I am a freelance chef. What that means, at least in how it applies to me, is that I prepare a variety of foods for a variety of clients, at various locations. It keeps things interesting and forces me to be adaptable.
Many of my clients lead lives that allow, and in some cases, require them to travel a great deal. Some call Connecticut their home, others have primary residences in large cities and refer to their Connecticut manse as "the country house". They often call me upon arrival, hungry and jet-lagged, because I understand what they need; fresh, simple food that will restore their weary bodies. I go into their homes to prepare their dinner, and stock the refrigerator with meals for the following days. When they have settled in, they call again, this time it is to request menus for entertaining. This is where I shine, and they know it, and hand over the carte blanche.
One of my clients is a restaurant. I established a solid, working relationship with the owner a few years ago, when he began to hire me as an on-site chef for his catering operation. I understood his clients, they had the same needs as mine. When I first got on board, he had just lost his chef and was single-handedly cooking for the restaurant and filling the catering orders. Most days, when I arrived to pick up my order before going out to location, I would find him fixing a toilet, or dealing with customers, while my orders waited to be filled. I consistently offered to come in earlier to help, but he was smack-dab in the midst of a chest-thumping, "I-am-superman-and I-can-do-everything" mid-life crisis. I had to respect him for that…he was doing it all. Gradually, he came to his senses. Now, there is a new chef running the kitchen, one that I had worked with and recommended for the position, and on most weekends you can find me working at his side. I arrive in the morning to prepare the foods that I will be serving that evening. The time that I put in at the restaurant pays only a fraction of what I make on location. I do it because it keeps me connected to a larger food scene than the one that I find in private homes. I do it because this relationship with a restaurant, an owner, and a chef…it works for me…and that is something new.
Before freelancing, I worked full time in a restaurant that had an identity crisis; it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. It must have rubbed off on me…I soon found myself in the same crisis. For the first time in my life, I had lost interest in food. I couldn’t find my mojo, and the love and passion was MIA. I was bored (shame on me) and was considering a departure from cooking. I am fortunate to have other options; things to fall back on. I call this my "brown period", because at one point, I realized that every plate that I put out had a gratuitous drizzle of balsamic. It is tragic to witness your imagination and creativity disengage, and allow body muscle to take over, in auto-pilot mode, with senseless actions.
It was at this time that I read an article about a chef in Spain that was creating ripples in the food world with his science-driven approach to food. I have to admit, my gut reaction was not good…I aligned it to the evils of genetic modification, and why was he putting chemicals back in our food? But there was something about it that stirred me, and I found myself reading it over and over, each time peeling away the layers of my predisposition, to reveal it’s true intent, and what I found was revolutionary. I still remember the day that I sat down in front of my computer, and typed his name, Ferran Adria, into an empty box. A rabbit hole opened up under my feet, into which I fell; am falling still. The only other reference that I have to this life-altering effect was the day that I came face-to-face with Les Demoiselles d’Avignon on a class trip to MOMA. Picasso’s brutal depiction of women rocked me to my core, and held me, transfixed, until my mind bent, and changed forever the way that I define beauty. (What is it about Spain?)
Inspired by a new approach to food, I felt reborn in the kitchen, but I had no outlet. I needed a place to experiment with, document, and share ideas. I needed a playground. That was, and still is the intent of this blog.
When I decided to start blogging, I made a conscious decision to not reveal the names of those that I work for. My reasons form a long and tangled list, but in their complexity, there is simplicity:
Paramount on the list is discretion. In the small, tightly-knit community of high-profile people that I work in , discretion is the unmentioned code that is established with the initial greeting at the door and sealed, at the end of the evening, with ink on a check. Once lost, it cannot be regained.
Self-preservation is wrapped up in there, too. I have worked long and hard to establish a relationship of trust with my clients and the restaurant. I would not want what happened to Shuna, to happen to me. I read her blog, as do many others, because it is a window into the collective soul of a chef, and an acutely raw account of what it means to be a woman chef working in the exhilarating, sometimes hostile environment of a restaurant. I rejoice in her triumphs, share in her passions, rail at the injustices, and when she slits open a vein and bleeds all over my monitor, I feel it like a stigmata. I know what it is to give all, then be shown the door; it is a path that I don’t ever want to walk again.
When I dream about giving birth to live snakes, as I have done lately, I recognize that it is also about fear; the fear of losing control and creating monsters. As a mother, I understand the importance of choosing my battles; knowing what lines to draw, what to give up to the universe.
As for my name, it is Linda. That is my given name, the rest I took from my husband, who prefers to keep it private. Even if I were to disclose it, and you were to Google it, believe me, you would find nothing of interest. There would be no Michelin stars, or illustrious resume, just people who are not me.
Playing with Fire and Water 
Sounds like a fun and enviable enterprise. Alas, food for me is a hobby that I have to pursue in and around a fulltime job. If I had the means you sound like exactly the person I would call at the end of a business trip!!
