of the coldest, quietest time of the year, only to be dumped for no fault of her own. It was pitiful. She had been more than qualified for the position, no question of that. The Keston’s had simply, irresponsibly, “changed their minds.” She described the scene in the their office when gave her the news. They had offered no severance, no compensation, no apology.
I listened sympathetically, shared some of my own experiences, and told her I was not particularly surprised. It is par for the course for that callous trio: the arrogant, condescending Ricci; the owner Bob Keston ever-ready with loaded shotgun; and the self-centered, ambitious Leah, playing Mommy one day, then tossing aside her replacement and returning to work the next. Polly was just the latest casualty.
Once cold December night, I left work having earned five dollars in tips for the entire evening. I drove the eight miles to Hyannis then stopped for a drink before going home. I walked into the bar at the Dunfey’s Hotel, and there wasn’t a soul to be found, not even a barman. I sat down at the bar and waited. A few minutes later, five musicians walked in, members of the band, returning from a break to begin another set.
The bartender arrived shortly thereafter. “Are you the bartender?,” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, somewhat sarcastically, “are you the customer?” Overhearing this, the band erupted in a roar of laughter. I ordered a drink, an International Stinger – a knockout-cocktail consisting of one-part Metaxa and one-part Galliano, on the rocks. One of the band members came over to me and said, “As the rhythm guitarist for ‘The Open Road,’ I’d like to welcome you to our next set. You see, it’s not every day that we get an opportunity to play for an actual person this time of year, in this kind of a place.” He introduced himself, then the other members of the band. One of them was a short, Hispanic-looking gent, and I felt my first excitement in weeks. “Hey, I know you!” I said to him. “You’re Georgie Ruiz!” His looked at me perplexed.
“Yeah, I’m Georgie Ruiz. Who are you?”
“David, man. It’s me, David, from Haaren.” He pondered that for a moment, then said, “Dave? You mean Dave from Haaren High School? Oh-my-god… what are you doing here?” Upon hearing this exchange, the rest of the band members started jumping up and down, yelling “Dave! It’s Dave! Hey man, Dave’s here! Dave’s here! It’s Dave!”
There we were, five itinerant musicians, a sulking bartender, and me – the lonely bus-person – all stuck on Cape Cod in the middle of the winter without a woman in sight, yelling, and jumping, and carrying on. It was hysterical. The band played for another hour or so, then Georgie and I sat up until 4:00 A.M. catching up. We had been good pals at Haaren, the public all-boys high school in Hell’s Kitchen on the west side of Manhattan, where we had both graduated nearly five years before. We had paled around outside of school, as part of a loosely-knit, culturally-mixed gang of Puerto Rican, Ukrainian, Irish and African-American city teenagers – hanging out together on the southern border of Spanish Harlem, smoking reefer, and getting into relatively innocent mischief. Now, by virtue of some divine intervention we had a reunion at a hotel on Cape Cod.
Business at East Bay Lodge was not much livelier than in the bar at Dunfey’s. I had a sudden sense of not wanting to be there anymore. Five dollars a night in tip money was hardly enough to compensate for coping with Ricci and the Keston’s, never mind the dearth of romance. And if the Keston’s could fire a hostess like Polly in the middle of the winter, for little provocation, they wouldn’t think twice about dumping a busboy like me. Besides, I didn’t want to be a busboy. I wanted to be a chef. Yet how could I leave? What money I had saved from the summer has mostly gone into my blue Falcon and the advance deposits on the house. The more I considered my situation, the worse I felt.
Enter Donna, a waitress at the restaurant, who invited me to join her for a long weekend of skiing in Vermont. Not only did I jump at the opportunity, I figured I could use the time away to recuperate from the petty dramas at work, and perhaps get a fresh view of things. I scraped up enough money to make the trip, and borrowed the skiing gear.
On Friday night, Donna and I piled into her silver-gray 240-Z Datsun, and headed for the mountains. Four-and-a-half hours later, we arrived at a modest ski lodge in Dover, Vermont, where we had made a reservation. We settled into our room, each selecting one of the two twin beds, then headed downstairs for some ski-country fare.
We were hungry and cold after the long drive, and the food was hearty and appetizing. After coffee and dessert, I walked into the kitchen to introduce myself to the chef. Though employed at the moment as a busboy, I still considered myself a culinarian and was always curious to meet a colleague. The chef’s name was Ski – “Gee, clever name,” I thought. A bit plump and jovial, and a Marine veteran, he asked me what I was up to. He asked if I was interested in getting back into the kitchen, adding that he knew a lodge owner who needed a chef right away.
