Chef

Story Time:

One of the things I was looking for when I moved out to California was a mentor. I haven’t mentioned that to too many folks before now, but I did, honestly, have that exact thought. I had cooked with lots of other folks before that point, but, well, I had just never been all that impressed. I guess it was a mix of my ego, the confidence of youth, and, perhaps, bad luck...But I had never found anyone who was ‘so much better’ than me that I felt like I needed to listen all that closely to what they had to say. I have stated in other of these ‘newsletter stories’ that I was a bookworm, and that trick had allowed me the keyhole through which I could view a world of more exotic, more intellectual approaches to my chosen trade. But, to date, I had never met anyone who embodied the ideals and skills that I was seeking to absorb. I needed a chef, a real chef to bring me over that hill, to take me under their wing, to nurture my obvious talent... Instead, I met Eric Tucker. (Insert winky-face emoticon here)

I should not discount the fact that I learned much of what I know from other cooks and even chefs—John and Steve at Romeo’s, a kitschy Austin Italian joint, come to mind. John, who taught me to blacken chicken, had learned how to do it directly from Paul Prudhomme, the inventor of the technique; and Steve, who showed me the ropes on our wood fired pizza oven was a quiet, patient tutor whose first job was as an executive chef overseeing the menus of the multiple restaurants in the Comida Deluxe (Austin savvy folks will know it as the Chuy’s...) restaurant group. The consulting chefs who helped open the Brazos Brewing Company taught me how to make a hollandaise and Jason at Cenare gave me my first pair of checks and taught me how to sauté. Habib at Mother’s taught me patience and perfection as well as how to make a perfect hamburger bun (believe it or not, it involves jumping up and down...) There have been a number of generous teachers over the years who have each helped to teach me how to cook, but only one made me a chef.

When I went to San Francisco, I went to become a chef. I had some names in my pocket, not many, mostly from a (pre-internet) book of vegetarian restaurants for travelers that I had picked up at a discount book store. It was a little out of date, but accurate enough for me to know that If I wanted to work in high end vegetarian cuisine I had about three choices in the US: New York, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. My first thought had been, of course, cooking school, of which I could find only one that fit my (at that time) meat free agenda, The Natural Gourmet Cooking School in Manhattan. Exactly one weird, exhausting road trip later (it involves an ex-girlfriend, a night of debauchery in Washington D.C. on July the fourth, an awkward stay on the floor of an apartment on the Lower East Side, witnessing the death of a pedestrian in traffic and, finally, a conference at a school smaller than my parents house that involved graduates discussing jobs they had gotten that paid less than my current wage...) I decided that I was either not interested in cooking school, was too late for it, or, maybe, that I just wasn’t ready for New York.

San Francisco had more pages in the book than New York anyway. It had the Greens Restaurant, an institution whose cookbook stood as one of the most important textbooks in my self designed curriculum, and it contained a brief passage about a little place in San Rafael (just across the bridge from downtown) that sounded like my perfect choice: Milly’s Restaurant, a gourmet vegan destination... I was, at the time of planning that next step, a vegan, and as such, was obviously enamoured with the idea of finding myself settled into a cozy little gourmet vegan spot in the wealthy neighbourhood of downtown San Rafael...

I had also heard about Millennium from my boss at Mother’s Café in Austin; he knew a former employee who had moved out to San Francisco and found a sweet job waiting tables at a chic veggie place right downtown. Millennium wasn’t in my book, however, so I set the thought aside. I arrived in San Francisco by bus early one morning and checked into a youth hostel that became my home for the next 6 months(!) I quickly discovered that the cash in my pocket did not translate well from Texas dollars in to San Franciscan, and began schlepping my handmade single page, friendly, interesting (I hoped) resume to whoever would receive it. The Greens took a copy, but never called. Several other places did, but my big disappointment came after an hour long bus-ride into San Rafael, an ill fated trip that would have been quickly avoided by a high speed internet connection today—Milly’s was gone. The one that was my first choice, my great hope... just plain gone. No sign to mark its passing. I ended up at Herbivore, a brand new restaurant in the Mission district—Vegan, yes, which was nice, but mentor-less and too casual for what I had hoped to find. I was managing other cooks and writing recipes for this new job within weeks and found myself, yet again, unimpressed with what was on offer to be learned. Then, one day, wandering around my neighbourhood, I found Millennium by chance. Its sign made no mention of its vegetarian credentials, only my nagging memory of the name from my former boss’ mention drew the thought to mind—it was a scant three blocks from the youth hostel where my rucksack had found a semi-permanent home all while I had spent 3 or 4 months slogging vegan fast food two neighbourhoods away.

