Transcript
Apple Product Announcer (0:00)
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Meg Bowles (1:49)
From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles and in this hour we'll hear stories, the pleasure but also danger of food, the tradition surrounding food, the preparation of that special dish, and the sometimes awkward feeling of formality when sitting down to share a meal with someone you've only just met. Our first story comes from Chris Fisher. Chris is a farmer and a chef who grew up spending time on his grandfather's farm on Martha's Vineyard, the small island off the coast of Massachusetts. The island has always had a reputation for being a destination for America's rich and famous, but if you look beyond the celebrity, you'll find an island rich in history and a tight knit community of people who value their local traditions and hard work.
Chris Fisher (2:38)
I was born on this island. I got my first job in a kitchen when I was 13 years old in the same building where my grandparents met. I started out making salads but quickly switched to washing dishes because the dishwashers were much better Fed. My culinary education up to this point was pretty unique. My father taught me how to gather mussels from the bottom of rocks and lure bluefish and set lobster pots at a very young age. He taught me how to skin a deer long before teaching me how to cook the tenderloin. I then went to preschool in a converted chicken coop. My classmates and I would hunt and peck our way around the playground like chickens that preceded us. And I graduated onto a two room schoolhouse in the center of Chilmark. Instead of class pictures, we took school pictures, usually nine or ten of us on the front steps. And I liked to watch the seasons go by through the windows. And when my dad would drive by with lobster pots piled in the back of his truck, I knew that it was spring and that summer would soon be there. And it wasn't until I moved to New York City that I realized how unique my childhood had been. I found myself in February on a Saturday night, a very cold Saturday night, with my best friend in Greenwich Village at Babo Restaurant owned by Mario Batali. It had recently gotten three stars from the New York Times. I had never been. I'd never heard of it. He'd been before. And we slinked through the bar where people were just mobbed. And we got to the main dining room and we sat at a banquet and waiters danced around in vests and white shirts. And it's an Italian restaurant. And we had pasta. But what I remember most is the steak. It was a ribeye. I'd never had a ribeye before, and it was rich and juicy. And they finished it with rock salt and aged balsamic vinegar. And I drank Barolo for the first time. And I thought to myself, I really need to know how to cook this food. I don't just want to. There's something inside me that needs to. To learn how to do this. So I went back to Babo the next morning and asked them for a job. They must have been desperate because they gave me one and I started the next day. I showed up for work the first day without any knives. I didn't know you were supposed to bring your own knives, so I borrowed one from the chef. And I was also wearing Nike running pants that were a little bit too tight underneath my apron. So I got a nickname on my first day, Chrissy Pants. It wasn't very flattering, but I didn't care. I felt so lucky. I was working in a restaurant beyond my wildest dreams, a restaurant I didn't even know existed a week before. And I had my first kitchen nickname. The first night on the line was terrifying. I stood behind the line with these other chefs as they got ready for service. And they were duct taping their wounds. They were duct taping their burns. They were drinking copious amounts of coffee out of big plastic cork containers. They were dunking their headbands in buckets of ice water and wrapping their heads. It was like a scene from Braveheart. And all of these warriors were getting ready for battle, and they knew exactly what to do, and I did not. So I stood there and I tried not to get in anybody's way. And the chef, Frank, started calling out, orders, two branzino, three guinea hen. I need a squab, a skirt, medium well. And I just froze. I had no idea what he was saying. And the guy that was supposed to teach me that night started throwing different chunks of meat from different animals on the flame. And it started spitting fire back at him. And then he gently laid two fish on the grill, two whole fish, and it was so beautiful. And then he threw more meat on, and the flames spat back. It was total chaos to me. And I didn't speak the language, and it took me a long time to learn the language. And I worked really hard, and I worked my way through the stations from satay to pasta. And the pasta station felt like you were taking a bath in boiling water the first night. And I became the sous chef after 18 months. And then I burnt out a year later, and I came back home. The day that I want to tell you about was a hot day in August. It was a Tuesday. I woke up on the farm. At this point, I was running my family's farm. I was the chef at a restaurant less than a mile away. And I was trying to write a book. I was doing too much. And I woke up on the farm. Groggy went to the fish market to see what was freshest, and then I went to work. At about 11am we had our menu meeting for the day with the kitchen team. At this point, our menu was really small. It was focused on the ingredients that we were growing and the ingredients we could get from other farmers. But it was also influenced by the fact