Accidental Chef is a sobering account of what it's really like to be a professional chef, not the glamorized, sugar-coated depictions we see on cable television. This book offers a glimpse of what it really like to work in a hotel patry shop and a busy restaurant. When you read Accidental Chef you can't help feeling that you right there with Charles in the kitchen. Through his vivid descriptions you'll be able to imagine the sights, sounds and smells of a real kitchen. Accidental Chef puts a real face on the hospitality industry in America. Charles reveals many of the unsavory aspects of the hotel and restaurant business. For example, he relates true life stories about how our food supply isn't always as sanitary as we might believe. You'll get an idea of just how prevalent drug abuse and sex are in the food world. Through Accidental Chef, Charles also shares some of stories of the colorful characters he's worked with thoughout his long career. He illusrtates how professioanl cooking attracts a variety of characters. Charles introduces you to some of the bizarre people he's worked with. In his own words, Charles gives us the captivating story of how he abandoned a prosperous career in hospital adminstration to become a chef in New Orleans. It's an inspiring story for those who are disenchanted with their career, but are afraid of the risks of a career transition. Above all, Charles reveals the irrepressable determination and genuine love of cooking that made his success possible.

Accidental Chef

An Insider's View of Professional CookingBy Charles Oppman

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Chef Charles Oppman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4634-1471-9

Contents

Preface..........................................................ixIntroduction.....................................................xvii1 Home Schooled.................................................12 Accidental Chef...............................................143 The Big Easy..................................................284 Blackened Blues...............................................455 Soul Kitchen..................................................576 Happiness is a Warm Bun.......................................657 Oh Chef! My Chef!.............................................788 Requiem for a Café.......................................949 The Restaurant World According to America.....................11910 Fool Network..................................................15011 A Cook Book...................................................165Appendix A.......................................................199Appendix B.......................................................240Appendix C.......................................................298Appendix D.......................................................309Acknowledgements.................................................327Selected Bibliography............................................329

Chapter One

Home Schooled

"I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage."

Erma Bombeck

I WAS BORN in 1949, the sixth child in a family that would become eight. For the first year of my life we lived in a low-income housing project whose austere brick structures looked more like military barracks than blocks of flats. Our parents eked a hardscrabble life; too many mouths to feed with too little money. My father did what he could; truck driver, welder, electrician. Our mother did her level best to make ends meet with scant resources. In those days there was no food stamp program; parents were responsible to feed their own or they didn't eat. Our mother bought potatoes by the hundred pound sack, beef, pork and poultry were luxuries. When we could afford it, our mother would send one of my brothers to the poulterer to fetch a couple of freshly-killed chickens. She wouldn't just roast the birds; that would be too extravagant. She boiled them first to make chicken soup and matzo balls; that would fill more bellies. She learned this quintessential Jewish soup from my father's mother, a Jewess who emigrated from Hungary circa 1913. As was the custom in those days, my grandparents' marriage was prearranged.

From Hard Work to Hard Times

EFFECTIVELY A SUBURB of Chicago, Gary, Indiana was once the beating heart of the nation's industrial heartland. In its heyday Gary was one of the most prolific steel manufacturing centers in the world. In tandem with Pittsburgh, Gary produced the steel required to build the armaments needed to defeat Nazi Germany. It's questionable that either city could have produced enough steel on its own to get America through the war effort. More recently, Gary is notable for its favorite son, Michael Jackson, and his charming family. The Jacksons escaped from Gary in the 1970s and never looked back. Can't say as I blame them; Gary has been a city in decline since the late 1960s. It's a classic example of urban decay American-style and a deep source of embarrassment and sadness for those of us who grew up in Gary. We remember our city as a vibrant and prosperous blue-collar community. Gary was a wonderful place to grow up.

