Summertime.

    The Glenwood Ave Arts Fest began Saturday, drawing as always an eclectic crowd: Rogers Park locals, mostly, artists, of course, several politicians, couples with dogs, couples with children, young people and old people, white people and black people, street people and curious suburbanites, such as my wife and myself, who went because we always go. My brother-in-law, Alan Goldberg, helps organize it, and supporting your loved ones in their endeavors is what family does. You show up.

    Besides, it's fun.

    We cruised the booths and chatted with the artists, including a 14-year-old boy who caught my eye and said, "Come look at my paintings." So we did. I asked if the paintings, squares of color, had titles, and he improvised them on the spot for our benefit. I would have bought one for that alone, on general principles, but my wife nudged me onward and, figuring that disappointment is part of every artist's education, tried not to feel badly about it.

      After an hour, we drifted toward the car, I suggested we park ourselves on a pair of metal chairs by the empty bandstand.

     "I don't think there's an act until 4:30," my wife said. It was 4:10 now, and I understand that to mean, translated from the wife language, "Let's go."

     "Let's sit," I said. "We don't just sit enough. It's summer."

      So we just sat, watching children dance to the 1960s hits being broadcast from the stage. They were joined by a trim older gent, who danced by himself to several songs, obviously very pleased to be doing so, and we watched him dance too.

      "This is the best part of the festival," my wife said, of the sitting interlude.

     When we finally got up to go, I spied a gentleman in a red hat whom I had seen, from a distance, and of course noticed for his dramatic ensemble. He was about to dig into a plateful of dinner in a doorway, and after we passed him I pulled up, excused myself and went back and introduced myself.

     "Can I take your picture?" I asked. He said I could. He produced his business card, and I produced mine, and we made the exchange. His says he is Tamarie T., and his band is Thee Elektra Kumpany and their genre is "Exotik Funk." I asked what instrument he plays, and he said he is the front man, and they would be playing at 6 o'clock. It was tempting, but we decided to slide up to Evanston instead for a bubble tea.  That was fun too, and we ended up walking in the sand at Greenwood Beach, holding our shoes, and I realized it was the first time I had set foot in Lake Michigan in three years, maybe more. Though if I could do it again, I might wait the 90 minutes and hear Tamarie's band play. Next time.

     

Ravenswood Notes: Ginger

 

The Music Lesson, by John George Brown (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

   My wife has a saying that I like, "It's better to be kind than right." A truth that Ravenswood Bureau Chief Caren Jeskey explores delightfully today. Her Saturday report:

     "We don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are.” One of my favorites, Anaïs Nin, is credited with this combination of words.
     I find that all of my good ideas have come from others in one form or another. Whether receiving direct advice from a mentor or elder (yes, including you Mom & Dad), instruction in school, or picking up on the essence of those I admire, I’ve gleaned a lot from the people around me. I was once told that we are a conglomeration of the six people we spend the most time with. True or not, since then I’ve made an effort to surround myself with those I’d like to emulate for their desirable qualities. Calm, funny, warm, creative, forgiving, caring, intelligent, and those who can admit their flaws and have a sense of humor about themselves. Those who are willing to bend when they have something to learn.
     Today had its ups and downs. The ups were waking up in my cozy new Chicago apartment with wood floors and a gorgeous built-in hutch filled with gifts of rugs and furniture from good people welcoming me back. I had Telehealth sessions with clients, an honor and a privilege. I ordered a personal deep dish pizza from Giordano’s. I had a flute lesson. Then I left to find a spot to settle in and work, since I tend to work better at outside establishments with wifi, whereas at home I might get drawn into a project or another episode of Ted Lasso. As soon as I ventured out, everything went kaphooey. First stop, garbage bin. Why oh why do folks throw their garbage and compostables in the recycle bin? Why do my neighbors leave the back gate open when they walk their dogs rather than simply closing it and pulling their key out when they return? Why does no one smile when we pass on the sidewalk? Am I invisible? Then I hit the road. Why does no one stop at stop signs? Why do people race around on little side streets?
     I finally made it to a coffee shop with a patio. Why was the waiter so rude that I decided to leave? I almost went home and called mingling with society a wash for the day.
     Instead I drove around listening to music until I got an idea. Jerry’s Sandwiches on Lincoln. Right on the Square with the fountain, just south of Lawrence. Free wifi, tasty fare, and a laid back vibe. I settled in with my laptop to get my work done. Chariots of Fire theme in my bluetooth ear bud, I was ready to go. Alas, wah wahhhh. Think the sad, mocking sound in a TV game show where you’ve gotten the wrong answer. No wifi for me on the patio this fine night. The signal was too weak. The waiter kindly invited me inside where the signal is stronger, but with Delta? No way.
     Just then I realized: it’s blog time. No wifi needed. Time to write.
     I decided to broach the topic of wanting to avoid all human beings today. Feeling disconnected from my fellows. Then I realized that my own irritability had a lot to do with it, and remembered that the world can be different for me if I change into my rose colored glasses.
     I decided to kill the waitstaff with kindness. Sometimes I forget how hard COVID times have been on the service industry. They have had to show up—if they were lucky enough to retain their jobs— when many of us were able to stay at home, safe and sound, if we so chose. I went to the Comedy Showcase at Navy Pier this week, a part of the Chicago Humanities Festival. (I’m sure the Fest was much less hardy than it was in 2019. Two short years, and the whole world has changed). One of the performers entertained us with a song that sardonically reminded us of our privilege, and implored us to check it at the door or the opening of the patio when dining out in these hard times.
     The result? I won. My server responded to my kindness and we bonded. Turns out, they are a Comedy Drag Queen named Ginger Forest who worked for years with Second City. More recently, they host a children’s story time at Gerry’s on the third Sunday of each month, which is on hiatus thanks to Delta, but will hopefully return soon. They told me that their main message to the kiddos at story time is to be kind rather than judging others.