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What made you decide to write this disclosure post?
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Nathan- the subject of disclosure among chefs who blog was brought up by Shuna, of Eggbeater, when she lost her job in a restaurant that she helped to open.
At the time, I did not feel compelled to join the conversation, mainly because my blog is about the food, not where I work. But a recent rash of emails made me realize that some of my readers needed more context and that it was something that I should address.
It was not an easy post for me to write; it took me way outside of my comfort zone, but now that it’s out there, I can get back to the food.
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Hello.
Thank you for such a vulnerable and thought provoking piece. Thank you for your flattering nods to me, Eggbeater and what I write about.
My sticking point is this: can any person really be immune to losing what is most dear (at the time) to them? I did not lose my job because I was writing about it. I wrote about the pros and cons of disclosure to try and make sense of the whys for and the whys against.
I consider myself part of an industry, part of a community (well, many), and as a chef-blogger, part of a communal voice speaking to outsiders and insiders about a profession I feel is grossly misrepresented in mainstream media and by culinary school check takers.
I never had the option to be anonymous so it’s hard for me to speak to that choice, I will admit.
But having an open door email box and a public persona means that I mentor and support both in person and quietly, many many people looking for validation because, as you know, what we do is basically work alone among others working alone. We have our kitchen that serves as family and community but of course that’s not enough. Your rabbit hole, your valhalla, was opened to you by the Internet.
It’s nothing short of amazing to me to meet chefs all over the country through blogging. To ask and answer questions, to laugh about similar situations and to brainstorm our way out of dreadful kitchens and crazy bosses– this is why I’m grateful to be doing what I’m doing.
I’ve added you to a list of chef-bloggers I, and Michael Ruhlman, are compiling. (I tried to hyperlink this but your blog said no.)
Thank you for, as you say, “coming out of your comfort zone” to write this. It means a lot to me, but more importantly, it gives further shape to voices unheard in mainstream media about who are chefs and how we can all be chefs without The Prescribed Story.
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Shuna- I first came to your blog because you were the singular voice out there attempting to shatter the glass ceiling covering restaurant kitchens. You spoke the outrageous truth; I recognized that. I’ve worked with culinary students on summer breaks and consistently put out barometers to their expectations. While I am out on a limb, I will admit to you that I have suggested to more than one of the extremely disillusioned to take a year off to work in a hardcore kitchen.
As you may be aware, there has been a lot of speculation as to why you lost your job, thank you for putting it straight.
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Linda-
I’ll echo Shuna’s comment and thank you for going out on a limb and posting this. I’ve been following Shuna’s blog and various chef blogs that responded to the questions she raised over the last few weeks, but there was something especially compelling for me in your post.
I’m a restaurant chef in central PA. I wrote my question just before leaving my home office to go into the kitchen and I’ve been mulling over your post in the back of my mind. I think what I’ve found most intriguing about your blog (besides the fantastic platings and wonderful ideas and whimsy you bring to what you do) is how, at least on the face of it, your work is presented to your internet audience almost completely without identity. I don’t mean that to be sterile, like a recipe out of one of those tomes you pick up for ten bucks at a used book store. More that your identity, as read through this blog, is your food and how that is presented. There’s no line between your pictures, compositions, and small bites of thought on food and that “me outside of what I do”. I suppose in a way, by leaving out the one, the two are read as the same thing.
This morning I had a long conversation with the gentleman that supplies all the lamb for my kitchen. He was telling me about a dinner he’s doing in Philly where the culinary team is presenting a tasting menu with his product while he walks around the room talking about his lamb. He stressed to me the importance of getting the lamb’s story out there. We went on to talk about how much more there is to express to my customers and even my cooks about the story of the food and the connection between the individual and where and how their food comes to them than simply a matter of a plate that looks and tastes good. A plate like that can exude any number of emotions and nuance, but it can’t quite tell the lamb’s story or the chef’s story or the farm’s story.
I’m glad that you decided to give a little more to your story.
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Nathan- Thank you for your thoughtful comments. You hit upon another reason for my (non)disclosure: allowing the work to speak for itself. I understand curiosity; it is a trait that I own, but at what point do we, or can we separate the art from the artist? When I viewed Picasso’s painting, I had no conception of who he was, yet that did not play into my epiphany. Later, when I studied him and discovered that in many ways he was a despicable man, it still did not alter my experience, but I had to ask myself if it would have done if I had the information beforehand. Knowing myself, I think not, but I can’t be sure. Which leads me to ask: is the background, or story, integral to the experience of the work?
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You can’t separate the art from the artist–s/he channels it and inescapably influences it. That doesn’t mean that the Event has to be diminished; sometimes it’s enhanced by knowing the circumstances behind its creation…
–Warren Zevon’s last CD.
