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| Chef Charlie Trotter, photo courtesy of Eater |
I was very moved after reading of Chef Charlie Trotter’s
untimely passing last week.
The news flashed across my @chefsgardens Twitter community feed.
Soon, it seemed the entire culinary world was Tweeting its
shock and condolences --from Mario
Batali to Ruth Reichl to chef Marco Canora (Hearth restaurant, NYC).
I don’t recall who was the first to post. Maybe it was The New York Times – but I think
it was photographer and author, Melanie Dunea. I reviewed her book following her Beard
on Books talk for her curiously compelling book about celebrity chefs:
My Last Supper. (Examiner: http://www.examiner.com/article/food-inspires-photographic-art)
The image Melanie posted on Twitter of Chef Charlie Trotter
is a haunting photo from her book. It
shows the iconic Chef peering out from the kitchen door, hands folded in prayer
in front of him…
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| Chef Charlie Trotter's "My Last Supper" photo, Melanie Dunea |
In her corresponding blog post following the Trotter’s
death, Dunea wrote “In this
photograph, I tried to show the genius, hope, and humor of a great culinary
pioneer.”
She was
to have photographed him on a trampoline! Who knew Trotter was an avid trampolinist… It
seems so out of character.
Melanie posted a heart-wrenching and respectful tribute to
chef Charlie on her blog.
It’s a tale that is stirring because -- like a harlequin
mask – it captures the two sides of the mercurial Chef: angry/implacable and eager to please,
showing his compassion through his food.
Melanie’s fascinating blog post ode is excerpted below.
The New York Times’
Bill Grimes wrote a fitting and detailed news feature in the Dining section yesterday
about Charlie Trotter’s Legacy, highlighting the “honor roll” of chefs who
apprenticed with Chicago’s Chef Charlie Trotter and who eventually went on to
open their own world-class restaurants and create elevated culinary brands –
thanks to Chef Charlie’s rigorous, groundbreaking, “crosstraining” and way of
presenting integrated works of art.
Likewise, I feel compelled to mark the passing of this great
chef: to honor a remarkable and influential culinary artist.
His work touched me and my perception of food – for the
better – perhaps even led to my book and food writing.
I had the joy of dining at his Chicago restaurant many
times. I was working at Sony as Director of Communications and spent a lot of
time in the Second City. There was the
Consumer Electronics shows held there every June. And Sony had a pre-Apple destination
gadgets-as-jewelry showcase retail store on Michigan Avenue: Sony Style. There was also the Chicago Jazz Festival when
one special year myself and Wendy Lemke from Sony Corporate Communications
managed a special cross promotion with Sony Music and the Personal Electronics
camcorder products. That’s another
fascinating story -- accompanying Harry
Connick’s band mates to all the underground and authentic blues and jazz clubs
where they’d ask to join the musicians playing on “stage” – such as the stage
was in those matchbox joints…
The background here is that with all that time in Chicago
for Sony – and Sharp Electronics – we had opportunities to entertain the
press. And nothing was too good for our
journalists. So naturally – it was dinner – with all the stops pulled out – at
Charlie Trotters.  |
| Chicago: Charlie Trotter's restaurant |
It was a many course affair, usually upstairs in our own
room – with a variety of wine for the various courses.
Who could resist this new concept: the Tasting Menu?
Bill Grimes wrote the “Tasting
menus were (Trotter’s) stock in trade, were improvised daily, and even
hourly. He was a fanatic about wine and
food pairings and would order his chefs to adjust dishes at the last minute to
match the wine order.”
Who knew?
At Charlie Trotters restaurant is where I think I truly
first experienced food as culinary art.
It wasn’t just delicious – it was exciting. The presentation, the
ingredients – it became a topic of conversations -- not the background.
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| photo courtesy, NY Times |
Homegrown & Trotter
Chef Charlie Trotter entered my culinary narrative yet again
– during the writing of the manuscript for my book: The Hamptons & Long Island
Cookbook.
Interviewing Chef Terry Harwood, now of the North Fork’s Canoe restaurant and Shelter Island’s Vine Street Café, I learned of this
Tennessee native’s professional connection and ascetic training with Charlie
Trotter and his kitchen’s military-like team that wouldn’t have been out of
place at say, Fort Benning.
While this Homegrown Cookbook text was edited out of the
manuscript for space reasons, I thought it appropriate to share.
And I can’t help but think how many chefs have been
influenced by Charlie Trotter’s legacy.
While Chef Terry – and most likely many other great chefs, couldn’t
possibly make it into Grimes’ New York Times piece, his story is one I’m
privileged to share. It too is an enduring tribute -- a moment in culinary time
that recognizes the master chef’s influence.
Excerpt from The Hamptons & Long Island Homegrown
Cookbook and Chef Terry Harwood’s profile:
Like a good scout earning performance
badges, Terry was determined to garner the best restaurant experiences – and
set his sights on food meccas San Francisco and New York. He’d never traveled previously, so started
his food pilgrimage a bit closer to home, in Chicago.
