Don't Try This at Home (16 page)

(Not) Ready for My Close-up

PAUL KAHAN

Paul Kahan, winner of the 2004 James Beard Foundation's Best
Chef/Midwest award, has been executive chef of Chicago's
Blackbird since the restaurant opened in 1997. Prior to
Blackbird,
he worked at some of Chicago's best restaurants, including
Metropolis Cafe, Metropolis 1800, Frontera Grill, and Topolo-bampo.
Blackbird's accolades include a place on
Gourmet
magazine's list of Chicago's top five restaurants and the
magazine's
list of the country's top fifty restaurants. In 1999,
Food & Wine Magazine
placed Kahan on its Best New Chefs list. In
September 2003, Kahan, along with Chef du Cuisine Koren
Grieveson and his Blackbird team opened Avec, a wine bar
located next door to Blackbird.

A
LOT OF GUYS who, like me, grew up in the era of celebrity chefs, are in it for the fame and glory. But that's not
what attracted me. I came to cooking relatively late in life—in my early twenties—and got into it because I love the work,
not because I need to see my mug in the papers, or on television.

But public relations is important, so you do what you need to in order to get your name and the name of your restaurant out
there. You provide recipes to magazines. You share tips with the local papers. You go on television when your publicist can
swing it. It all helps get the word out and keeps the dining masses aware of your restaurant and what you do there.

Despite my appreciation of this fact, there's one element of the PR mix that I've never been particularly comfortable with:
the live cooking demo. I'm happy to demonstrate just about anything for one of my cooks, or even for a home cook looking for
a little professional advice. But cooking demos, it seems to me, are a time when people expect chefs to ham it up, to crack
jokes and clown around and really make a show of it. That's just not my style. If I wanted to do all that, I'd have become
an actor.

Nevertheless, about three years ago, one of the national food magazines threw a food festival in the Grand Ballroom at the
end of Navy Pier, a big attraction on Lake Michigan that's about a quarter-mile long and quite wide. Once a naval docking
station, Navy Pier was converted years ago into a site for festivals, antiques shows, and so on. There are shops and a Ferris
wheel and a children's museum and . . . well, you get the idea. At the end of the pier is the ballroom, a gigantic, domed
space that's used for conventions and other special events.

As part of this festival, a representative from one of the major cooking-equipment companies convinced me to do a demo for
them. I was told that it was a simple affair: I'd prepare the same dish three times for three different audiences, then people
would file out of the auditorium into a little makeshift cafe where they'd sample another dish from my restaurant, prepared
and served by a sous-chef and some line cooks we'd bring along for the day.

This sounded like the kind of thing that would be an ordeal for me, so I was hesitant. In fact, I initially declined. Even
when the event's organizing chef told me it would be no big deal, I still had my doubts. I didn't know why, but something
was tingling in the back of my head, telling me there was more here than met the eye.

Nevertheless, I eventually agreed to do it. The dish would be Seared Diver Scallop with Wild Mushrooms, Sea Beans, and Meyer
Lemon, a collection of slightly exotic ingredients finished with a warm Meyer lemon vinaigrette that was emulsified with butter.

On the morning of the demo, I arrived at the Navy Pier, parked out back behind the service entrance, and found my way to the
little holding area that served as a backstage of sorts. I had brought my own chef coat along, with my restaurant's logo on
the left breast, but before I could put it on, one of the cooking company's reps handed me a new one, with the name of the
company emblazoned on the front, and my name, in smaller letters, above it.

I found that a bit odd, but it was nothing compared to the surprise I was about to receive: when I stepped into the amphitheater,
I discovered that the room was set up as a gargantuan demonstration pit, with a full kitchen in the center and seats surrounding
it on all sides—360 degrees of audience. Moreover, the sheer volume was astounding: there had to be
two thousand
seats.