–Ditto Johnny Cash.
–Beethoven’s latter works.
Sometimes, of course, the knowledge slaps us upside the head…
–Could Jerry Lee Lewis have kept his career going if he didn’t marry Myra Gale Brown?
–What about Michael Jackson’s career right now? Can’t he still sing?
–What about Mapplethorpe’s “Piss Christ”? Ready to whip out the old platinum card to make your collection complete? Don’t forget the drop-cloth!
I am a musician, I reckon I have more balls than brains, commenting on a chef’s blog, but I know what it’s like to hold the Muse in damaged hands.
Some of the finest musicians I’ve played with are adulterous, addictive, backstabbing, bongwater stealing scum. Some are the nicest folk you ever want to know, but have problems–physical, mental–that civilians have no clue about.
(Remind you of anyone you know? Worked for? With?)
When we don’t know the back-story, we can be objective about the merits of the piece. We can ride that bronco bareback and let it take us wherever it’s gonna go, secure in the knowledge that, after an exhilarating eight seconds, we’ll be back on solid ground (if somewhat beat up). We can ‘oooh’ and ‘aaahhh’, recover, and go on.
When we know about the artist, and the situation/s dealt with in making his or her art, then we have a relationship with the art. It ain’t no joyride. It’s a letter from the trenches. It’s the difference between a hook-up (or porn) and marriage. The former gets you off. The latter brings you with.
The artist/musician/chef is to their art as the wick is to the candle. Sure, there can be crap in the wick, but just look at that flame…
Please forgive my rambling ructus, but I had to chime in.
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Linda,
I think that there are a number of different lenses to be used for any engagement with creative effort. My first thought when you initially brought up Picasso was “how is that different than Guerrica?” I can recall seeing it for the first time when I was 13 or 14 and being moved (maybe shocked?) by how much was being conveyed in an impressionist medium. Years later, when I was in college, I learned about the political context of the painting. I would say now that opening up that way of viewing it gave me a deeper (or perhaps more refined) sense of what I initially experienced. Like for you, neither of these experiences has anything to do with an explicit understanding of the artist, yet, at least for me, the expanded understanding brought an expansion to my appreciation of the art.
One of the things I’m really not comfortable with is interacting directly with my customers. I believe very strongly in things like supporting local, sustainable, and organic agriculture, and push a number of programs towards that end. I also believe strongly in educating people about what it is they’re eating. Something along the lines of “telling the lamb’s story”. But my name isn’t on a menu and it’s rare that I’ll respond to someone asking to “meet the chef” because 1) the experience that we bring to a customer is a collective effort from the farmer to the kid doing prep to the saute cook to the dish washers and 2) If they are going to look outside of a good plate of food for more to their experience, I want them to connect to the products we’re using (“Oh, I’ve never had Berkshire pork before, it was wonderful” or “These salad greens were grown at a farm a few miles from where I live!”).
I’m not sure what this says about the question of personal disclosure specifically, but I feel like there’s always more to tell about food and some of it definitely contributes to a more profound experience.
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Dixon,
You raise some good things to think about. Something that’s always intrigued me about many of those examples (and many more) is the relationship between turmoil and art. Would Van Gogh have been as prolific or produced what he produced if he was a normal, well adjusted person?
The problem with the questions about art, at least as far as chefs are concerned is that, at the end of the day, we’re in a constant business of replication and public appeasement. I think a great deal of people like to talk about food as art and chef’s as artist, but the great majority of us spend 9, 10, 14 hours a day producing what the great majority of people eat. There’s no real creative effort in putting out that 100th bacon cheeseburger of the day. You can still do it well and make a delicious burger; even one that’s just a tad outside of the mainstream (maybe it’s bison or lamb meat, maybe it’s got a special house sauce, whatever…), but it’s still just a burger just like the 100 you cooked before it.
And while the traditional canon of artists have highlightable works that have impacted that tradition or even events outside of it, I don’t know of a chef who is attached to a single plate that can be highlighted in the same way. Gordon Ramsey, in a recent article about his new LA restaurant was responding to a handful of questions about what happened with New York. In it he professed that he didn’t understand NYC and his team didn’t respond to the city. They tried to produce what he’d been producing in other parts of the world and it didn’t fly. He stressed that the most important thing a chef/restaurateur can do is be sensitive to the local climate. It doesn’t matter what they’re doing in Paris, NYC, London, or Tokeyo. What mattes is what your customers in the middle of nowhere Arkansas want. I think that really sums up the limitations (perhaps just paramaters) of what we do. I might, if I’m lucky, spend half an hour to an hour a week doing something outside the burgers and fries and filet and fingerlings. And it’ll end up in an amuse course or tucked away on a very traditional plate buried on a menu somewhere. Likewise, it might be 4, 5, or 6 months between dinners where I have the opportunity to let loose.
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