But there it was, ‘Millennium Organic Cuisine’, a sign I later found out had been a compromise borne out of a fear that even in downtown San Francisco, no-one would darken the door of a vegan restaurant unless lured in by less jarring words. The apologetic tone ended at the sign. Once inside, Margaret Mead’s famous quote adorned the mirror in the lobby “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” I ventured in, just for a look at first...and was amazed and hooked, even before I tasted my first bite. I knew as I read the menu that not only had I found my mecca at last, I had found my mentor. It was enough, all apologies omitted, words written by a chef for foodies, not compromised language for the unenlightened. It described a host of wild and exotic foods, ethnic preparations, traditional techniques that should not have been found on a vegan menu... Odd, eclectic, exciting stuff. In short, Eric Tucker’s food. Within the week I returned for a taste and decided then and there that Millennium was why I had moved to San Francisco and that I would not rest until I had a job. My resume was filed, my follow up calls made. I became a nuisance until, out of pity, I was sure, Eric finally called me in to help with a catering job. It was the foot in the door that I needed and for the next two or three weeks I would drop by or call and see if anything else had come up. It did, it turns out, within just weeks of that first visit; a lead line cook left, a perfect position for me, and it also turned out that I was not under-qualified (as I had feared) but, in fact, over... Most of the cooks in the Millennium kitchen came there through, of course, the externship program of the very same Natural Gourmet Cooking School in New York City that I had decided for many reasons not to attend—entry level positions are easy to fill if you have a long list of people who are willing to work for college credit... As the food was unconventional, in house training was almost essential to fill lower level positions; as such, most of those jobs were filled by most of these green and eager folks just moving up the food chain. My timing, it would seem, with a long resume filled with line cooking experience was kind of providential; an experienced line cook was not what most of these cooking school graduates were in any way qualified to replace.

Luck had repaid me it seems, in more ways than one: Millennium was, it turned out, a sister to Milly’s in San Rafael. Eric had moved to the Bay Area from New York after a stint at the Natural Gourmet to work for Milly’s; like me, he had come to that school with experience but, unlike me, he had decided that it was worth it and stayed to attend. On graduating and moving to San Rafael, he had quickly moved up through the ranks at Milly’s, apparently taking over the kitchen within a year or so. When the folks behind Milly’s decided to move into the city, Eric’s position as head chef of the new venture became a condition to the investors. Millennium went forward and Milly’s, along with its founders, eventually fell to the side, and the investors, Anne and Larry Wheat, took the reins instead. Basically, I had finally found what I had come out hoping to find.

At Millennium, I finally felt challenged. There was never an easy ride; every cook came to the table with ideas, every cook was qualified and competent and trained and every menu was an exercise in pushing a boundary. At the centre of this firestorm of creativity sat Eric Tucker, quiet, unassuming, childish at times, even prone to wild mood swings, but unquestionably the unmoving centre of it all.

Eric did not teach me to cook. Most of that I knew before I walked through the front door. He did not teach me how to boil a noodle or how to smoke a block of tofu, although, on occasion, he may have guided my technique or made a suggestion. Eric taught me how to taste. How to take all those techniques and ideas and to put them together in a bowl and to taste them. His method of teaching was ’no.’ Or, more often, ‘not quite.’ Like a good bandleader from my days in rock & roll, he would bring in his own ‘songs’ or recipes and teach them to us as needed, and then he would take our ideas and help us craft them. I remember bringing in an idea for a cactus gumbo, it needed another element, ‘a roux?’ I suggested...’how about toasted cormeal instead?’ he countered. Minutes later I had my best recipe to date with the aid of his one simple idea. He had that knack for taking a good idea and pushing it to the next level. Eric taught us to cook by never accepting something as being just ‘good enough.’ At times he drove me crazy; his repeated refusal to even attempt some of my ideas felt like censorship, but, in retrospect, it wasn’t my name on the menu. And, to be fair, I was getting more ideas past him (or more songs on the record, if you will) than any of my co-workers were. So much so, that within the year I made sous chef.