     Ginger shared their philosophy of life. “Know thyself. Look inward towards your own personal growth and journey, and use the people around you to inspire you. There is nothing wrong with saying ‘I need a little help.’ You need to be open and accepting. If you can reach beyond your personal boundaries, you’ll be amazed at what you’ll find. Look outside of your personal bubble. Find people who are different from you. Find your similarities with them, and build on them. The differences make you grow, and the commonality will bring you together.” Well said.

Culinary Artists Week #6: Pressure Cooker, Pt. II

     This is the second part of my 1996 GAMES stories on the Culinary Olympics. For part I, click here.

Cooking cakes (Metropolitan Museum)

     Though constantly in motion, the chefs seldom rush. They always seem to be deep in concentration, as if constructing atomic bombs instead of meals. Periodically, they stop what they're doing and study a situation, hands on hips, faces grim. The assistant, seeing the chef motionless, hurries over to find out what's wrong. Together chef and assistant stare at, say, a tray of cored apples. Then the chef mutters something to the assistant, and the two snap into action.

     Immediately after a mess is made, everything halts until it is cleaned up. The counters remain spotless—nothing is left sitting out in the open. Partially finished dishes are stored on wire racks. After six hours of constant cooking, the kitchens looks almost as clean as they did at 7 a.m. Of course, some are cleaner than others, and the judges take notice.

     While the chefs sometimes refer to their watches, not one of them uses a timer. Experience allows for shortcuts most amateurs would never contemplate. Hugelier holds a blue Morton canister a foot above a roast and pours an unmeasured white stream of salt. Stacy Radin, the pastry chef at Desserts International, Merion, Pennsylvania, reaches into a 25-pound bag of sugar and tosses handfuls into a mixing bowl. 

     But moments of crisis do arise. While Seigfreid Eisenberg, the executive chef at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee is diligently filling orange-flavored ravioli with duck paste, the pot of duck consume, unwatched, boils over onto the floor. Chef and assistant gasp simultaneously and rush over to attend to the spill. Eisenberger blows uselessly on the roiling surface of the 10-gallon pot, then turns and begins angrily dicing carrots into splinters, leaving his assistant to sop up the consume. Fortunately for Eisenberger, the judges, chatting among themselves across the room, don't seem to notice.

     Chefs who are not cooking that day hang around, planning strategy and ribbing their fellow competitors.

     "These guys are sickening," declares Jeff Gabriel, the executive chef a the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club, in Grosse Point, Michigan. "Sea bass and venison! These guys got nice ingredients. I wish I would have gotten that. You always wish you got what the other person did."

     Gabriel points through the glass at Mark Erikson, the chef-manager of St. Andrew's Cafe, hyde Park, New York. Erikson is glazing the coveted venison with honey and thyme. "Venison and sea bass. You're sickening!" Gabriel shouts. Erikson looks up, smiles, stick the thumb of one hand into his ear, and wiggles his fingers.

     When the chefs are not watching each other cook, they are eating each other's food. The day after Catherall prepared Cornish game hen, he sits at a table sampling Lawrence Ryan's cooking. But no sooner has he taken a few spoonfuls of the cold carrot bisque than he calls over a busboy.

     "Send this back to the chef," he says, suppressing a smile. While waiting for Ryan to receive the insult, Catherall explains that he had tried to find out whether he could bring his own plates, had been unable to get an answer, and ended up using the plates provided. Chefs are sensitive to every nuance of food presentation, ad Catherall believes these plates did not display his cooking to its best advantage. "Ryan didn't bother asking," say Catherall. "He just brought his own plates."

     Ryan walks over with a big grin on his face. "I heard you did well yesterday," he says, shaking hands. "Almost a gold...."

     The strategy employed by chefs is fairly straightforward. It's good to be creative, but not so creative as to risk failure. The menus for the most part reflect the current trend toward regional cooking: Eastern Shores Sea Bass with Shrimp Leeks, Connecticut Garden Salad Dumplings Minnesota, Minnesota Wild Rice Soup, Minnesota Bread, Medley of Seafood Back Bay, Seafood Medley Oregon.

    Some chefs show off more than others. Thus while Radin turns her white chocolate into mere White Chocolate Mousse, Northmore transforms his into Terrine of White Chocolate Mousse with Raspberry and Vanilla Sauce. And for good measure, he converts the nasturtiums into a Flower Tart with Fruit Sauce.

Preparing dough, Tomb of Rekhmire (Met)

     In general, the mystery box does not pose much of a problem, since a chef's normal day in a restaurant begins by looking in his refrigerator and then planning a menu around the food on hand.

     "I had a general idea of what to do," says Foster, after putting the finishing touches on his last pastry. "If I couldn't make one dessert, I'd make another. I was kind of surprised how smoothly it went."

     "The way I looked at it, items I had more of were for the entree, items I had less of were for the appetizer," says Larry Banares, executive sou chef at the Disneyland Hotel, in Anaheim, California. 