Someone recommended he begin his housing
search in Lincoln Park, and while on a site inspection of the neighborhood that
first day, saw a ‘Help Wanted’ posting in the window of an Italian restaurant.
His intention was to wait tables and make some money to establish his new life. During the interview, the owner could see
Terry’s thinly veiled passion for food. He asked why be a server? Before Terry
could explain, the owner was telling Terry about Bella Vista’s executive chef
who’d been Charlie Trotter’s opening sous chef and right hand man for six
years.
Terry was in prep cloths by the end of
the meeting.
Bella Vista’s chef Geoff Felsenthal was
a respected, celebrity chef all his own, and key to securing a part-time
stagier position for Terry in the impossible-to-get-into Charlie Trotter kitchen. On his rare time off from Bella’s, Terry
worked at Trotter’s, gratis – just for the unmatched experience. For Terry, it
was more about boning scores of pigeons or peeling waves of salsify.
Chef Charlie Trotter was indeed a “magnet for ambitious young
professionals,” as Grimes notes. Fittingly he adds: “admirers might consider
Christopher Wren’s epitaph in St. Paul’s Cathedral: ‘If you seek his monument,
look around.’”
I had the honor of writing about Chef Charlie Trotter directly,
while covering the James Beard Awards.
Last year, he was honored by the JBF Foundation who bestowed him with
the award: 2012 Humanitarian of the
Year: Charlie Trotter (Chef and
Restaurateur, Chicago)
So very many culinary professionals and diners and farmers
and artisanal food makers and vintners and architects and sommeliers and
culinary tourists – have been touched by Chef Charlie Trotter in so many ways –
in some big ways and some in small and nuanced ways. Collectively, they all add
up and matter.
He will be surely missed.
Honor him and his homegrown menus and recipes. Perhaps cook
a few during the upcoming holidays.
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| photo courtesy: Berkelystartupcluster |
Trotter authored 14 cookbooks. Perhaps it’s best to start with his one
devoted to home cooking:
Keep his culinary conversation alive…
His culinary art will live on.
Cheers.
Melanie’s
blog post ode:
I must have asked the question, “What is
your last supper?” over a thousand times.
I am fascinated by the food fantasies of
chefs, and motivated by the challenge of getting each one to reveal his last
meal. For more than eight years, I have flown across the globe, interviewing and
photographing the most talented people in charge of the world’s best kitchens
for two volumes worth of last suppers. We discuss final feasts like we discuss
the weather. The conversations are theoretical. They’re about making
choices—never morbid, always serious and respectful. I know it’s horribly
naive, but I never expected any of those chefs to really die. Today, when I
heard about Charlie Trotter’s death, I was shocked. We all were. A masterful
genius, he was so young—only 54.
It seemed impossible. How could Charlie
be gone?
I spent most of the day avoiding that
first My Last Supper book. Emails streamed in from
people asking me what he had wanted for his last meal. But it felt wrong to look
and I didn’t respond. It seemed almost unsavory and inappropriate to read
Charlie’s answers, and yet, how could I not? If you think of those recorded
future meals as the equivalent of buried, sealed time capsules, then wouldn’t
this be the precise moment at which to open his?
Finally, I decided to share my portrait
of Charlie, as it appeared in the book, with these words: “In this photograph,
I tried to show the genius, hope, and humor of a great culinary pioneer.”
I posted it on Twitter as a tribute to a
man who I found creative, funny, difficult, supportive, and magically talented.
I was born and raised eating in Chicago,
so I knew when I began the My Last
Supper project, Charlie Trotter had to be included. I didn’t realize
what a crazy ride he was going to take me on—all in the name of perfection.
To refresh my memory, I re-read our
email exchanges.
He had immediately agreed to be part of
the project:
Melanie, please count me in on what sounds like a
fantastic project.
Very best,
Charlie.
When can I interview you, chef?
Let’s talk soon… this is too complex to handle rather
than through a
mere questionnaire…
Thanks,
Charlie
We were off.
Most other chefs were happy to talk on
the phone or do the interview via email; not Charlie.
How about Tuesday at 12:30?
Can’t wait to see you…
Charlie
I flew to Chicago to interview him at
his Lincoln Park restaurant.
That Tuesday, I sat, pen in hand and
watched him pace around the restaurant. I listened as he went on and on about
everything except the answers to my questions. I probed and probed, sensing he
was getting quite irritated. I didn’t stop until he said, “Okay, you know, I
used to be an avid trampolinist.” I almost jumped for joy!
Bingo, I had finally broken through.
“Chef, I must photograph you on the
trampoline.”