‘Chef’ is a funny word. I think of it like ‘poet’: it’s something that you cannot call yourself. Chef, technically, just means chief, or boss, in this instance, the boss of a professional kitchen. At one point, I, like most people, thought it was a name that was applied to someone who is a really good cook—I now know that although cooking is important, maybe even the most important part of a chef’s job, it is only the tip of the iceberg. A good chef must be an efficient manager of goods, ordering, receiving, organizing an inventory; a good chef must be a hard worker, setting an example for his or her crew; a good chef must be a good listener and a good teacher, Eric knew and, I’m sure, knows some critical piece of data about every person in his employ, a favourite song, a joke that always gets a smile, which word makes them cringe... A good chef must inspire people to try new things, to expand their horizons. Lots of people are chefs these days, ‘personal chefs’, ‘bbq chefs’, ‘top chefs’, ‘T.V. chefs’, and, I guess, by my rule of that title being one that only others can bestow on you, that they have as much right to that word as anyone else. But when you are like me, unschooled, never having gone through a formal apprenticeship, that word means much, much more. Eric, when he promoted me, gave me that title for the first time. In my mind, he literally made me a chef. For that I am forever grateful.

Eric is not perfect. He, if he’s reading this, is cringing; he’s one of those guys who doesn’t do well with praise. So, to balance, I’ll admit that he wasn’t always the best communicator (neither am I); kitchens are high stress places and we all drop the ball. He is the best cook I’ve ever worked with, but even he will admit to a baroque streak, a tendency to keep adding elements until the plate is within moments of being completely overwhelmed. He and I used to laugh with manic glee as we rushed to assemble these monstrous incredible structures of flavour, texture and form in time for dinner service. Eric is imperfect alright. And fun. There are a thousand stories of colourful histories we concocted to dupe the newer and/or more gullible members of the staff in order to keep ourselves entertained. But never (...well, almost never,) out of cruelty.

He’s also...too far away, and Nicole and I miss dropping in on him. There is not one time I can recall that he couldn’t make me laugh if he really wanted to. And these days, for reasons I’ll omit, there are days when I wish I could find some way to be there for him as well.

Eric had a successful run with Millennium’s first cookbook; so much so that they asked him to write another. Eric honoured me and showed his true colours by inviting me to not only help with the new book, but to also share a full writer’s credit, something he was in no way obligated to do. Eric not only gave me my dream of being a chef, he gave me my dream of being a published author as well.

In 1995, living in Austin, I still wanted to be a rock star, maybe a writer. At New Year’s I decided that I was tired of fighting for too small a niche in too competitive of a scene; I knew I loved cooking and that if I applied myself, I could make a go of it. A year and a half later, I was the sous chef at one of the top rated vegetarian restaurants in North America. Don’t ever let anyone tell you there is something that you cannot do.

Eric Tucker is not the world’s biggest celebrity chef. He is well known within a community, but I can assure you he is among the best. His palate is flawless, his instincts are perfect and by at least one measure, he is someone whose influence will last long past his already substantial career. a few years back, I was able to travel to Philadelphia to help Eric cook a dinner for that city’s prestigious ‘Book and the Cook’ cookbook festival...On hand, besides myself were 3 other folks who had worked with Eric and gone on to become chefs in our own kitchens...I can track at least a half dozen other folks, just from my ‘class’ who have gone on to lead kitchens, become personal chefs, open catering companies, or even to help revolutionize the industry with ‘dinner club’ style moveable restaurants. Sean Baker, a sous chef from the year after I left went on to open ‘Gather’ in Berkeley and in 2010 was named Esquire Magazine’s ‘Chef of the Year.’ And even here in Ottawa, miles away from the left coast, another of Eric’s protégé’s, Caroline Ishii of Zen Kitchen, has been garnering a number of rave reviews...Eric doesn’t just make great food, he makes great cooks...

Eric Tucker came from New Jersey; he went out to San Francisco in 1992, a few years before I got there, and within a year and half he was the chef at the restaurant where he had come to train. This year, the restaurant that he helped to start and still holds on course with his steady hand is 17 years old. I know now that in restaurant years that is the equivalent of about one million. I went out to San Francisco to find a mentor, instead I found a chef, my chef, and I found a friend. Thanks, Eric.