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“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.."
Harriet Van Horne
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Pot Walloper to Executive Chef
Author: J H McIntosh
Long before Chef Steve Marcus invited me to join the Escoffier Club, my interest in food preparation and my deep love for the culinary arts was nurtured standing at my mother’s knees.
In fact, one of my five sisters once commented that I spent more time in the kitchen with my mom they my five sisters, combined. I’m not sure that’s true but I did have a very close bond with my mother possibly because she was clearly the most nurturing of my parents.
Time with my mother is only one of the countless happy memories of my childhood. This is true in spite of the fact that most observers might have trouble seeing the joy in childhood days not sparing of the rod and frequently ending with empty stomachs.
Alice Fisher McIntosh
Among my earliest memories of those days take me back to the age of five. By Friday night of any typical week our expectation of something to eat fared about as well as the poor dog who disappointedly gazed up to Mrs. Hubbard and her bare cupboards.
Every Saturday my mother had no choice but to leave the seven of us in my oldest sister Eva’s care. Eva is three years my senior.
To keep our minds off empty stomachs during those long Saturdays waiting for our traditional beans and franks supper, Eva came up with a “song”. As Saturday’s sun began to sail out of sight, Eva would gather us together. We would all rock back and forth as we sang (like a mantra): “Mamma, home, fire, beanie, candy, bed”. When mother returned home, she would light the fire, feed us beans and franks, give us a piece of penny candy and tuck us into bed.
Regardless of how many filets mignon one may consume as a prosperous adult (I’ve had my fair share), there are some things that just never leave you. My attachment to food goes far, far deeper than my genuinely real appreciation for the artistic outlet the culinary arts are for many and have been for me.
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Eating at home is my preference because when someone takes the time to prepare and share a meal with me it touches me on a level that, to my way of thinking all the riches of the world would be positioned far from the shadow of that appreciation.
And just think of the miracles of the modern world. We enjoy fresh strawberries almost anytime. And thanks to the research done for Birdseye Foods by the think tank Arthur D Little, frozen fruits and vegetables are more than pretty good.
Special thanks to the Chicago tribune for the wonderful sketch of Clarence Birdseye.
When we sit down with family, friends or associates we know the riches of Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, or Warren Buffet could not serve a meal that would elevate our enjoyment greater than that which we are experiencing at that very moment. That’s just wonderful.
It doesn’t have to be Tenderloin of Beef Wellington served at Gordon Ramsay’s Chelsea Restaurant in London. Nor does it take Alice Walker’s succulent Crab Gumbo to satisfy our gastronomic desires. I remember the day as a pre-teen we were helping our neighbor and landlord Charlie McCrillis bring in the last of the summer hay. It was hard work and Mrs. McCrillis knew what every military general knows. “An army fights on its stomach.”
Mrs. McCrillis often prepared one of my favorite sandwiches, tuna salad. A gourmet treat for kids accustomed to a diet of P & J.
Mrs. McCrillis made tuna with diced celery, a squeeze of lemon and sweet relish, a practice I continue to this day. We would gather under the forgiving shade of the huge oak trees that ringed the pasture and enjoy our lunch break.
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As we calmed our bellies with those tuna sandwiches and flushed our dry throats with gulps of lemon aide, the Monarch Butterflies would spring from the daisies and daffodils. The swallows would sail in and land among the Oak branches. Unless of course Buster, my pet crow, ran them off. We were “refueled”, energized and ready to lift those bales of hay upon the truck until the “cows came home”.
My taste bud memories still relish the tuna melt sandwiches we savored the time C J was painting our house. We lived in Boston, we picked up a loaf of seeded rye at Kupel’s Bakery in Brookline and we made the best grilled cheese and tuna sandwiches I’ve ever had. The best ever!
Ten years earlier my foodservice career had ended. But not before working in thirty-eight different restaurants. Filling positions from pot-walloper to Executive Chef. I didn’t realize it then, but I was an “Iron Chef” before the term existed.
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My first experience working in a restaurant came before I was a teenager at Fran’s Restaurant in Newburyport Massachusetts. I cleaned pots and pans and peeled vegetables. By the summer between my High School junior and senior years my skills in the culinary trades had advanced sufficiently to work as the Rounds Cook at the Touraine Hotel in Boston.