Instantly, I could see the photo: a
photographic homage to the famous Belgian surrealist artist Magritte
—the chef, the sky, the clouds. Oh,
this was going to be perfect. I knew this was my only chance to explain
and convince him. He stared deeply into my eyes while, for what seemed like an
hour, I tried desperately not to flinch. Finally, he agreed. We‘d stage this
photographic coup the following month, at his mother’s lakefront home on the
beach in Wilmette, Ill., a suburb of Chicago.
We must have spoken on the phone over a
dozen times about trampolines. I was becoming quite the expert, except, every
time I would confirm and pay for one trampoline, he would call with another one
he preferred. It was non-negotiable: we must have the perfect trampoline. By
the time the appointed day arrived, I had rented six trampolines and I was
getting anxious as they do not come cheaply.
I flew into Chicago early on the morning
of the shoot. Mrs. Trotter greeted us with great hospitality and lots of
trampolines. I was bursting with excitement; I knew this was going to produce
such a good picture. I assured Mrs. Trotter that the sprinkling of rain was
making the clouds look “just perfect.” Bidding me and my assistants farewell,
Mrs. Trotter went off to do some shopping and left us outside to assemble the
shoot. Chef wasn’t due for three hours, so we had time to prepare and take some
Polaroids.
An hour later, a rather stricken-looking
Mrs. Trotter came out of the house holding a portable phone and said, “Charlie
wants to speak to you.” I could hear the screaming before I even put the phone
to my ear. Charlie was pissed. He had been trying to call me for an hour but my
mobile phone was locked inside. In a rage, he asked me what kind of idiot would
dream of photographing him trampolining in the rain. Was I trying to kill
him?!?! Needless to say, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “If you want to
shoot me come to the restaurant NOW!” he blared, and hung up.
I was furious.
My assistants and I packed up the
trampolines, I mumbled away under my breath, and Mrs. Trotter made herself
scarce; she was embarrassed. I admit I had a moment where I wanted to say “no
thank you” and walk out. It was my
book, after all.
Then I remembered something that I
learned very early on in my photographic career: as good as an idea is, you
must always be ready to throw it away.
I talked myself down and we hightailed
it to the restaurant. When we arrived, someone I would describe as Charlie the
Angel greeted us. Demure and on his best behavior, he fawned over us, bringing
us coffees. Inside, however, I was still seething.
And then, he offered to give us a tour.
In the middle of that rather lengthy
walkthrough, just as he turned around to lead us into the kitchen, I saw the
picture. “Stop!” I commanded. “This is where we will shoot. Be back here in ten
minutes, and we will be ready, chef.” Charlie looked amused; he seemed to like
my taking charge.
When we did the shoot he was still. He
was gracious and giving.
That’s when I understood: when Charlie
committed, he committed. But he did so on his terms.
After the shoot, he dragged us into the
kitchen to a beautifully set table. “You will sit here and eat, now. Here are
some disposable cameras; while you eat, you will shoot the meal.” I protested,
muttering to my assistants that he was just trying to bribe us. He proceeded to
jump up on a chair to show me how to photograph food. “Always from above, just remember that!”
For three hours, we joined Charlie in
the kitchen. We ate and drank and cooked.
As I sat there, I realized why he
invited us into the kitchen. He was showing me who he really was and almost apologizing. I can vaguely
remember some of the divine things we ate: Squab, veal, radishes, and some sort
of ravioli. It was a feast and deeply, deeply delicious.
He was right. Once I saw him in the
kitchen and tasted his food, I forgave him. He was only aiming for perfection.
Before My Last Supper went to press, Charlie wanted to re-read his
interview.
He only had one bone to pick and that
was with the text:
Thanks Melanie,
It all looks fine… One thing, though… I would really
never mention
anything about a “hangover.”
I believe that during our discussion, you brought up
that consuming an entire bottle of the 1900 Margaux might lead to a hangover,
and I believe I responded that I wasn’t especially concerned, since the end was
near.
But I would honestly prefer to delete the whole
reference to the
subsequent throbbing headache that might potentially
result from consuming all of that fine vino.
Thanks…
When My Last Supper was published in 2007, Charlie was one of my
greatest champions and supporters. He threw me an epic luncheon at the
restaurant, bought hundreds of books, and even did a great deal of press with
me. I was endlessly grateful for his kindness.
This afternoon, I finally revisited
Charlie’s last supper. It sounded divine.
In 2006, he imagined it was to take
place high above the sea. “I want to take in the sweeping views of this
gorgeous planet before I leave it.”
Miles Davis was to play with Bob Dylan. He
was to dine with Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Charles Bukowski, Henry Miller, Tom
Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, and F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. He was to sip a
1900 Chateaux Margaux, and for food “I would eat many courses of tiny, raw, and
delicate seafood. The china plates would have wonderful things like oysters,
crustaceans, sardines, and anchovies.”
Since My Last Supper is all about
fantasy and imagination, I‘m going to take the liberty of assuming that’s
exactly what happened on Tuesday November 5, 2013.
Farewell, chef.
RIP-Melanie
The Book -- My Last Supper: http://goo.gl/IBf6Sl