As if that weren't daunting enough, above the kitchen hung a huge 12-foot banner with a close-up of my face on it, and above
the photo, in big block letters, my name and the name of my restaurant. When I saw that, my heart sank. This was a setting
fit for a heavyweight fight, not a cooking demo.

Before I could protest, the crowd began to file in, a nonstop procession of Chicago-area food enthusiasts who had purchased
tickets to see me cook. They filled every last seat.

A techie appeared from out of nowhere and clipped a little microphone onto my jacket, the house lights dimmed, and there I
was, expected to perform.

I began the demonstration, slowly, tentatively, not feeling my best, beginning with some basic instruction on how to shop
for and properly clean a diver scallop.

And that's when my cell phone rang.

Here's the thing with the cell phone: it's my lifeline to my restaurant, and more importantly, to the love of my life, my
wife, Mary. Mary and I have been together for about twelve years and we're just as in love now as we always have been.

Beyond our deep, personal connection, Mary's been a huge supportive force in my professional career. I earned two degrees
in college—applied math and computer science—but I was never happy in those fields. After college, I was killing time, driving
a delivery truck for my dad's smoked fish company, when Mary got me a job working for a friend of hers at a local pastry shop
and cafe. That was how I first became interested in becoming a chef. So I really do owe it all to her.

Ironically, being a chef can be a relationship killer. There are weeks when we barely see each other—I come home after midnight
and she often gets up and out at the crack of dawn to hit a yoga class before heading to her office.

But we've made it work, so well in fact that I often find myself coaching young cooks on how to maintain a relationship.

One of the ways Mary and I get along is by being available to each other by cell phone. If she has something to tell me, even
if it's during dinner service, I'll pick up the phone and talk to her. At first, she would detect urgency in my voice, which
understandably irked her. So I worked hard at, and soon mastered, the art of sounding like I have all the time in the world,
no matter what kind of chaos might be transpiring around me.

Being available in this way is important to me. Not only does it make my wife happy, but God forbid I wasn't there in a time
of crisis because I was searing a piece of halibut.

Or doing a demo . . .

So when my cell phone rang that day, echoing through the hall thanks to my clip-on microphone, I glanced down and saw the
name "Mary" in the caller ID window. I looked up at the two thousand people in attendance and said, "Sorry, folks, this is
my wife, you'll have to excuse me."

This provoked a few chuckles. Maybe they thought I was kidding. But I went ahead and answered the phone and proceeded to have
a five-minute conversation with Mary, using my Zen-like ability to hide any sense of distraction in my voice. It didn't matter
that I was on stage, with burners turned on and two thousand people waiting to learn how to properly sear a scallop.

Finally, after about five minutes, there was a pause in the conversation and I told Mary where I was and what I was doing.
She howled with laughter.

"Okay," she said. "Talk to you later. I love you."

I
always
reply in kind, even when I'm in the midst of twelve hardened line cooks—or two thousand strangers: "I love you too, honey."

When they heard that, every woman in the place let out a huge, sweet, "Awwwww." I laughed. They laughed. And I felt instantly
at ease.

That ended up being one of the best demos I've ever done, once the ice was broken and I could stop trying to play the part
of the "star" chef and just be, as I was on the phone, myself.

Just Add Water

HUBERT KELLER

Hubert Keller joined Fleur de Lys as a co-owner in 1986, where
he was credited with breathing new life into the San Francisco
institution. Born in France, he has been the recipient of many
awards, including Best Chef: California from the James Beard
Foundation. The New York Times has described Fleur de Lys as
being "arguably the best French restaurant in San Francisco."
Fleur de Lys Las Vegas opened at the Mandalay Bay Resort and
Casino in September of 2004. Burger Bar opened at Mandalay
Place in February of 2004.

N
ow I HAVE to warn you: this story may discourage future generations of caterers from ever entering the business. And
I'll admit, it might raise an eyebrow or two. If it weren't for the fact that I was caught smack dab in the middle of this
debacle, I might not even believe the tale myself. . . .