Early the next morning, while Donna was still at breakfast, Ski drove me over to the “Sitzmark,” a very popular lodge in that area, and introduced me to owner Charlie Rotolo. I sat down with the affable Mr. Rotolo in his office, who asked me what kind of experience I had. “I’m a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, and...” “That’s fine,” he replied, “when can you start?”
This was almost too good to be true. Mr. Rotolo’s enthusiastic response was an instant lesson in the value of my two-year culinary degree. I had already decided that anything would be better than five bucks a night and zero job security. I told him I could start in three days, and he was delighted. “Fine. The salary is one-hundred-and-fifty-dollars per week, plus an apartment and a season lift ticket at the local ski moun
tain. Is that agreeable to you?”
Agreeable? I maintained my professional demeanor. “Yes, that’s fine Mr. Rotolo. I’ll see you in three days.”
“Excellent. And welcome to the lodge.”
It was the shortest job interview I had ever had, and the first time that my CIA credentials had held me is such good stead. Donna and I drove back Sunday night, and on Monday I went to Fran Ricci’s office and told him that developments beyond my control required that I move on. I thanked him for his efforts on my behalf. Whatever our differences, I understood it was important to be gracious and leave on good terms. Back at the house I apologized to my roommates for the sudden move. That same afternoon, I loaded up the Blue Max, my trusty Falcon, and hit the road.
I stayed in touch with Malcolm, Gail, and Richard for the remainder of the winter, telephoning them and writing occasionally. I missed them, but life in ski country was wild and rugged, carefree and fun. I made new friendships and cooked up a storm. Towards the end of the winter, I spoke with Gail over the phone. She told me that Malcolm had been fired from the restaurant after a huge argument with manager Ricci.
The plethora of emotions that ran through my body and mind were almost too delicious to describe. I was shocked and stunned, surprised and thrilled, amused and over-joyed. All that previous summer I had struggled to establish myself in the shadow of Malcolm, the Great Star, the guy who was gonna set the world on fire and become an Executive Chef within five years. Now he had fallen from the good graces of the arrogant, supercilious Ricci. Welcome to the real world pal. Oh how I reveled in this turn of affairs, drank deep from the goblet of glory, and gloated like hell. I had been rigorously tested the year previous, had endured and survived, paying a good chunk of professional dues in the process. Now, it was Malcolm’s turn to pay dues.
Chapter 7
A Day In The Life of a Cook
I had little problem adjusting to life in ski country – the ski-bum life, as some of my new friends called it – nor did I have any problem settling into my work routine. I was responsible for preparing breakfast and dinner, six days a week – with the seventh day handled by Judy, the owner’s wife.
In ski country few weekend guests rise early enough for breakfast – after a late night of partying, drinking and dancing. Breakfast service was from 9-to-11:00 AM, and I would be lucky to have a total of three guests. I set up a breakfast station of course, but I spent the bulk of those two hours prepping for dinner – which would give me a full afternoon to ski, nap, then be prepared for roughly sixty guests from 6-to-9:00 PM.
This was my routine then – prep dinner in the early-morning hours of the day, head up to the mountain and ski for three hours or so, return home for a power nap, then get my kitchen cranked up for dinner. What a life. I couldn’t imagine a better situation.
Still, this was not an assignment for the uninitiated, or for anyone with an aversion to frigid New England mornings. I typically entered the kitchen at 5:30 AM, with daylight just breaking over the mountains. The kitchen had a gas grill with a rear vent through which one could see the snow-covered ground and the ice atop an adjacent creek. It was as cold within the kitchen as it was without – perhaps a few degrees colder – and it would take a good hour before my work space warmed up to the point where I could take off the wool shirt under my chef jacket and the down vest on the exterior.
One morning, feeling a bit more frigid than usual, and somewhat lonesome in my solo bachelor’s life – I suddenly felt as if I were in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was a combination of influences at that moment. Whatsoever the case, the cold chill and the vapor from my breath just seemed to coalesce and I felt completely out of place.
Of course, when the going gets tough, the tough get going – and once I got the kitchen warmed up and my blood flowing sufficiently, my mood shifted, and all was good in my world. By 7:00 PM I had my breakfast station up and running, and I was ready to prepare eggs-any-style, a couple of omelets, French toast, pancakes, bacon-sausage-ham, and home-fries – while my waitress handled toast, butter, jam, coffee, tea and service.
I then focused on prepping my dinner service. The evening menu always included two choices for each of four courses, including soup, appetizer, primary course, and dessert. I ran a three-week menu cycle, with an international flavor, and included many of my favorite main courses: Roast Duckling, Brandied Peaches; Braised Saüerbraten mit Spaëtzle und Braised Red Cabbage; Burgundy-style Beef Stew; Sicilian-style Roast Chicken, Polenta and Green Olives; Kohta Yahni (a Greek-style braised chicken dish similar to Chicken Cacciatore); Lamb Shanks Braised in Guinness; Veal Cannelloni; Trout Almandine; Chicken Parmagiana.
