Culinary culture, from suburban roots to green idealism.

Culture is defined as shared attitudes, values, goals, and practices that characterize an entity or group.  Here’s a concise description about how one self-reflects on their own cultural identity: “Do people like me, do something like this”?

To give you a perspective into how I fit into the cultural conversation, I think you deserve to know who are the “people like me”.  Fairly enough, I think I can be associated with a lot of labels.  Chef, butcher, baker, restaurant owner, graduated apprentice, climate activist, husband, father, immigrant, status quo lamenter, rap music fan, childhood trauma survivor, former professional circus performer.  No, I didn’t black out on my keyboard for those last examples.  And we’re not getting into the childhood trauma, that’s not for a blog article, but for a special memoir my sister will eventually publish. 

The expression of what I present to the world is a sum of my experiences and my choices.  What I see in the mirror is a relentless craftsman – I want to see others eat better than they do now, and I’m willing to volunteer myself for the cause.  I live with the “hard to swallow” understanding that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed while I live to remain critical of what deserves to be changed. 

So, what would I say is my restaurant culture?

Food became important to me.  I was born into a life of store-bought baby food and the American dream of having more time away from the kitchen.  There wasn’t any lightbulb moment where I woke up and changed the way I ate.  The knowledge and the hunger crept in.  My culture was built one meal at a time. 

I grew up in the suburbs of New York, fed by neighborhood restaurants that I see as emblematic of 1990s prosperity, simplicity, and timid curiosity into other cultures.  Our family were regulars at the main-street pizza institution, which still exists after 80 years in the same community.  We relished the opportunity to explore unfamiliar cuisines.  My mom made us home-cooked meals on weeknights, and the restaurants seasoned our weekend. 

I have fond memories of the Chinese restaurant owned by a friend’s father, the intrigue of the hibachi experience, and the humble Mexican counter that remains arguably my favorite restaurant of all time.  The sensory souvenirs are hauntingly specific.  The smell of the entryway of my dad’s favorite pub (pickles, wood, and dried beer), the sound of the chicken fajitas manspreading their presence in the dining room, and the soda-filled mocktails whose sugar levels should be illegalized for human children.

My relationship to food matured in adolescence, remaining a source for exploration but introducing an aspect of health and well-being.  I valued life and was taught by my environment that I could invest in myself by caring about my nutrition.  I stayed up all night watching cooking shows behind the schoolbook I could’ve probably been reading faster.  I woke up hungry in the night to feed my appetite for grilled cheese and creativity. 

I studied circus arts for four years, with home-cooked meals as the fuel for my craft.  I practiced juggling, trampoline, and partner acrobatics; I cannot begin to explain how hungry a 20-year-old who exercises 6 hours a day could be.  I cooked in self-sufficiency but treated every meal like a juggling practice; they were boxes to be checked, movements to be repeated, but always an open door to enjoy trying something new.  I remember my first homemade focaccia.  Of course, it wasn’t a huge success, but I was happy to eat it.  Homemade fresh spaghetti carbonara with overcooked whole eggs? I checked the box, plated it, ate it, and made mistakes while learning from them.  It felt like a groovy time, having a personal passion and enthusiastic circus friends to eat through the improvised Thanksgiving turkeys. 

I discovered where to get food from in a town where I previously didn’t speak the language.  I worked my way up from the produce at the supermarket next to my school, to the awe-inspiring fruit and vegetable wholesaler a taxi ride away, to one day…getting to pick fresh vegetables from a local farm.  Because, why not!? Why not continue raising your standards? Why not make better choices to make your meals even more special? Why isn’t the local farm experience the one we all crave and deserve? I’ll wait for your answer, and I’ll probably die waiting.

Fresh out of my circus studies, I find myself once again meal prepping – the same need for sustenance opening the door to more exploration.  I vividly remember sitting down to dinner in my homely apartment outside of the amusement park where I was performing trampoline shows. I watched “Food Inc.” as I ate.  This was the first time I saw and heard Michael Pollan, who would go on to be my favorite author.  I knew at this moment in my circus journey that it probably wasn’t my “forever career”, so I started to build the idea of maybe what that next career could be. 

For the following chapter, swap out the dusty apartment for a budget hotel.  During one night’s trampoline performance, I zigged when I should have zagged.  I received my second concussion in the same year, as well as doctor’s orders for a couple months off the trampoline.  I had the pleasure of idling in a dreary hotel room, trying to avoid bright lights, loud sounds, and overstimulation.  On the phone with my sister, I mentioned that culinary school enticed me.  She said, “Why don’t you apply to Boston University’s culinary program?”.  To which I replied, “How do you know about this, off the top of your head?”.  She lived in Boston and was already aspiring to attend in the future.

I enrolled, graduating in May of 2015.  The date is important here, because while I was on deck for a delicious adventure, the first season of “Chef’s Table” came out on April 26^th, 2015.  Having the opportunity to start your culinary career a couple weeks after discovering Blue Hill at Stone Barns is serendipitous. 