With all of that said, picture a young bride from Carmel, her well-to-do father and mother, and enough money to make anyone's
dream wedding a reality. In theory, this would seem like that perfect party to host, the perfect party to attend and, like
most fairy tales, it would end with the bride and groom riding off into the sunset—while the parents handed over the family
fortune to me and my staff for services rendered. But Nature had a different plan that day, and as you will soon find out,
no amount of planning could have prepared me for the disastrous results.

The bride's parents lived on a beautiful piece of property that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Their house resembled a Hollywood
home on the Malibu coastline, where the gated entrance and driveway started at street level and descended down the side of
a hill. They had spared no expense to plan a lavish wedding on site for 250 of their closest friends and relatives. The main
event would feature a five-course menu by yours truly, and a $30,000 cake flown in from New York, a cake so huge and extravagant
that it took four hired hands to deplane.

The day before the event, while tents were being erected and flowers being delivered by the truckloads, I overheard the bride's
father frantically asking where the three-hundred-year-old oak tree on the property had disappeared to. The bride's mother
casually replied, "I had that old thing removed this morning, dear. How else was I supposed to fit the tent?" To conclude
her point, she turned to me and said, "Hubert, nothing is impossible here. If you need it done, we'll make it happen." The
father looked flushed, and I really couldn't blame him. I'm not particularly superstitious, but it didn't seem like anything
good could come from such a frivolous act.

I left the parents of the bride and returned to the kitchen. To accommodate my cooking needs, the bride's mother had essentially
created an extension of her kitchen, including additional ovens, gas stoves, etc.—an indispensable addition considering the
elaborate degree of preparation involved. There were floor plans, seating charts, endless checklists, and a wedding-day itinerary
that was to be followed to the tee: one hour of cocktails and passed canapes, first course to follow immediately afterward.
And the pace for the evening was set from there. There was absolutely no room for error.

On the day of the wedding, while the family made their way to the church, I was again situated in that same souped-up kitchen,
making sure that the staff was finishing the final details for the event. The first-course plates were all lined up, waiting
to be garnished with components of foie gras and caviar. Cases of chilled champagne were being stacked behind the bar, while
a steady stream of waiters filed in and out of the kitchen buzzing about the extravagance of it all: custom Bernardaud plates
flown in from France, the infamous $30,000 cake, and enough Cristal (or so we thought) to make a rap star blush. The band
had just finished setting up their equipment and was performing a sound check, when I noticed the waitstaff using the fine
linen to soak up excess water from the floor. The water was seeping into the kitchen from beneath the door. I figured it was
someone hosing down the front entryway, so I ignored it and went back to what I was doing. It wasn't until a little while
later, after a hurried waiter had slipped on a suddenly sizable puddle of water and dropped an entire tray of plates, that
I began to worry.

When I went to investigate, I discovered that the groundskeeper had been scrambling around for the last fifteen minutes, trying
to divert a massive flood of water from entering the house. A major water line, just outside the gate, had burst for no apparent
reason, sending gallons upon gallons of water racing down the driveway and right toward the front door. The guests were scheduled
to return to the property in less than an hour and the driveway resembled Niagara Falls.

At least a dozen frantic phone calls were made to the city, demanding that someone come out immediately and fix the problem.
Yet despite the fact that you needed hip waders just to cross the driveway, I remained confident that things would turn out
fine. After all, the menu was right on target. The trays of hors d'oeuvres were ready to go, and the first-course setup had
just begun.

Unconcerned, I stepped outside for a moment to get some air . . . and noticed that the beautiful day that we had started out
having had gradually turned to a dim, ugly gray. The sky was heavy with clouds, and the morning blueness had completely faded
away. Funny thing, the bride's mother had mentioned earlier that there was "zero" chance of precipitation. According to the
multiple weather reports she had checked, we were in store for a perfect weekend of sunshine.