     "Before I came, I already planned on something neutral. I would make a seafood mousse, regardless of what seafood I got," says Tan Hung Heng, executive sous chef at the Waikiki Sheraton, Honolulu, Hawaii. "I had to think a little bit to make some adjustments—I got chicken. I had planned turkey."

     There is disagreement as to whether chefs need to practice for the competition. Robins says he practiced each night for hours after coming home from work.

     "If I practiced like that, I wouldn't be married or have a job," says Banares.

     "They all have to practice," says Hermann Rusch, a judge. "A jockey has to practice with the horses, a chef has to practice with the carrots."

     Gabriel demurs: "Not much you can practice. how many ways can you bake a potato?"

     As in any competition, the mood of the contestants is sometimes cynical, and their strategies often pragmatic. After all, only four chefs will be chosen for the national team, with an additional 10 picked to form the regional team, members of which travel to Frankfurt as assistants and to compete independently in certain cold food events. The difference between being on the national team and the regional team is the difference between driving in the Indy 500 and being on the pit crew.

     Three off-duty chefs gather in a corner near one of the kitchens. They all wear blue blazers with gold buttons, and none of them wants his or her name used.

     "Even though Jeff Gabriel put up real garbage yesterday, he'll be on the team," a chef with an accent says darkly. "I can name you six people who will be on the team no matter what."

     "I think there will be surprises," another chef says.

     The discussion moves into the real-politik of the competition: It's a good idea to prepare German food, seeing that most of the judges are German; give the items on your menu vague, general names, so however the food turns out, you'll be safe; no temper tantrums in the kitchen, no looking frantic—a bad attitude will sink you faster than too much pepper; the younger chefs have less of a chance, because they have less experience.  

Pounding meal (Met)

     Though the judges deny favoritism, they admit they don't want to try out any novices on the national team, no matter how sublime their food tastes.

     "I like to bring them into the support team and evaluate them," says Galand. "Everyone who goes to Frankfurt on the American team was on a previous year's support team. It's a good idea to bring them up that way, almost like a farm team."

     As 12:30 p.m. approaches, the action intensified. Eisenberger, running with a bag of powdered sugar from another kitchen, overshoots his own kitchen and puts on the brakes. "Missed," he says, sheepishly, backtracking. he mixes the sugar into his shallot mustard dressing, pours a bit into a small bowl, and drinks it. This is to be mixed with his "Melange of Greens," which will accompany such other creations as Duck Consume with Duck Ravioli, Corn Crepes, Seafood Medley Oregon (composed of sea bass, sturgeon, and shrimp  in a dill sauce), and a Venison Loin "Autumn" on a Bed of Split Peas.

    The six judges take their places at a table on a raised, gold-carpeted platform. They all wear white lab coats with red, white and blue USA CULINARY TEAM patches on the breast pocket. A trio of musicians plays nearby. The first appetizer is served—a shrimp-stuffed pear on a bed of carrots. The judges approach it carefully.

     "Very good flavor."

     "I liked the smoked shrimp."

     "Now that is beautiful."

     "Before you cut that up, let me get a taste of the center. Let's see how he's done this."

     The judges eat only a mouthful or two of each dish. Television cameras, film crews, and still photographers record every bite. After each course, they make notations on their clipboards and deposit their dirty silverware on a plate covered with a peach-colored napkin. Then they take fresh silverware rom a pile in the center of the table and await the next course.

     "Very important to have eye appeal," says Roland Shaeffer, a judge who went to Frankfurt with the American team in 1980 and 1984. "If it looks good, you're ahead of the game. Naturally, if it tastes good, too, you have a winner."

     Despite the great pomp surrounding the judging of taste, it is the least important factor in the competition. The judges assign 12 points apiece to the categories of Presentation, Creativity, and Workmanship, and only four points to Composition, the category that relates to the actual palatability of the food.

     After four days of competition, when all the chefs have displayed their talents, the judges add their hot and cold food scores and divide by two to arrive at the chefs' final scores. Anyone with a 34 or higher qualifies for the 1988 competition, though the judges have considerable latitude when it comes to selecting the final team roster.

Sifting meal (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     When the scores are totaled, Lawrence Ryan has been chosen the captain of the U.S. Culinary Team for 1988. His three teammates are Mark Erikson, Daniel Hugelier and Hartmut Handke, executive chef at the Greenbriar, White Sulphur Springs, Virginia. The captain of the regional team is Jeff Gabriel, and his nine teammates are Thomas Catherall, Seigfreid Eisenberger, Ruben Foster, Stacy Radin, Chris Northmore, Carolyn Claycomb, chef at Pates and Things, Columbus, Ohio, Michael Russell, chef de cuisine at Travis Pointe Country Club, Ann Arbor, Michigan, and Rudolph Speckamp, chef/owner of Rudy's 2900, Finksburg, Maryland.

     Those not selected for the team will not be forgotten, however. In culinary competition, there is always tomorrow.

     "Yes I'm very disappointed," says Michael Robins, after the results are announced. "I'll still go to Frankfurt in 1988 as an independent competitor. When you come this far, you can't go back."

     He says his cold food scores dragged him down. With a strong stable of hot food chefs from previous years, the judges were looking to boost the cold food effort in Frankfurt.

     "I'm still very young," says Robins, who is 23. "Just to go to Chicago was a very big honor. You have to be ready to keep your name up there and be a good sportsman. And I can't rule out that in the next two years they'll need a little help. That has happened before. If not, they better watch out in 1990, because I'm going to be on the team."

