Harvest America CUES BLOG

Is there any real value to nostalgia? How clear is our memory and how often do we tend to embellish on the positive and diminish the negative? Looking back can provide us with context and content for making future decisions – lessons learned and all that, or it can also help us to relish what worked and hold on to that for inspiration.

Chefs are often nostalgic. We remember the best part of the teams we were part of the people with whom we worked, the situations where we barely survived and those where we were at our best and the planets seemed to align. Underneath it all we do know that most of the time it was very hard work – physically, mentally, and emotionally. We do know that there were countless days when we thought we wouldn’t pull it off, when being in the weeds was all too common, and at any moment everything was doomed to collapse – yet we managed to soldier through. It is always those memories of pulling it off against all odds that made the stories that we relive countless times to anyone who will listen. It is also those times that built our character, our confidence, and our reputation as a chef who is well seasoned. Without these near failures, without these impossible resolutions to very difficult situations, we will never really become the hallmarks of confidence worthy of co-workers, owners, and a customer’s trust. So here is an example of a story build mostly on fact with I’m sure a touch of embellishment over the years.

SOME TIME IN THE LATE 1960’S:

Walking through the back entrance to the Statler Hilton Hotel was like stepping into a totally different world. Outside people went about their day, never giving mind to the effort, dichotomy of characters, hustle, stress, and complexity of what takes place in the “back of the house” at a twelve hundred room hotel. I pass housekeeping where the heat from commercial laundry equipment and manglers pressing sheets and towels is palpable. I pay the staff little mind and they never look up as I pass. We all have our particular missions that do not include small talk. Past maintenance and the boiler room of massive furnaces providing heat and hot water for twenty some odd floors of guest rooms and eighteen banquet rooms ranging in size from twenty seat board rooms to two-thousand seat ballrooms, and the three restaurants that grace the main lobby.

Pushing through the swinging kitchen doors I am engulfed by the smells, sounds, and oh such intense heat from a busy operation. Organized chaos would be the right phrase to use. Machine gun like rat-a-tat of French knives working through mounts of onions, carrots, and celery; the sizzle of hot pans searing meat for braising, clanging of pots and pans and dishes being stacked in the dish pit, and the relentless sound of waiters calling out “ORDERING” (this is decades before computers and POS systems) as an endless stream of dupes arrive from the dining room blend into a cacophony of sound. Complementing the music of the kitchen is a stock pot of smells from fresh breads being peeled from ovens in the bakeshop, the sweet smell of cakes and pastries, onions, and garlic sauteing, and various steaks and chops being marked on the char-grill. The kitchen is all about sensory overload and even though it might seem like an overload of unorganized effort, to those who are seasoned veterans – it is comforting.

I picked up the clipboard holding an overview of restaurant reservations for the night as well as a stack of banquet orders that will tax the system until well after midnight. There are rehearsal dinners, coffee hours, conference luncheons, an anniversary dinner for thirty people, and a few receptions with hors d’oeuvres; but what I assumed was the focus for today was a banquet for a local political party and the guest of honor, the current Vice President of the United States. As an evening sous chef for the operation, I expected to be insanely busy trying to juggle all these different events.

As I tied on my apron and pulled out my knife kit ready to dive in, the executive chef called me into his office. In line with my usual response, I said: “Yes, Chef – what’s up?” With all the chaos and borderline impending doom surrounding an absurd amount of work he told me that I would be assigned to a small service kitchen adjacent to the ballroom to cook privately for the Vice President. There would be two Secret Service Agents who would purchase all the ingredients separate from our normal storeroom inventory and would be stationed in the kitchen watching my every move. They could not take any chances when it came to the safety of the second person in line of succession to the presidency.

“But Chef. The kitchen is pushed to its limit today and there is so much I need to do. Couldn’t you assign this to one of our other cooks? Then came the real surprise as he smiled: “There is something else. In addition to the vice president in house, a full floor of rooms is dedicated to our real special guest. I have been sworn to secrecy on this for the past month, but Elvis is our real guest of honor. He has a concert in town, as you know, planned for this weekend. He and a supporting cast of musicians, security guards, managers, and who knows what else will take over one of our banquet rooms for his rehearsal and whatever else he needs.  You will not only be the private chef for the vice president, but even more significantly – the King of Rock and Roll.”

Through massive amounts of prep, every oven filled with rib eyes slow cooking to an even medium rare, items being seared, fish filleted, chickens being boned, stocks made and sauces reduced, breads, pastries, and cakes pulled from the bakeshop ovens, and desserts all types coming together under the pastry bags of our talented pastry team, I was in a small service kitchen on the second floor, being observed by agents in dark suits and sunglasses and one of Elvis’ security guards, while preparing dinner for a crowd of two.

It was hard to hold my head high walking through the kitchen seeing the crew sweating and stressed with days’ worth of work condensed into a few hours, and borderline confusion as front and back of the house employees gelled into a cohesive unit, knowing that I was not there to give them a hand. As the day progressed, everything came together. The restaurants were packed with guests from an already full hotel, the coffee hours and receptions went off without a hitch, and the banquet for twelve hundred kicked off with nearly one-hundred servers parading around the ballroom with the first course served Russian style from platters to plates. The Vice President was ushered into the room through the back gates of the hotel through the kitchen where I was working. He stood a good six inches taller than the dozen agents that surrounded him as they brought him to his seat at the head table. He was quickly introduced by the event master of ceremonies as the VP gave an energy filled ten-minute speech after which he was quickly ushered out of the ballroom, through my kitchen, and out the back entrance to a parade of black secret service vehicles. He never even took one bite of the food that I prepared.

Elvis, on the other hand was more difficult to serve than the banquet for twelve hundred. He ordered food at all hours with uninspired requests for poached eggs and peanut butter and banana sandwiches. The first night he sent his eggs back three times until they were whatever it was that he expected.

After all was said and done, my special assignment was the basis for countless jokes and ribbings by the kitchen team for weeks afterward. In fact, even years later, someone always seems to reference the fact that the vice president didn’t think very highly of my cooking, and Elvis couldn’t even tolerate my poached eggs. It was and remains a part of Statler Hilton kitchen folklore and a piece of nostalgia that makes me smile and shake my head at the same time.

It has been so long since that day that I’m not sure how accurate my account is, but there is a lesson in all of this – you never know what may need to be done in your kitchen tomorrow. There are hundreds of other stories waiting to be pulled from my memory – many ended well and a handful not so great, but all with learning moments attached to them. It’s always great to look back – nostalgia warms the heart and keeps the magic of a rewarding career, alive. The past is only insignificant if we let it slip from our minds.

PLAN BETTER – TRAIN HARDER – EVERY MOMENT IS NOTEWORTHY

Harvest America Ventures, LLC

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