Gary was created in 1906, as a company town for U.S. Steel, providing a constant supply of labor to work its Bessemer furnaces and rolling mills. After the WWII, Gary and its neighboring communities boomed—East Chicago, Hammond and Whiting. Unemployment wasn't something we ever discussed because it was never much of an issue. There were occasional lay-offs, but it was always temporary, the mills always rebounded. After high school you were expected to work in the steel mills. Everybody did. It was only natural. Our fathers and grandfathers worked in the mills. "If U.S. Steel was good enough for my generation then U.S. Steel is good enough for you," was a constant refrain throughout my childhood. It wasn't just the native Garyites who worked the mills, so did the immigrants and migrants. For thousands of immigrants from war-torn Europe, Gary represented a new start; for Americans from the Deep South, Gary offered the promise of a better life. Blacks flocked to Northwest Indiana where the mills represented opportunities at good-paying jobs. But they offered something more; a chance to escape the vestiges of the oppressive Jim Crow past. The mills were color blind; if a man was willing to work he could find work in the mills.

Gary's fortunes have risen and fallen with those of the steel industry. When the mills were hiring—and the mills were almost always hiring during my childhood—few were unemployed. All through my youth, working men could depend on the mills for a job, but that all began to change in the early 1970s when Gary entered a spiral of decline brought on by growing overseas competition in the steel and auto industries. This downturn caused the steel manufacturers—with U.S. Steel being the main one—to lay off workers in droves. Unemployment brought with it social ills. Crime increased, including rampant drug use and trade in illegal drugs. Gary's first black mayor, Richard Hatcher, was an unmitigated disaster. Hatcher ushered in an era of unprecedented corruption, incompetence and malfeasance by city officials. Seeing their city crumble before their eyes, long-time residents fled to surrounding suburbs or left the area entirely for better employment opportunities.

U.S. Steel continues to be one of the world's major steel producers, but with only a fraction of its former workforce. While Gary has failed to reestablish a manufacturing base since its population peak, several casinos opened on the shores of Lake Michigan in the 1990s. Today, Gary faces enormous difficulties, staggering unemployment, chronic economic problems and perennially one of the nation's highest crime rates. For more than forty years Gary's downtown area has slid into a state of irreversible decrepitude. Businesses that once thrived have been boarded up for decades. Where a generation ago there was always hope for a brighter future, now there is only hopeless despair. Gary, Indiana has gone from hard work to hard times.

Home Is Where the Hearth Is

WHAT NOSTALGIA I have about my youth was largely due to the wonderful foods to which I was exposed. Northwest Indiana was a true melting pot. Immigrants brought their culture and cuisine of their native lands. Immigrants discovered dishes they'd only heard about, but never sampled. Greeks and Serbs grew partial to tamales and tostadas while Mexicans developed a taste for gyros and spit-roasted lamb. Gastronomic diversity is a prerequisite to becoming a well-rounded chef. I was exposed to a veritable smorgasbord of ethnic dishes from an early age—Polish, Mexican, Greek, Puerto Rican, Croatian and Serbian. Being exposed to these cuisines during my formative years would have a lasting impact and prove invaluable throughout my culinary career.

My own family's Canadian and European culinary traditions would have an impact on my approach to food. My mother's family, whose surname was Gervais, was French Canadians who immigrated to the States in the late 1920s. As a youngster, I was spellbound when Grandpa Gervais spun yarns about his days as a lumber jack when he was a teenager. His English was limited and he spoke with a pronounced French accent. As smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette swirled around his head, he'd tell a wide-eyed child tales of encounters with timber wolves and Indians in the wilds of Canada. Grandma Gervais made traditional north-of-the border dishes like pork and veal pie or tourtiere. I also have fond memories of her making crepes slathered with butter and strawberry preserves for my younger sister, Pam, and me. Those paper-thin discs of delight seemed to melt in our mouths.

My father's side of the family was Ashkenazi Jews from Hungary. I have no memories of these grandparents since both died when I was a small child, but their culinary influence survived them. My mother made typical Hungarian dishes such as fried bread, crullers (a fried pastry sprinkled with granulated sugar similar to Mexican churro), and chicken paprikash, beef goulash with spätzle. The delicious foods of my youth had a profound influence on my affinity for good food. My love of cooking and eating took root during these formative years.