A “Rounds Cook” fills in for everyone. So, when the Garde Manger (salad chef) was enjoying his day off, I was doing my best to prepare orders of salad, hors d’œuvre, appetizer, canapé, pâté, terrine and about anything else Walter the head Chef told me to fix.
When the Saucier was off, yours truly was trying to best his Hollandaise, Béarnaise, and mayonnaise sauces.
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I’m not sure Walter would have trusted me with “Chef de Cuisine” (head Chef) but that would have required him to take a day off. Which, seemingly he never did. He definitely did not trust me with his prized sauté pan. Not after he caught me cleaning it with soap and water. That faux pas got me a swift boot in the buttocks and a memorable lesson on how to preserve a pan’s lifetime of seasoning.
In my twenties, after mustering out of the US Air Force I opened eight new restaurants while working for O. J. Enright. Mr. Enright is rightfully credited with bringing me out of my silent shell and helping me to find my voice. People who know me post “O J era” would have difficulty believing I was ever the quiet, super shy type.
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Mr. Enright was the first person with whom I had close contact that did not make a living working with his hands. He was paid handsomely for talking, motivating, and persuading. As a child, the only person I saw regularly wearing a suite was the Minister.
Mr. Enright always wore a suit, a starched white shirt, tie and wingtip shoes (Allen Edmund, thank you). “Starched shirt” doesn’t really do justice to what was more like a coat of armor. I remember the time I was in town to brief Mr. Enright on the progress of a restaurant we were opening in Parsippany, New Jersey. He asked me to meet early at his home in Natick, Massachusetts.
As he beckoned “come in” I saw O J and Mrs. Enright reliving a ritual I had witnessed many times. His shirts were always so laden with starch that Mrs. Enright would hold onto the cuff of one sleeve with both hands and O J would take hold of the collar while pushing with great gusto to get his fist and arm through the starch, into the sleeve.
Once their combined efforts conquered one sleeve, O J could handle the second on his own.
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When Mr. Enright retired, I decided it was time to further my education. While working on my BS Degree I was the Co-owner and principal operator of J J Sandwich Shop. I left the short-lived partnership the day after one of our night guys was robbed at gun point.
My major was business administration, but I realized the importance of a well-rounded education so most of my electives were in liberal arts. One of my favorite professors was Barry Kaplan who I would meet again many years later as the owner and operator of the Gazelle.
Many Bostonians at the time loved to say the Gazelle was the best Boston Restaurant but it was actually in Quincy, MA. It was kind of an “inside joke” while not being that far from the truth.
Having eaten at the Gazelle, I’m confident Auguste Escoffier would have loved it. The food was not only superb, but the wait staff also had the seeming ability to read your mind. As soon as a need popped into your head, a waiter was there to serve.
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Eating at Gazelle was one of the few Haute Cuisine experiences I enjoyed without the overly pretentious impression one can get from many, so called “fine dining” establishments. I felt the same dining at Locke-Ober of Boston.
It also would be firmly set in the fine dining category. During the filming of The Thomas Crown Affair, I swear Steve McQueen and I sat just a few tables apart. That was the same day I forgot to wear a jacket and the Maître D sent me to the coatroom for a loaner.
I’ll never know for sure because I certainly wasn’t about to approach the “King of Cool”, in a borrowed blue blazer to ask “are you, Steve McQueen”. But I have to confess, about eight years later I had a black and white still photo of “Thomas Crown” super enlarged and framed. It hangs in my office to this day.
While in the Boston area I had the great pleasure of working for Anthony Athanas whose Pier 4 restaurant was reputed to be JFK’s favorite. As an Albania immigrant his life story epitomizes the American Dream. He was once named “Restaurateur of the Year” by the National Restaurant Association (the other NRA).
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I think I could live on Pier 4’s famous popovers. Crack one open, drop in a smidgen of butter and watch it melt as the hot steam reminds you, if you eat to many there will be no room for your steamed lobster and forget about the Baked Alaska. Still, it’s tempting.