First course was typically a soup, usually made with beans. One of the most popular was Cuban-style Black Bean Soup
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Cuban-style Black Bean Soup
2 cups (480 mL) dried black beans, soaked in water overnight
1½ quarts (1½ liters) chicken stock
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon (3 mL) ground cumin
¼ cup (60 mL) olive oil
the white part (bottom) of 2 leeks, cut into ¼-inch (.6 cm) dice
1 small green bell pepper, cut into ¼-inch (.6 cm) dice
1 small red bell pepper, cut into ¼-inch (.6 cm) dice
6 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced very thin
salt and pepper to taste
½ cup (120 mL) red onion sliced very thin
optional: sour cream
Remove any damaged beans, then simmer in the chicken stock with bay leaf and cumin for one hour or until tender. Set aside to cool.
Purée half of the beans in a blender, adding water or stock in order to thin out slightly.
Sauté the leek and peppers until tender, without browning. Add the garlic, and cook several more minutes. Add all of the beans - whole and puréed – and blend. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper, and serve topped with the onion and a dollop of sour cream.
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Kohta Yahni
1 whole, fresh roasting chicken
olive oil as needed
salt and pepper
1 large red onion, peeled and medium diced
1 bulb garlic, peeled, and sliced
6 sprigs fresh oregano
½ cup (120 mL) slivered basil leaves
1 cup (240 mL) dry white wine
1 cup (240 mL) chicken stock
2 cinnamon sticks, broken in half
1 cup (240 mL) tomato purée
2 heaping tablespoons (60 mL) tomato paste
½ teaspoon (3 mL) fresh-ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon (5 mL) cloves, wrapped in a cheesecloth sachet (little sack)
Rinse the chicken well in cold water, drain and pat dry. Cut the wing tips off, and save with the giblets for later use.
Cut the chicken in half, then each half into five pieces - leg, thigh, and the breast into thirds. Season with salt and pepper, and sauté in the olive oil until light brown on all sides. Remove and set aside.
Sauté the onion several minutes, then add the garlic and herbs and continue sautéing. Add the wine, stock, and cinnamon, and deglaze. Add the tomato, nutmeg and cloves, and simmer covered 20 minutes. Add the chicken, blend in, cover, and bake for 25 minutes. Serve with rice pilaf or orzo – a small pasta in the shape of rice.
NB: I learned this Greek dish during a summer working as pantry boy at Basel’s, a family-owned restaurant in New Haven, Connecticut.
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For desserts I ran my favorites: Tarte Tatin, Poached Pear Roman-style (stuffed with marzipan); Cherry Cobbler; Dutch Apple Cake; Apple Crêpes, Caramel Sauce; Vin Blanc Sapphire (a white wine mousse). I was about to prepare a Chocolate Decadence – a flourless chocolate torte – when my trusty dishwasher Janice asked me if I had ever made a mayonnaise cake.
Janice and her husband owned a local dairy farm, and worked as dishwasher during the winter months to augment her family incom
e. She was a terrific co-worker and I enjoyed our conversations as I prepared my dinners. She shared her recipe for mayonnaise cake, and I have probably made it a hundred times in the years since. It is the simplest, most down-to-earth, fail-safe chocolate cake I have ever made - not dense like Chocolate Decadence, but moist and light, which makes it the perfect chocolate sponge to augment with frosting, jam, rum syrup, whipped cream and strawberries, or just about anything one would want to add. It remains one of my prized recipes.
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Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake (Yields two- 8-inch cake rounds)
1 cup (240 mL) sugar
2 cups (480 mL) flour
2 teaspoons (10 mL) baking soda
¼ cup (60 mL) cocoa powder
¼ cup (60 mL) mayonnaise
1 cup (240 mL) hot water (100-degrees F; 50-degrees C)
1 teaspoon (3 mL) vanilla
Preheat an oven to 350-degrees F (175-degrees C)
Sift together the first four ingredients into a bowl. Add the mayonnaise, hot water, and vanilla, and blend thoroughly. Pour into a greased and floured baking pan, and bake 25-to-30 minutes.
After cooling for 10 minutes, remove the cake from the pan, and allow to cool on a rack. Store in air-tight container until ready to garnish.
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One of the simplest ways to serve this cake is to pipe out whipped, sweetened cream through a star tube, and top with fresh-grated nutmeg. It can also be used as a base for a two-layered Black Forest Cake, in which cherries are added to the whipped cream in the center, and single cherries placed around the top outside edge of the cake.
Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef Page 10