* * *

Mealtime at the Oppman residence was not a place for amateurs. You needed sharp elbows to ensure that you received your fair share of food; there was only so much to go around. If you missed dinner you were forced to make yourself a bologna sandwich. Meals at our house were not like meals at Beaver Cleaver's house in the 1950s where the family leisurely picked at their food while they chatted about that day's events. Our table was more raucous, similar to a scene from a Marx Brothers movie. You had to eat fast so you didn't miss out. Our mother did her best to ride herd over her fidgety brood. She was a patient person, but the woman had limits. I recall one incident when one brother's incessant clamoring for food compelled our mother to crack his plate on his head.

My older brothers' appetites were the stuff of legend. Athletes all, they were all voracious eaters. I'd heard tales of dozens of eggs and stacks of waffles devoured at breakfast. I watched in awe as Paul polished off an entire chocolate cake and a half-gallon of milk. Bunny purportedly put away more than twenty White Castle burgers in one sitting. Granted, my brothers were real chow hounds, but they were all pikers compared to me. I hold the family record for eating the most food in one sitting. I vanquished my college roommate who dared to challenge me in a fried chicken eating contest. I devoured twenty-eight pieces of fried chicken—plus rolls, fries, salad and beer. That's about three and a half birds. My crestfallen competitor threw in the napkin at twenty-four pieces. I could have claimed victory with twenty-five pieces, but I wanted to teach him a lesson. Take that Joey Chestnut!

Of our entire clan, I've always had the most intense relationship with food—a love affair that has contributed to a life-long battle with the scale. Around age seven or eight, I began to take a serious interest in cooking appointing myself sous chef to my mother. I willingly performed the menial tasks; peeling veggies, pitting fruit, washing-up. She would reward me by allowing me to lick the batter-laden beaters or give me with the first slice of freshly baked bread.

New Horizons

AS OUR FAMILY expanded, so did my culinary horizons. My oldest sister, Judy, married a first-generation Mexican. His family introduced our family to traditional Tex-Mex dishes. It was simple fare, but it was marvelous—tamales, refried beans, tacos, burritos and tostadas. This was my first introduction to Mexican cuisine and it made a lasting impression. I would also be exposed to authentic Mexican fare through the many Latino restaurants in and around Gary. My love affair with Mexican food survives to this day. A few years ago we went on a culinary excursion in Oaxaca, Mexico. We took cooking classes and sampled local fare, especially the mole sauces for which Oaxaca is famous. Many of today's top chefs dismiss Mexican cuisine as unsophisticated and banal. I couldn't disagree more. Mexico has given the world one of the truly great cuisines.

In the early 1980s, while I was attending chef school, my education about Mexican food would continue. My friend, Rudy Muñoz, helped to expand my Mexican food repertoire. Rudy, mi hermano (my brother), taught me classics such as albondigos (meatballs in beef broth), menudo (a type of tripe soup), and migas (a breakfast dish of fried chorizo with onions and crumbled and fried corn tortillas). Rudy and I have remained close friends since our chef school days. We still cook together. He left the culinary field years ago, growing weary of the stress and extreme demands of the work. Can't say I blame him; it is a grueling occupation not suited for the faint of heart.

My sisters-in-law also taught me some of their family dishes. Shirley, wife of my second oldest brother, Rick, also contributed my education. She introduced me to fried green tomatoes, a dish from her southern Indiana roots. I'm amused when I see fried green tomatoes on the menu of an upscale restaurant as if it's haute cuisine. Shirley also made gratin potatoes with ham. Kay, wife of my eldest brother, Doug, makes superb apple fritters and Swedish meatballs, both of which she served after my mother's funeral. My mother passed away in April 1964 at the age of forty-six. Her death was a crushing blow to our family and is still a source of deep sadness. My mother actually passed away in her tiny kitchen, the room where she spent countless hours doing one of the things she loved most—cooking.

