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Gabe led an interesting life. In his younger days he followed the Grateful Dead around. In his latter days, he had his sous chef drive him to a nearby big city for drugs and told her to drop him off and drive around the block.
When she arrived back where she'd left him, he was being chased by two guys with huge sticks. She managed to scare them into thinking she was going to run them over, while Gabe jumped in the car and they sped off.
"Shit!" he said. "I should have known. They did that to me last time!"
This story was told to me in the backseat of a car, puffing one in his honor, driving to his funeral with that sous chef.
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If you've lived an interesting life, have you noticed that some people tend to be very jealous of you? I've noticed a simmering hostility from many people who've lived relatively "normal" lives, as if no one else should be having any fun or experiences.
They don't come out and say they don't believe you, but you know that their own dull choices have made them completely unable to believe that any other human could possibly do anything but clock in nine to five Monday thru Friday and come home and watch American Idol or cruise the internet.
Makes me sad for those types. I love to hear about the adventures others have had. Perhaps that's a facet of my aging, but no, I've always been that way. I loved Gabe's stories as much as I still love hearing stories about him.
Speaking of interesting lives, I recently finished reading Anthony Bordain's Kitchen Confidential- loaned to me by a grill chef -
which suits since many of Bordain's descriptions are dead accurate when it comes to the kitchen and its trash talk, the fucked-up hands (my hands and arms bear too many knife and burn scars to count - I always envy women with pretty hands), the hiding of side towels (we call them rags) so you have enough to last the week without any other cook finding your stash, the drugs, the alcohol, the wailing and gnashing of teeth when the books are full and so are the saute pans.
It suits because today is the one year anniversary of Gabe's passing. Without his confidence in me there are so many experiences I wouldn't have had as a line cook/garde manger/pastry chef.
Before he invited me to cook for him, I had managed two camp kitchens, been head baker at a one hundred-year-old bakery, run a pub for a year and been a kitchen supervisor at a private club. But I knew next to nothing about fine dining.
Because of him I have a whole extra kitchen vocabulary. Bourdain's book was almost shocking to me as I realized that they use the same terms in New York City as they used in our humble cafe here in hillbilly land. Sizzle pans, "Fire!" "How many all day?" "What's the temps on those filets again?" But Gabe was from Long Island - "Strong Island," he called it, with a hard G - so he carried those terms with him to Dixie and taught a motley crew of mountain yahoos what they meant.
All my friends in this close-knit place have been remembering Gabe this week. Almost all of them, at one time or another, either worked for him or partied with him.
The stories are legion. I've told one here (and bitched about him way back when - in PMs to some in this very DU group) but my favorite memory of Chef (we addressed him in the traditional manner) was what he did for me the night Kerry lost in 2004.
I was not working for him then, but one of my sons was his garde manger. Chef was a liberal and we discussed politics often. He loathed Bush and was hoping - as we all were - that Kerry would take the election.
When I realized I had been fooled, after believing at first that Kerry had won, I was despondent. It was one of the worst moments in my more recent past. I remember feeling so angry, so hopeless and so frightened for my country.
And Gabe knew that I would be that way. He had a full house at the restaurant so I did not see him that evening. But when my son came in late that night after closing with him, he dropped a small plastic package on the table.
"It's from Chef," he said. "He said he knows you're going to need this. Out of all the people he knows, he said he had to give this to you and you have to smoke it now, no ifs ands or buts. He says he hopes you feel better." My son grinned at me.
Let's just say it tasted very strongly of blueberries and after a bowl I did not even know my name. Without it, I doubt I would have made it through the night without getting in my car, rolling down the windows and screaming that the South sucked and America sucked and "You're all stupid!"
He knew that about me. He probably saved me a trip to jail.
Thanks, Chef.
You taught me about food and you taught me about forgiveness. You were a true friend. I'm glad I was part of your very interesting life and that you were part of mine.
RIP, man.
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