     

Editor's note: Michael Robins eventually won three gold medals, with perfect scores, at the World Culinary Olympics in Frankfurt. At 26, he was also the youngest person to attain a "Master Chef" ranking. Today he runs Integrated Culinary Systems, a consulting firm that assists clients in developing and commercializing food products for retail and Foodservice Sales.

Culinary Artists Week #5: Pressure Cooker, Pt. I

Library of Congress

     We'll finish up my weeklong look at chefs with something special: this article from the September, 1986 issue of GAMES magazine was my first article written for a national publication. Games was on my radar because my college pal, Robert Leighton, had gotten a job there, nudging the publication into the realm of the possible for me. I began looking for something going on in Chicago that I could report on, and the U.S. finals of the International Culinary Olympics seemed an event they might bite at. They did. I ended up writing for GAMES for years, including an article on college pranks that led to my first book.
     The Culinary Olympics is the model for "Chopped" and the many other TV competitions pitting chefs against each other and the clock. The event is still held: it'll be in Stuttgart in February, 2024. This story is long, though not bad for a 26-year-old novice, and I broke it into two parts, running today and tomorrow.  

     The 67th National Restaurant Association convention is a culinary madhouse. Tens of thousands of food industry types swarm over every level of Chicago's giant McCormick Center, gobbling free samples of TaterBoys, Tofutti, Koala Cones, and other snacks, clustering around booths representing such restaurant supply companies as Sani-Pearl, ThermaKleen, and Cut-Tel Automatic Faucets ("You never, never again have to touch your faucet....")
     In one corner, separated from the hall by a row of seven glassed-in kitchens, pandemonium has been reduced to a quiet hum. Here some of the best chefs in America are competing for the industry's highest honor—a spot on the U.S. Culinary Team representing this country two years from now in the Internationale Kochkunst Ausstellung, or International Culinary Competition. Held in Frankfurt, West Germany, every four years since 1894, this "Olympics" of cuisine is the world's most prestigious culinary competition. In 1984, 60,000 visitors came to the Messegelande—Europe's largest single exhibition area—to watch teams from 28 countries compete. In addition to national competitions, some chefs also compete in various individual categories. 
     The U.S. first participated in 1956, and in 1984 American entrants won 27 gold, three silver and two bronze medals.
     The finals in Chicago are a "hot food" competition, in which food is cooked, served, and then eaten. To quality, the chefs had to distinguish themselves at one of the five regional "cold food" competitions. In the cold food contest, a variety of dishes—from huge marzipan dolphins to delicate fillets of meat and fish glazed in aspic and garnished with tiny curlicued carrots and potatoes carved in the shape of mushrooms — are prepared as elaborately as possible. The key is aesthetics, since none of the cold food is consumed.
     "You get the most expensive food money can buy, then throw it all away," says Thomas Chaterall, executive chef at the Cherokee Town and Country Club in Atlanta. Because the food 
must be prepared and crafted all at once, the chefs work nonstop for several days.
     "You can't imagine what it's like to stay up three, four days in a kitchen and to work constantly," says Michael Robins, executive chef at the Hilton in Altamonte Springs, Florida. "I had a chance to sit down and said, 'My God, I haven't sat down in 24 hours.' But it doesn't get any better than this—the highlight of a chef's career." The entire process—regional competitions, finals, the two years of preparation for the U.S. team, and the trip to Frankfurt—is underwritten by the National Restaurant Association and the American Culinary Federation. The ACF is a professional organization that promotes the restaurant industry. The competition is held under its auspices, including the appointment of judges.

     Thirty chefs, six of them pastry chefs, ranging in age from 23 to 46, made it to Chicago last spring. During the four-day finals, six chefs and one or two pastry chefs will occupy the seven kitchens each day. Each chef has only one chance to cook. The kitchens are replicas of the kitchens used in Frankfurt — professional gas stoves, large stainless steel refrigerators, rolling wire racks, and pots, pans, and utensils of every size and description. (The chefs, however, usually bring their own knives, setting them out in neat rows on towels, like surgeon's tools.) Six of the kitchens are identical. The kitchen used by the pastry chefs, who are judged separately, has two ovens in it.
     Compared with the marathon cold food competition, the hot food competition is brief—a little more than six hours of continuous effort. The chefs arrive around 5:30 a.m. and are given a "mystery box" of ingredients that they must use to prepare their meals. Usually the boxes contain staples—fish, onions, poultry, beef—but one day they included nasturtium flowers. Not everyone gets the same ingredients, and the competition isn't so cut-throat that chefs don't lend each other a needed carrot or mushroom.
     The chefs have half an hour to plan out a menu, which they then post on the door of their kitchens. After that, the race is on. Aided by a lone assistant from a local vocational high school, each chef must prepare 26 identical seven-course meals. Two are served to a panel of judges. The remainder are devoured by hungry journalists and other sponges. Lunchtime is 12:30 p.m.
     Now it is a little after 8 a.m. on the last day of the competition and Daniel Hugelier, the executive chef at the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel in Grand Rapids, Michigan, is begging for cream.
     "Just two cups Rich," he asks Richard Schnieder, a judge in the finals. Schnieder, a stern man in a white lab coat, at first tells Hugelier that he can't have any more cream. He's gotten as much as the others, and will have to make do. But Schnieder eventually goes off in search of more.
     "He's always giving us a hard time," says Hugelier. "It's all part of the stress test."
     The judges, six distinguished chefs, themselves veterans of dozens of foreign competitions, do not sit back and passively wait to make their evaluations. Rather, they are constantly in the kitchens, looking over the chefs' shoulders, taking notes. This inspection has two purposes: It allows the judges to rate cleanliness, usage, and procedure. And it lets them put a little extra heat on the masters of haute cuisine.
     "If we noticed one chef is under great pressure, even if the food is good, we may feel he won't hold up under two weeks of intensive pressure in Frankfurt," says Baron Galand, president of the American Culinary Federation and judge.
     Part of Galand's inspection includes sifting through the garbage. "I've already been through every trash can," he says. "Chefs can't be throwing good things away. If they're using mushroom cups, then we ask them what they did with the stems. Usage. That's what's important."