* * *

My Uncle Howard and Aunt Bernice also contributed to my culinary home schooling. Aunt Bernice was Polish, which meant that autumn was that time of year to set up the meat grinder and make homemade kielbasa and of course sauerkraut. During my childhood people often made their own kielbasa or bought it fresh from local butchers, an endangered species today. Sausage would not be considered heart healthy cuisine, but with food this good no one cared.

I attended this rite of autumn to observe the sausage production. I enjoyed watching my uncle carefully grind just the right amount of lean meat and pork fat. "You have to get the right ratio of lean and fat to make juicy sausage," Uncle Howard would warn. "Nobody likes dry sausage." The pork, fat, and condiments were hand-ground before being injected into the casings. Uncle Howard used fresh pork shoulder or butt; more expensive cuts don't contain enough fat and collagen. You need fat and collagen for flavor, natural juice and texture. As much as anything, the sausage production was an opportunity for my uncle to socialize and drink beer.

My step mother, Mildred Arnold, also taught me many dishes I'd never seen before she came into our family. She was a country gal from rural Colorado. Mildred was also a natural cook. She taught me how to make chicken and dumplings, fabulous fruit pies, fried chicken, veal pocket and "city chicken." As did my mother, Mildred kept bacon grease in a coffee can on top of the stove—this was done in most homes when I was growing up—and used lard in her pie dough and for frying chicken. People don't often cook like this nowadays. We all know that animal fat isn't healthy for us, but any respectable cook will tell you that nothing imparts flavor to fried or sautéed foods like animal fat. In order of preference it is; duck fat, bacon grease then chicken fat. Also, like my mother, Mildred had a natural ability to season and could also create a tasty meal from leftovers. I never saw my mother or Mildred use a cookbook. They didn't need cookbooks; they cooked by intuition. This is how naturally gifted cooks perform once they've mastered fundamental cooking techniques and the art of seasoning. Not all cooks have the ability to work like this. I've worked with professional cooks who weren't as good as my mother and Mildred.

Cookin' for the Colonel

THROUGH OUT MY childhood I always hustled to make a buck. I washed cars, delivered newspapers, mowed lawns and shoveled snow. Self-employment was fine, but the time had come for me to move up to a real job. It was time to become employed and earn a regular paycheck so I applied at KFC. You were supposed to be sixteen to get a job in those days, but I lied about my age. I figured fifteen and a half was close enough. No one at KFC bothered to verify my age. Child labor and occupational safety laws weren't really enforced in those days. For instance, the potential for grease burns and explosions inherent in frying chicken with pressure cookers was acceptable at the time. Today these risks would be a violation of the Occupational Safety and Health Act, which didn't exist until 1970.

I was psyched about working at KFC. It was a new fast food chain in the Midwest and a lot of my friends were applying. It was my first professional cooking gig. I needed that job. I needed to earn my own cash and gain some independence from my father. More importantly, there was the matter of my love life. I'd never been on a proper date because I, but that was all about to change. Now that I was a working man, I was sure girls would flock to me once they discovered I worked at KFC. What girl could resist a chef?

My official title was Fry Boy. I even had a uniform—white shirt, white pants, white apron, and a white paper hat with a caricature of a little chicken stamped on it. The title and uniform gave me a sense of pride. I belonged to a team. My boss was a middle-aged Polish guy named Stanley Grabowski whose nickname was "Stosh." But of course I couldn't address him as Stosh to his face. I asked Stosh if KFC supplied name badges. He told me they did not. Starting pay was a buck ten per hour. Stosh explained my job duties.

"Chuck, here at KFC your title is Fry Boy and that means you will fry chicken and anything else that needs fryin'; French fries, onion rings, fish filets. You will also make craklin' gravy and mashed potatoes and whatever else Lester here tells you to do. Lester is your immediate supervisor and Lester answers to me. He's been with us for nearly a year now and knows how I want things done around here. Isn't that right Lester?"

(Continues...)

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