This was just the question I found myself asking nearly 10 years ago when I first heard the term used by my now friend and mentor, Ken. But, perhaps I had ought to start a little further back.
I was fresh out of college having attended Tulane University in New Orleans, LA. I studied Sociology and Business there but learned as much outside of the classroom as I did in it.
Anyone who’s ever been to New Orleans will tell you that the locals live life their own way. Sure, everything is a little slower yet at the same time, the volume is turned up. If ever there was a city to challenge New York for living life at 11, it’s New Orleans. Unlike New York, (and yes, I lived there, too) in NOLA, food was culture. Food was the reason you did nearly anything. Sure, a party followed, but it was all about the food. Food is so ingrained in the culture that grown men, completely outside of the food industry would frequently get into heated debates on who’s jambalaya recipe was best, or even more important, who’s mother’s recipe was the best.
The only problem being a student in a city obsessed with food was that, as a student, I couldn’t afford any of it. I often looked forward to my father’s visits from Philadelphia because I knew he would be taking me out to dinner at least a few times. He had remarried after my parents were divorced 4 years earlier and my still new Step mom, Chavonne, was the first person I ever met who described herself as a “Foodie.” We didn’t get along terribly well at first and if it were not for food, we may never have become closer. My mother, whom I would later come to appreciate as an accomplished cook, raised three rambunctious boys nearly on her own, ran the house and worked full time as a school nurse. This didn’t leave her time to be a creative genius come dinner time. Her lack of time to prove her culinary chops was my Step mom’s in.
Chavonne would host elaborate dinner parties and would cook all day long in preparation. She put the same amount of effort into Christmas Dinners, Summer Barbecue’s and Birthday’s alike. I simply never knew food could taste so good. By the time I was 19, I’d eaten all over the U.S. and Europe and called New Orleans home. Still nothing came close to the food I ate in Chavonne’s kitchen in Philadelphia. I paid close attention to her techniques and began cooking on my own in College.
I had to constantly challenge myself to stay within a tight budget. I knew that quality mattered but also learned where a cheap substitute could come in handy. Fresh was best, but frozen would do. Time also mattered. Why spend a half hour making fresh puff pastry when frozen would ultimately taste the same (if not better) and anyway, I didn’t have a mixer! So, I cooked aiming to replicate the dishes I loved over the years but, on a shoe string budget. I had plenty of neighbors to test recipes on and my craft came into focus.
By the time I graduated, I was 23, had traveled and eaten extensively, worked nearly 10 years in restaurants as anything from a dishwasher to a waiter, loved to cook and could do so for pennies on the dollar compared to most. What I became, was a critic.
I saw flaws in nearly everything I ate because I rarely ate anything I couldn’t prepare myself for less than half of what I was paying for it in a restaurant. So, I looked to service, ambiance, anything, to try and stomach paying the difference. I rarely found what I was looking for but, I loved the challenge and from time to time, usually on someone else’s dime, I would find it.
Like many new college graduates, I returned home to find work and was thrilled to find an entry level sales position. I worked just outside of Philadelphia in one of so many suburban office parks which spring up on major cities edges to avoid big city taxes. This particular building was the flagship of several in the complex and came with its own Corporate Concierge, something I had never known existed. I’d ride the elevator up in the morning and view advertisements reading, “Need a Reservation? Speak with Ken, our Corporate Concierge.” Until my girlfriend at the time called me up asking me to make a reservation at the most expensive restaurant in town for her parent’s upcoming visit, I had never thought to do any such thing. But now, I had my bankroll.
I knew enough about Vetri, Marc Vetri’s then only restaurant in Philadelphia, to know that asking anyone short of the Mayor himself wouldn’t do much good getting a reservation in only 3 days time, but, I had also learned that what is never asked for may never be given. It was worth a try. When I asked Ken, “I don’t suppose you could get me a table for 4 at Vetri this weekend, could you?” my sheepish tone was enough for him to graciously smile and say, “Ah. No.” However, instead of thinking of the next most expensive place he could have gotten us into, he did what all great service professionals do and began to ask questions. What do you like? What do they like? Have they been here to Philadelphia before? What sort of ambiance would you like? How well do you know them and they you? Ken, was a pro. Ten minutes later, we had discussed food and wine up and down and Ken had come up with a great recommendation. Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I’d dug through enough of Ken’s charming humility to extract a very interesting bit of information; Ken was a Concierge, because Ken was a bona fide Food Critic. He wrote for the Philadelphia Inquire from time to time and was published an numerous magazines up and down the East Coast. My goodness. This man was paid to eat. He thanked me for my time, assured me the reservation would be set, and said something I will never forget, “I’ll be very interested to hear how everything turns out.” “I will!” I promised, and I returned to my cubical and twenty-six thousand dollar a year job and frankly, sulked.
Nevertheless, I had a girlfriend with cashed up parents and I was going out to dinner at a premier restaurant in Philadelphia in just 3 days. What could go wrong? As it turned out; a lot.
My girlfriend’s father ordered the whole table the seven course chef’s tasting menu, paired with wine for $89 a person. This just went from dinner out to an all night affair. It was going to have to be perfect. Suddenly, everything seemed amiss. Water glasses sat empty, busboys ran into the back of our chairs, forks were missing and then, the pièce de résistance; the main course plates sat, finished in front of us, for no less than 20 minutes. Yes, I counted. Enough had gone wrong already and I had promised Ken I would tell him how everything turned out. Now, in the grand scheme of things, 20 minutes is nothing, however, in a not so busy restaurant with my good name on the line and rapidly running out of things to talk about with my dinner guests, it felt like an eternity. There wasn’t a waiter to grab, a busboy to lift a polite finger to or a manager to be found. We sat, knife and fork together, and waited. Finally the plates were cleared, dessert came and port was poured but, it was too late. An otherwise masterful meal in a softly lit center city corner gem was ruined.
The following Monday morning I happily found Ken on the phone as I snuck into work past him knowing I had far more to report than a stand up meeting could provide. Mondays meant a whole weekend full of emails to read and this was to my advantage. Who knows how many would come in over the weekend? Not even my boss! It could take all morning, perhaps all day to read them and write back! I spent the first hour recapping everything I could remember about the meal for Ken. I wrote as one possessed. As if I had any business whatsoever writing about such things. Not only the 20 minute lag between main course and dessert, but, the missing fork, the dirty water glass, the lackluster welcome of the Maitre’D, everything came pouring out. An hour later, I had (in my mind) the New York Times Food Critic’s Review ready for copy but, had the foresight to preface it with the following note:
Good Morning, Ken!
I must admit, I have been so extremely jealous of your status as a food critic! Besides being paid to snowboard, I can think of absolutely nothing better as a profession in my life! I hope you will forgive a bit of Monday boredom, but, I decided to fill you in on the meal “as if I was” a food critic.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Many Thanks, again!
…….
I couldn’t wait to go downstairs for lunch to see what Ken thought of my little diatribe. When I did, he smiled coyly and said, “Mr. X, do you know what a Mystery Diner is…”