I’ll never forget making Baked Alaska for my baby sister’s birthday. For those who may not know, Baked Alaska is ice cream on a cake that you bake in the oven. The ice cream does not melt if you thoroughly insulate it with a thick layer of egg white meringue. When I pulled it from the oven it looked more like a huge milkshake. Obviously, I made the rookie mistake of skimping on the meringue.
My mother, ever my biggest fan exclaimed: “It’s still delicious!”
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It’s funny how our blunders stick in our minds more than our successes. Maybe it’s God’s way of throttling back our hubris. Flash forwards decades after the great Baked Alaska fiasco, I was sheltering from a hurricane at friend Kyle’s new home in Georgia. Renowned for his biscuits and gravy, I of course coaxed him to make it while I tended to the bacon. When it came to disposing of the bacon grease, I said, “Watch this neat trick”.
Placing a spoon in an empty glass jar, I proceeded to pour the hot fat into the jar. Quicker than you could say “wait”, the jar split into pieces spilling hot grease everywhere. If you try this at home, please let the fat cool for ten to fifteen minutes. I was too eager to show off, to wait for that cooling-off period.
If you ever find yourself in Gastonia, North Carolina, you must have a milkshake made in the most unusual fashion by Tony’s Ice Cream. Tony’s staff will make your milkshake in the normal way then add a generous scope of your favorite flavor to the mixed milkshake. I think of it like a milkshake float.
You finish drinking your shake, (mocha malted is my favorite) and you still have spoons of ice cream to enjoy.
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In my youth, I certainly was a frequent “guest” at most of the better-known fast-food chains. A quarter pounder at McDonald’s or a quick bite at Subway saw me through many days.
But it’s been my experience that the really memorable “fast-food” is not served at brand name chains. As a teenager we used to leave the Friday night dance and head to Bea’s Sandwich shop for a cutlet sandwich smothered in tomato sauce. WOW!
As an adult, seldom would a week go by that didn’t find me queuing up at Boston Speeds Famous Hot Dog Wagon. No one ever prepared a hot dog like Ezra “Speed” Anderson. I was introduced to his culinary accomplishments by an article in the “Cheap Eats” column that ran on Fridays in the Boston Globe.
I still remember how the author said it was served on “what could only be described as a small loaf of bread”. These were serious jumbo dogs. Once, on a dare, I ate two. God, what an idiot!
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While in North Carolina, visit the T-Ville Diner in Thomasville for the best fried flounder plate I’ve ever had. T-Ville opened its doors in 1936 and those recipes have been passed on generation after generation. Also, the serving sizes are so generous the flounder looks like it’s trying to swim off the plate.
Subway, may be “excellent value for the money” as polls indicate, but it will never satisfy me like an arancini from Galleria Umberto in Boson’s North End. Arancini is a deep fat fried rice ball with mozzarella cheese, prosciutto and peas in the center. Word to the wise, better get there before noon or you’ll be standing in a line that runs down the sidewalk.
Pizza Hut is good, but Steve’s Pizza in Plaistow NH, now that’s Italian. Philadelphia is known for Philly Cheese steaks but, if you ever have one at Ioanni’s Grill in Morehead City, NC you will have had the best I’ve ever had.
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If you happen to be in Morehead City on a Thursday it’s going to be tough choosing between Ioanni’s Philly Cheese Steak and the chicken salad at Cox Family Restaurant. I’ve been in the kitchen more than once watching Cox co-owner Gateway Gale do her magic while her husband Ray is preparing his famous meatloaf or beef tips.
I can tell you first hand, both Ioanni’s and Cox Family Restaurant use the finest of ingredients in their food preparation. If it’s Thursday and I’m in Morehead City I have lunch at Ioanni’s and supper at Cox Family Restaurant. Dilemma solved!
Come to think of it, tomorrow is Thursday. Since it’s late here I need to cut this short so I can get up early to make the two-hour drive to Morehead City. Sorry, no time to tell you about meeting Steve Harrell the inventor of ice cream “mix-ins”, eating Lexington BBQ for the first time, or how I talked Vincent into adding strawberry rhubarb ice cream to the selections at J P Licks. Oh, and I must tell you about the best Mexican food I’ve ever had. It’s Arturo’s in New Bern NC. The food is fabulous!
Chow!
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