     Ferdinand Metz, a judge with a thin mustache and a tight expression, walks into Lawrence Ryan's kitchen. Ryan, a department head at the Culinary Institute of America continues with his work. Metz looks into the refrigerator, takes a few notes, samples a green bean, and whispers something to Ryan.
     Robins, who shows up every day to intently watch the participants, observes Metz through the glass. "He's giving him pressure, as much pressure as possible," he says. "He's doing it in such a way to see what his breaking point is. Wants to see how he reacts to his authoritarian way of helping him out."
     "There is very little difference between work habits and final product," Metz says later."I've very seldom sen people work sloppily and produce high-caliber results. Anyone can do something if they have time and leisure and no pressure. This is a pressure environment. here they have X number of hours, strange conditions, an unfamiliar kitchen. Can they do the same under these conditions?"
     The judges talk tough, but in practice they go easy on the chefs, some of whom they have known for years. Schnieder returns to Hugelier's kitchen and silently places a single coffee cup, filled with foamy cream, on the counter before Hugelier, who looks down at it. "If my mousse is tough, you tell Ferdinand why," he says evenly. Schnieder shrugs and walks off. but a minute later he is back with a second cup.
     Each chef copes with pressure in his own fashion. Ed Leonard, a plump, disheveled chef from Trusthouse Forte in Norwalk, Connecticut, sings happily to himself as he pulls the backbone from a duck for his Duck Soup Hudson Valley. Ruben Foster, a tall, handsome pastry chef, removes a tray of golden brown maple-leaf-shaped pastry shells from the oven, twirls on one toe with the grace of a dancer, and sets the tray down on the center table, gently kicking the oven door closed behind him. 

     Chris Northmore, the pastry chef from the Parker House in Boston, chews gum like a pitcher. He wears a floppy cap over his strawberry blond hair, and is the only chef not to wear a toque, the cook's traditional starched white hat. On the counter before him are three bowls of varying sizes, and two scales. The bowls are filled with flaked white chocolate, and Northmore keeps pouring the chocolate from one bowl to another, grimacing, combining and recombining, and weighing the chocolate as if he were trying to solve a math problem. Finally a particular bowlful satisfies him, and he places it in a pan of boiling water on the stove. Immediately, he starts slicing strawberries. One strawberry yields eight thin, perfect slices. he arranges three slices in a champagne glass, nudging them gently into position. Then he steps back, jaw working away and appraises the glass at eye level, like a golf pro lining up a putt. Twenty-five empty glasses await on a tray nearby.

Coming Friday: Part II.

Culinary Artists Week #4: Cooking sea bass right is no day at the beach

Tony Mantuano

 

    The vacation is going great, thank you. I re-connected with an NU classmate I hadn't seen since college, got a first coat of paint on the front steps, dug the next book out of mothballs and started blowing off the dust. Though taking a week off does remind me why I coined the phrase, "If you're not the newspaper, you might as well be dead." Very quiet. I am enjoying revisiting these profiles on chefs, and hope you are too. At the time, it was a way to eat fancy meals I couldn't otherwise afford. This one came from a publicist, who was ballyhooing Mantuano's return after doing field research in Italy. I was trying to think of how to translate that into a story, and thus a meal at Spiaggia, and asked if I could watch him teaching his staff one of the recipes he plundered.

    Tony Mantuano was named Best Chef Midwest by the James Beard Foundation in 2005. He now heads up the food program at The Joseph, a luxury hotel in Nashville.