While living in Boston, my relationship with my sister deepened over regular dinner dates.  We ate our way through the culinary scene of the city, discovering the knowledge of popular chefs, some of whom taught me how to cook during the week.  I’ve tattooed the taste memories on the surface of my brain - my first bagna cauda at Giulia’s, my first “real Bolognese” at Il Casale, and the old couple next to us at Hungry Mother.  This couple mentioned to their server that they weren’t enjoying their meal because it was too salty for their tastes.  Liz and I locked eyes, cartoonishly wide, silently relaying, “This is the best meal we have ever eaten; how could they be missing the opportunity to enjoy it?”.

After culinary school, I sprinted into the workforce.  I searched for institutions that would teach me skills and connect to my core values.  I didn’t know how to cook, but I did know what inspired me.  I sought the type of food with an ineffable feeling of “realness”, an honesty delivered through heart-tickling umami or the unique transparency of where the ingredients came from. 

Let’s run the gamut of my meandering kitchen climb, without the name drops. I began my apprenticeship in a decorated fine dining landmark outside of Boston.  I was indoctrinated with the importance of planning, precise temperature cooking, and following a chef who daunted his team into order.  Things were…intense.  I returned to Québec to line cook for bistros that captivated attention with the spices foraged from surrounding forests.  I learned a lot about what the specific landscape of Québec has to offer – from its ingredients to its diners.  And I started to sharpen the idea of how I wanted to carry myself as a professional chef. 

I continued to apprentice for two reasons: at the time, the weight of a résumé was important in selling one’s competence for senior positions, and I yearned to connect with a definably future-thinking cuisine.  I spent time outside of New York City, at an institution that is a pillar in agricultural research, presenting dishes in an informative manner, and experimenting with forgotten parts of whole foods (think zucchini stem Bolognese).  I later gave my time to a neighborhood jewel in Copenhagen, the European leader in minimalism, organics, and daringly no-frills visuals.  I needed these north stars to keep the bar higher than the one set by the Québec food scene.  I revered their risk-taking, uniqueness, and sustainability. 

Parallel to my career, the cultural snowball sped downhill. I put into action the lessons I learned on the job.  I made beer, cider, bread, yogurt, and other ferments.  I continued to tighten the funnel of where my ingredients come from.  I volunteered shifts at a local butcher shop.  I sourced whole animals to divide and share with my friends.  I took an interim job at a bakery, clearly being the guilty hands behind the charmingly curved loaves.  I enrolled in university-level classes, exploring nutrition, food service management, food sustainability, and ecological farming.

And most importantly, I kept going to restaurants.  Restaurant staff have few opportunities in Québec City to dine out, with most businesses being open primarily on weekends for dinner.  One needs to make an effort by budgeting the money, allotting one’s free time, and structuring one’s vacations to partake in the most gratifying part of the restaurant experience – being a guest.  I made a choice to be part of the dining culture in Québec City, to encourage my colleagues and to remain aware of the scene.  When traveling, I lived within my means but still chose to seek out things like a grilled cheese at Tartine in San Francisco, a Sazerac at a craft cocktail bar in New Orleans, and the authentic kind of delicious I was first exposed to in childhood.

For the big finale, I opened the restaurant whose ethos was written by my history.  A small gathering space, privately an American neighborhood hangout and publicly an upscale French-first attraction.  A restaurant that pushed the limits of what it means to operate in a sustainable manner.  An intensely educated choice to source exclusively locally, run on clean energy, serve local wines, and compost organic waste.  I chose a modest and refined culinary philosophy that brought noteworthy minimalism and upcycling to things like fried chicken, while trying to forgo the buzzwords…I guess, except for upcycling.

The sum of my experiences created my new normal.  It closed a lot of doors, opened new ones, and even had me race past some unturned stones.  When an average diner in Québec thinks of dessert, they might think of chocolate cake, tiramisu, or crème brulée.  I’ve never made any of these professionally, but I can tell you all the intricate details of how to make your own corn molasses from corn cobs, and how to use that to make corn cob ice cream.  It feels like a potential for our culinary landscape has been unlocked, one with familiar vocabulary but an endless potential for growth and pleasure. 

I must point out that my resulting food philosophy is far from superficial.  It isn’t “fermenting for fermenting’s sake”.  It doesn’t plunge into a black hole guarded by exclusionary passwords to describe ordinary food in extraordinary terms.  My meatloaf recipe will always be “meatloaf”, and I won’t construct a self-righteous ego by calling it “terrine”.  I remain deeply grounded in the understanding that food is a basic human need.  I believe that everyone deserves access to healthy food, and the more fortunate people carry the opportunity to help everyone do so in an ethical manner.

It seems like the category of “people like me” is sparse.  The corn cob ice cream club has a short list.  The feeling of being part of such a small group can feel marginalizing.  But a tiny zoom out can focus the details that build a clear path forward.  There is a population that respects its natural environment, that loves eating poutine at the local cheese farm, and that wants its children to have access to fresh local ingredients.  I know that there aren’t really any other people like me, but maybe there are enough people that are enough like me that we could do something to actually shape our food system for a sustainable future.