Twenty minutes later, someone did arrive—as promised—and turned off the flow of water. With the driveway rapidly drying out,
and the house rescued from the impending flood, we were back on track. A white carpet was rolled out to welcome guests, uniformed
valets prepared to park cars, and a lady with a headset and a clipboard screamed, "GUESTS ARE ARRIVING IN FIFTEEN MINUTES,
PEOPLE!" As the last of the water in the kitchen was being removed via mops and buckets, the first guests showed up.

And that, of course, is when the storm hit. What had seemed to be just an overcast sky had swiftly transformed into a monstrous
thunderstorm, with rain pouring down and pelting the disoriented guests. What was meant to be an indoor-outdoor reception
had instantly turned into a
very
cramped cocktail hour. Instead of casually walking the grounds, sipping champagne, and enjoying the well-planned sunset for
the afternoon, guests found themselves jammed between the banquet tables of the main tent, downing glasses of Cristal—and
any cocktail they could get their hands on. The amount of alcohol consumed within the first hour of this rainy mess was unimaginable.
Drunken guests mingled among workers with duct tape, who scrambled to patch holes in the leaky tent. The lady with the headset
stormed into the kitchen and announced that everything was on hold until the tent was completely "patched up." Meanwhile the
band, which wasn't scheduled to play until dinner, took it upon itself to appease the drunken crowd with an equally disastrous
cover of "Louie, Louie." . . .

The bride, the bridesmaids, the groom, and the groomsmen all remained in the guesthouse, waiting for a break in the weather.
It never came. So two hours and many cover songs later, the wedding party relented and filed in, huddled under umbrellas—all
except for the bride, whose grand entrance was thwarted by a nasty gust of wind and a broken umbrella. As I learned that day,
200 feet of uncovered walkway in a rainstorm can do a lot of damage to a delicate white dress and hours of makeup. Ushers
tried diverting the soaked bride to the kitchen, where possible touch-ups could be arranged before her entrance.

Just as she entered the kitchen, however, her makeup and hair a riotous mess, the sniffling bride slipped on the wet floor,
landing with a vicious thud.

And then the electricity in the entire house went out.

There we all stood, in silence—until the bride wailed, "Does
anybody
care about what's happening here? This is
my day,
damn it! Somebody help me
up\"

All I could do was huddle in the corner, nervous that in the event that the lights did return, the extent of her considerable
anger somehow would be fully directed toward me.

Festive sounds were still coming from the tent, where the by-now very drunk guests didn't seem to mind one bit that the music
had stopped or the lights had gone out—had they even noticed? In desperation, the lady with the clipboard ordered the valets
to pull the cars around the exterior of the tent and use their headlights to help illuminate the inside. At the same time,
candles were being lit and distributed throughout the dining area, while an army of generators chugged along to keep the kitchen
up and running.

Finally, it was time for dinner.

Once the lady with the clipboard managed to wrestle the guests into their seats, the show was on. Using gas stoves and Sterno
cans to keep things warm, the lovingly prepared meal began—three hours into the reception, served to a roomful of people who
could barely hold their forks, let alone find them in the dark.

When the power finally returned, it was in the middle of the main-course service. If it wasn't for the band resuming play,
the guests might have actually stayed in their seats to eat it. . . .

As for the $30,000 cake, painstakingly attended by more staff members than the soaking bride, it sat pristine and untouched
the entire evening.

Toward the end of the night, I took a moment to walk through the tent, to see if I could help console the bride's parents.
The band had just broken into a playful rendition of "Singin' in the Rain" when I finally found the couple, seated quietly,
looking strangely calm and intoxicated. They seemed humbled by the fact that Mother Nature had put on such a show.

Later, as the guests were leaving, and the skies began to magically clear, the three of us stood outside, next to the fresh
tree stump, staring up as the stars appeared, and I thought, Who would believe this unbelievable story about an unbelievable
evening that all started with the utterance of those four cursed words, "Nothing is impossible here"?