     Tony Mantuano is worried about a potato.
     "We're doing Idahos and yellows," he says, standing before the curving grill line at Spiaggia, the chi-chi Italian restaurant on Michigan Avenue. "I'm more concerned about the potatoes than the fish."
     It is the middle of the afternoon. The dining room, with its stunning view of North Michigan Avenue, is empty of customers. Mantuano, who is Spiaggia's executive chef, huddles with his top staffers, struggling to do something few of the tens of thousands of Chicagoans who haunt fancy restaurants ever pause to think about: add a new dish to the menu.
     Restaurants are like stage plays. They provide a backdrop for your life's dramas. That's the secret successful restaurateurs understand; you can eat good food at home. But to leap upon the stage, to enjoy that special, fleeting zone that is part private and part public and all glitter and elegance, you need to dine out.
     Like plays, most restaurants open quietly, run for a while, then disappear forever. A few go on to respectable, lengthy runs. And a very few—a handful—last so long they seem to go on, to steal the advertising line from Cats, "Now and Forever."
     To reach that coveted state of longevity, a restaurant, like a play, must refresh itself occasionally. New cast members must be brought in, new arrangements written. Spiaggia, which opened in 1984, has reached that age where restaurants either expire or become institutions. Hoping for the latter, last year it redecorated and brought back Mantuano, who was chef when it first opened, moving on in 1990 to tackle his own projects. Now he is back.
     "It's like returning to a child you helped in its infancy," he says.
     To inspire himself, Mantuano headed to Italy for two weeks at the end of October, seeking out new restaurants and old favorites, including a former haunt called Al Bersagliere, on the Mincio River in the Lombard town of Goito.
     There he was served fish wrapped in a delicate potato lattice. A dish that had an enigmatic sweet taste. A dish, he immediately realized, that would wow 'em back in Chicago.
     "We had prawns done similarly in Tuscany," says Mantuano. "It was sweet. That's what caught my attention. That subtle flavor made the dish jump up a notch. At first you don't recognize it."
     Even though Mantuano sat down with the chef, Mossimo Ferarri, and quizzed him about the dish—the sweetness turned out to come from chestnut honey—reproducing it back in Chicago is not as simple as it might appear. Which fish to use? Which potato? What kind of herbs?
     Each element poses its own problems. The Italian word Ferarri used for the fish was "ombrina," which translates out as "sea perch," a nearly generic term. There are 8,000 different types of perch.
     First Mantuano tries halibut. Then sea bass. Chef du cuisine Beth Partridge slices succulent filets off a shimmering silver and pink slab. Then they have to decide: one big filet or two small ones? They settle on one big filet: less trouble with drying out.
     Next problem, the potato. The lattice is easy enough to cut, using a metal kitchen gadget called a mandolin, sort of a Veg-O-matic on steroids. But how to prepare the potato so it is not too crisp, not too soggy but, to quote Goldilocks, "just right"? How to keep it from discoloring?
     They try blanching, try poaching.
     "The oil-poached potato," says sous chef Russ Elliot, gravely, in the tone a doorman might say, "The Queen of France." He hands Mantuano a thin sheet of yellow potato, sliced into a screen. Mantuano holds it on his fingertips and looks closely.
     "I don't think the yellows are going to cut it," says Partridge. "We're down to Idahos and yellows."
     Eventually the potato problem is solved by blanching in oil. Then on to the puree.
     "I'm not liking the puree," says Elliot. "I think we're better with chopped herbs. This is the black truffle sauce."
     They stand around. Different plates are passed, the three chefs picking up forks from a row of clean ones.
     While not exactly tense, there is a certain air of struggle to refining the dish. Mantuano spikes a version of the herb puree.
     "What's the problem?" asks Elliot. "Are you judging by flavor?"
     "Yeah, imagine that," says Mantuano, testily. "I'm assuming that's what most of the guests will do."
     Finally, the fish is right. The potato is right. The honey is right. The herbs are right. But something's still not right. More tasting. Mantuano unholsters the chef's secret weapon: salt—fancy French salt, we hasten to add, but salt nonetheless. Everyone tastes again.
     "I really think it benefits from the fleur de sal," says Mantuano. "Like salt on French fries."
     "Ta dah," says Partridge, indulging in a bit of culinary punning. "It's a weiner."
     The next week, Branzino in rete di patate -- "bass in a potato net" -- debuts on the Spiaggia menu at $35 a pop. The crowd goes wild.
     "It's really a big seller," says Mantuano.

      —Originally published December 17, 2000

Culinary Artists Week #3: Cutting-Edge Chef

Ted Cizma (Photo for the Sun-Times by Richard A. Chapman)

     This ran on a Sunday, and the reason that is important is the Sunday editor was a solid man named Michael Arnold. I happened to be sitting in his office when the subject of this story phoned, in a lather because I had accurately quoted him answering my question about why he got divorced. Mike earned my eternal admiration by his reply, which was along the lines of, "Here's a thought Ted. Next time you are being profiled by a reporter, and there is something you don't want to be quoted saying in the newspaper, DON'T SAY IT!" 

     There's still a Grace restaurant in the West Loop, but it's not the one Cizma opened: that's closed. In 2016, he was the executive chef of Space X, but that's about all I can find.