that most of our kitchen equipment was broken, and we were only capable of cooking a few things a night. So we kept it very small. Everything was unraveling. I had a big beard. My truck no longer had reverse, which made parking very difficult or a group effort. So we made our plan for the day, and we began to prep, organize, get ready. By 2pm the menu was pretty much solidified. We all felt good. And at 3pm the general manager, Dennis, came in. He was out of breath. He was almost hyperventilating. And he said, he told me he had just seen a black SUV with tinted windows, a Virginia license plate, come through the driveway and leave. I turned the radio back up. We kept dancing and prepping and generally happy, and I didn't think very much of it. Half an hour later he came back and now he looked like he was going to have a heart attack and he was sweating through his shirt. And he said, there are three SUVs and they are parked in the parking lot and they're not leaving. I think tonight's the night. So I checked the reservation book for DC area codes, pseudonyms, any clue? We couldn't find any. At 4:30 we sat down for family meal and we went over the menu for the night with the wait staff, the kitchen crew. And I looked out the window and there was a swarm of secret servicemen and inspecting our stone walls and our sheds in the grounds. And I thought, this is probably the night. So I went to the kitchen. People started to trickle in, filling in first outside and then our long communal table that stretched the length of the dining room. They filled up every seat. The restaurant had a lot of energy. It was very loud. We left a two top empty by the window. It was set as all of our tables were set, with some flowers that we'd grown, napkins, silverware, paper, place mats, some crayons. And around 6:30, a mob of Secret Service come through the front and they go to the bathroom, they go to the kitchen, they go to the dish room. They're everywhere. They were probably in the basement, although I didn't have time to check. And one of them walked straight up to me. He seemed to be the person in charge. And he had a cooler in his left hand and he extended his right hand and he introduced himself. And I thought, there must be something so cool in that thing. And he said, I understand it's a dry town. The President's brought a bottle of wine for the first lady and the fixings for his martini for himself. Where should I put them? We forgot an ice pack, so that broke the ice a little bit. And then he said to me, this is how it's going to go. Nobody can leave, come or go. When the President is eating, they're going to order off the menu like normal. You'll show me every ingredient before you cook it. If I tell you to throw something away, do so and start over. Any questions? No. So our team huddled up. Our kitchen team at this point, we had one line cook, two teenagers, and a pastry chef who had come back, gotten through the Secret Service roadblock, was wearing sweatpants and was probably stoned. I told them not to do anything different and to ask me if they needed help. I went back to expediting, and the orders kept coming in. And their order came in. They had two salads to start. Sadie Dix was working the salad station that night. And she's a chil mark kid like me. She was one of the teenagers. She'd never worked in a restaurant before that summer. So she proceeded to dress these beautiful little lettuces with a puree of their own, with a puree of the same greens, salt, a little lemon juice, olive oil. She tossed it and she finished it with sauteed shiitake mushrooms. They were all ingredients that her family had grown on their farm just down the road. And she plated them beautifully, with nice architecture, nice and soft, just as I taught her. And she looked at me and I tasted them and they were perfect. And I told her, now you should bring them out to the president. So she had an oriole's cap cocked to the side, which the Secret Service had already given her a hard time about. And she walked past me. She walked past her parents who were eating at the bar with a naive gracefulness that only a 16 year old can have. She delivered the food to the president, came back, smiled. I smiled at her. And the Secret serviceman with the cooler, who had been taking pictures all night, was snapping away pictures on his camera phone when their main course came up. The president had a lobster and the first lady had steamed mussels. He took pictures of that. The food went out and he continued to take pictures. And I said, do you have to document everything? And he said, no, this is fucking cool. He said, your food is beautiful. And he started showing me pictures of prawns from Africa, fish from the Caspian Sea, and the President's favorite pastas from Italy. They finished their meal with a blueberry coffee cake that Olivia made and at this point was quite envious of. And he had a cup of coffee. They paid the bill. He had a firm handshake. She complimented the mussels which a friend of mine had grown off the coast of Manempsha, the same friend that had actually convinced me to leave the salad station at the feast at Shomark and join him in the dish pit. And I watched Sadie as she swept the floor that night after service, happily. And I was reminded that we are the privileged ones to be born here, to be proud of where we're from. She and I both shared the same things growing up. We shared strength and sunburns and tan lines that don't come from afternoons spent on the beach. And Sadie put it best. She said, I wasn't just raised on a farm, but a farm raised me. Thank you.