     Ted Cizma's love of cooking is etched on his body.
     A stockpot, ladle, frying pan and cleaver tattooed on a tableau running up one arm; chili peppers, beef cattle and a fish being sliced for sushi on the other. An entire food chain, with Cizma himself, knife and fork in hand, at the top.
     "The more comfortable I get with myself," he says, sitting in the cool, high-ceilinged dining room of his hot new Randolph Street restaurant, Grace, "the more I want to express my personal style."
     Cizma must be feeling very comfortable with himself of late. Food & Wine magazine has just named him among "America's Ten Best New Chefs"—one of only two chefs not on the East or West coast to be honored. A second restaurant is in the works, as is a cookbook, and the other trappings of culinary fame —TV shows, signature kitchen apparel—perhaps are not far behind.
     While Food & Wine might consider Cizma "new," the 37-year-old native Chicagoan is no newcomer to the local scene. He cut his teeth at cult favorite Daniel J.'s, then went to Zealous in Elmhurst and was five years at Lake View's the Outpost, before starting Grace last year.
     His grandfather was a butcher, and there is a certain meatiness to Grace's menu. Featured are lamb chops and ribeye, and there is a focus on game: venison loin stuffed with wild blackberries, plum glazed antelope tenderloin, grilled rabbit salad.
     The wine list is first rate, studded with hard-to-find vintages from coveted vineyards—with several bottles topping at $ 700 apiece—acquired by Cizma's careful personal lobbying of the top vintners in California.
     "It's pretty straightforward American," he says. "I tend to utilize almost exclusively domestic products -- small artisanal and boutique producers, a few local farmers who plant specific crops for me. Simple food, aggressively flavored. People seem to like it."
     "He cooks as well as anyone," says Paul Wildermuth, chef and owner of nearby Red Light. "He cooks as well as (Charlie) Trotter. He cooks as well as Paul Kahan from Blackbird—as well as anyone I've ever worked with. He's just as good or better."
     Not everyone is enamored of Cizma's cuisine; when the restaurant opened, it was suggested that he heaps on the flavors and textures, a charge he denies.
     "I truly believe my food was never contrived," he says. Yet, as time passes, he does find himself getting back to the unadorned flavors of his materials.
     "I realized that simpler is better," he says. "I think it's a sign of maturity."
     Maturity has its downsides. As his restaurant has grown in popularity, he has found success sometimes standing between himself and his kitchen.
     "The more successful you get, the less time you have left to do what made you successful in the first place," he says. "I find that lately I rarely have time to actually cook."
     Or to play. "I did have hobbies," he says, noting how pastimes such as golf and bicycling have fallen by the wayside.
     As has his marriage, a victim of his passion for food.
     "Absolutely," he says. "It was the mind-set. I was so focused." His wife didn't share his passion. He was fascinated by restaurants and recipes, while "all she wanted to do was fill her stomach."
     "She would boil a chicken breast and eat it plain between two pieces of bread," he says, explaining the separation that left him with custody of their two girls, Grace—the restaurant's namesake—who is 5, and her older sister, Elaine, 7, who will get her own moniker on a restaurant next year when Cizma's second eatery opens in Naperville.
     "My kids have an idyllic life. They are surrounded by people who love them. They come in here and are treated like rock stars," he says, adding that the life of a chef often makes parenting easier.
     "It certainly is a challenge, but I think I do a pretty good job," he says. "It's not that hard if you're willing to make the effort. It helps that my schedule is so flexible. I get to have virtually every meal with my kids."
     This despite a routine that—as with all restaurants—is filled with crisis. "Every day brings some form of disaster," Cizma says. "The basement flooded three times. The power went out twice, once at 6:30 on a Friday night. There were 90 people in the dining room when the lights and the air went off."
     Despite the occasional crisis, Grace is usually filled at dinner and is so successful that Cizma has a philosophy of whom he doesn't want to eat there.
     "I want to populate it entirely with people who 'get' it," he says. "I do not want to be all things to all people."
     Recognition such as the Food & Wine plaudit often means a gig in a top New York restaurant. But Cizma, who grew up in Burr Ridge, says he is staying put.
     "I'm a Chicago guy, born and raised," he says. "I'm dedicated to Chicago. It's a great restaurant town and only getting better."
     That said, the attention that has already risen to a furious boil is a little daunting to the former Marine.
     "I'm a little dazzled by all this," he admits. "I've always considered myself a regular guy without affectations or delusions of grandeur."
     So what is this regular guy's recipe for success?
     "Pay attention to quality at every step," he says. "Pay attention to the details."

          —Published in the Chicago Sun-Times, July 2, 2000

Culinary Artists Week #2: America's Goat Cheese Whiz

Judith Schad at Capriole Farm in 2000 (Sun-Times photo)

     This story brings up so many memories. I had wanted to trace the journey of a salmon from a lake in Minnesota to a table at the Ritz-Carlton, even went to the Chicago Fish House, trying to set it up. But doing so proved difficult, and I thought to instead spotlight one of the cheeses that Sarah Stegner was so intent upon in my profile of her, posted yesterday and thought to visit Judith Schad's Capriole Farm.

     I wanted to bring her something special, for hosting me, so went to Tekla Importing to buy a few bottles of high end wine. Owner Sofia Solomon said her father started the Solomon drug store chain, and I realized she was the sister of Essee Kupcinet, wife of the famous columnist, born Essee Solomon. I had written her advance obit. "I bet I know more about your sister than you do," I teased. She looked dubious. "Her middle name is Joan, but it used to Jane: Why'd she change it?" I asked. She looked at me blankly. I leaned in, grinning, "Mad for Joan Crawford," I whispered.

     That, and as I toured Capriole Farms, I kept murmuring, "The boys would love this." Each time, Judith Schad replied, "You have to come back with them." About the third time she said that, I raised a finger, and warned, "If you invite us again, I'll bring them, and you'll be sorry. The boys were 3 and 4. She invited us, and I brought the whole family. We had a blast; Ross became enamored of going after all the flies on a goat ranch with a swatter. I can't speak for Schad, though I got the distinct sense she was relieved when the weekend came to the a close.

    Capriole Farm, like many food establishments, suffered during COVID, seeing orders decline by 75 percent, but is still in business.

     What looks so refined on a gold-rimmed plate set on a starched white tablecloth in the gilded splendor of the Ritz-Carlton dining room begins its existence in southeast Indiana at the underside of a goat.
     Goat cheese has yet to challenge favorites such as Cheddar or gouda, but the dry, pungent curd is enjoying a surge in popularity at Chicago's better restaurants and supermarkets, part of a renewal of interest in fine cheeses.
     "We're huge on cheese," said Rick Tramanto, chef at the culinary palace Tru, where goat cheese is typically included among the array of cheeses prominently displayed on an elaborate cart at the restaurant entrance.
     As with wine, France still enjoys prominence in cheesemaking. But the French are being challenged, at least when it comes to goat cheese, by a former medieval literature scholar turned Hoosier goat farmer named Judith Schad.
     "Judith Schad is the queen of cheesemaking in America," said Sarah Stegner, executive chef at the Ritz-Carlton, as she stood in the dining room, addressing a group of 50 cheese lovers brought together to eat cheese and drink wine, with the proceeds from the event used to send a member of the Ritz staff to study cheesemaking at Schad's Capriole Farms in Greenville, Ind.
     They should bring boots. One time zone and 350 miles southeast, the queen of cheesemaking in America has pulled on her green rubber barn boots and is squooshing through barnyard muck in the pre-dawn darkness to bring blocks of hay to her herd of 307 goats, which cluster and bleat around her.
     "It's not exactly the Ritz, is it?" she says, laughing.
     Nor is it agribusiness. For an endeavor that ships out 50,000 pounds of cheese, in various forms, flavors and textures, Capriole Farms, if not quite the one cow, one horse, one chicken farm found in children's books, has a certain warmth and humanity rare in the typical dairy product factory.
     Schad's home is a pair of rustic cabins artfully cobbled together. A grand piano rests in the book-lined living room, and a huge, inviting kitchen bristles with hanging pots and a curing country ham.
     Across a pond is the ramshackle old barn where Schad's goats—all named—wander. Although they are typically milked by machine, half a dozen at a time, Schad still finds herself occasionally squatting at the hind end of a goat, milking into a metal bucket.
     There are two distinct worlds when it comes to making goat cheese—the goat part and the cheese part. One is cleaner than the other, though the goats are fairly fastidious in their habits, as far as barnyard animals go.

Goats at Capriole Farm (Sun-Times photo).

     "Goats are cats with horns," Schad said, and the animals do have a certain feline grace and deliberation; curious, in a slow-moving fashion.
     Cheese starts with milk. Every morning, before dawn, about a third of Schad's goats are directed toward the milking area, where they clomp heavily up an inclined wooden board and find a place among six empty metal racks.
     The rubber hoses of the Pulsator milking machine are attached, and the milk is pumped into a 500-gallon tank. Goat milk has a nutty, grassy taste, rich in the mouth, and is the secret behind the cheese.
     "What goat milk has is this incredibly fine texture," Schad said. "Nothing says I can't make the same cheeses with cow milk. The problem is fat composition. Fat in cow's milk has larger globules. Goat's milk is naturally homogenized, velvety, fine-tasting, smooth and creamy."
    The rest of the herd are not milked because they're resting or pregnant.
     "They need a rest," Schad said. "If you don't give them a rest, it's not as healthy, and they really make me feel bad." She laughs at the thought of letting emotions enter into the realm of goat husbandry. "A lot of this does fly in the face of good dairy practice."
     After the milk is taken from the goats, it is pumped into a stainless steel tank, then pasteurized at 145 degrees. The pasteurized milk then is mixed with a bit of the cheese cultures -- the bacteria that turn it into cheese. The cultures live in five mason jars set on a window ledge in Schad's cheesemaking room.
     "This is the mother," Schad announced, proudly showing off a jar of what looks like cloudy water.
     The coagulating mixture is ladled into —what else?—cheesecloth, and hung up to dry, the liquid slowly dripping out of rows of white globes.
     Schad got into cheesemaking in the most backward way imaginable. Burnt out on the life of a grad student studying medieval literature, Schad and her husband, Larry, bought a dilapidated farm, a return to her roots.
     "I had grandparents who were so incredible," she said. "They had this mini-farm. They did everything. My grandfather grew one of every kind of plant in the universe. It was such an idyllic childhood: planting apple trees, picking up persimmons. No child could have grown up in any more wonderful place."
     The idyll ended when she was a teen and her grandmother had a stroke.
     "I think I always wanted to get back to that," she said. "Plus the cooking. My grandmother was an incredible cook. I cooked since I was 12."
     A farm needs animals, which were acquired, including a couple of goats. The children entered the goats into 4-H contests. The milk was simply thrown away.
     Which seemed a shame.
     Schad started making chevre, the basic goat cheese. Then she added a variety of flavors and types, dubbing them with solid American names containing a hint of pun, such as Old Kentucky Tomme ("tomme" being another word for a hunk of cheese). A layering of three cheeses is dubbed "Fromage a Trois."
     Another cheese, with the simple name "Banon," for a town in France, is soaked in whiskey and wrapped in chestnut leaves which, given the blight-induced scarcity of chestnut trees, is no small task.
     Her efforts began to pay off five years ago. Her Wabash Cannonball took "Best of Show" at the 1995 American Cheese Society show.
     "Stunningly delicious," wrote cheese guru Steve Jenkins in his 1996 fromage bible, Cheese Primer.
     "I sing her praises," said Sofia Solomon, owner of Tekla Importers, which wholesales Capriole cheese. "I think she's really extraordinary. And not only because she named a cheese for me. She is a fabulous artisanal producer. She's just a wonderfully interesting person and great fun to work with."
     Schad certainly is great fun to visit. No sooner has your bag hit the floor than she has opened the wine and is out in the cheese house, searching through her trays of exotic, ash-cloaked cheeses for one of optimum ripeness.
    "Tonight, we eat cheese," she said, striding into her walk-in refrigerator, filled with shelves of wooden crates, each holding neat arrays of geometric cheese.
     She seizes a particularly ripe-looking cheese. "I kind of really love it, but I'm not sure anyone else would. I'm loving it. I love all that moldy, wonderful thing happening."
      —Published in the Sun-Times, August 13, 2000