Secret Recipes

A number of years ago I received a page (remember, before cell phones?) connecting me to a phone call which changed my life. Many events and opportunities change a person's life, but this one was extra ordinary. The call was from Jamie Krulewitz, my pastry chef at Verbena (Diane Forley's place on Irving Street in NYC, now shuttered.) She asked did I want to work at The French Laundry with her old mentor, Stephen Durfee?

The truth was that I did not want to work at The French Laundry. Because I knew, somewhat at least, that it was far away. I knew it was in California, where I had lived before, but farther, like in the country. Being raised in NYC meant that I neither knew how to drive, nor did I want to learn, and I was afraid of spaces not crammed with angry, sallow people. The truth was that only recently had I escaped, literally, a dangerous relationship, and was just then, as that page came in, finding my way again without said insane partner. I had a comfy secret pastry life where I went into 2 kitchens owned by the same chef and partner, creating desserts that I never had to plate, in restaurants where I worked alone or in silence with one prep fellow. It helped that I was also paid under the table.

But when you get a phone call from someone you loved working with, asking you if you want to work with someone they loved working with, in what was being hailed as the best restaurant your half continent of a country, you say yes. Even if you don't mean it. You "act as if."

Now, of course, I can look back and see what an honor it was. The full story is even more amazing, but that's for another day. Maybe when I learn how to type.

When I arrived in Napa I had the job. I had not flown out for an interview and a trail, as I had been asked, because I could not afford to do so. Napa, as a geographical location, was all new to me. I stayed with Stephen in his cottage behind the landlord's house until I could get my bearings and look for something else. But I didn't have to go far, the landlord, an infamous woman named Addie, rented me her spare back bedroom. I literally lived in that room and that room only. No matter, really, as I was working dark to dark seven days a week for a long time and could not have enjoyed any of the house privileges I did not have anyway. (On my first day off, about 7 weeks later, the whole kitchen gave me a standing ovation.)

{When I went to work in Napa I kept a calendar marking down the days to when I would leave. I knew I had to put in one full year of basic training that would be the drop-kick learning of a place as hard core as TFL, but I thought I would return to New York when it was over, 365 days later.}

Even though I was in this new place, I did not know where I was. I saw my room in that house, the drive up 29 in blueblack morning, the inside of the restaurant kitchen in daylight and dusk into late night and just kissing morning, the drive south on 29 in darkness and woke up a few hours later to do it all over again.

Until I learned how to drive, I got rides from other cooks and sometimes Addie, who was working as a breakfast cook in a small inn also in Yountville.

Addie was an inventive woman who knew how to recreate herself on a dime. She was kooky and quirky, wry and cynical, dark and funny, bitter and generous, and drunk most of the time. I still drive by her house every once and a while to see the incredibly innovative garden she maintains in front of her house in "Tree Town," a neighborhood in Napa proper where all the streets are named after trees.

As fall approached, Addie announced this year she would dry persimmons and she asked Stephen and I to ask Thomas if he would be interested in buying them. Not knowing what she meant, Thomas said sure. Addie explained to me that years and years ago, while living in New Mexico she learned an ancient way of drying persimmons from an old Indian woman. (I realize this is vague and questionable, but I am just relaying Addie's tale.)

For the months of October and November Addie closed off the kitchen so no one could enter it but her. "Belly peeled" Hachiya persimmons were strung on twine and traversed every inch of ceiling real estate like party lanterns at a bar-b-que. For weeks they hung there, Addie going into the kitchen to adjust the ambient temperature with pots of water and the oven door opened this much or not. Plastic was taped over the windows to prevent drafts and Addie spoke not a word of her method to this crazy fruit installation. Her Persimmon Be-In.

At the end of many weeks she asked if I would show her into the daunting kitchen for a personalized introduction to the ominous Thomas Keller so she could present her artisinally dried persimmons. He bought them all.

Later that week she told me what she and Thomas had discussed when I walked away after their introduction. He made the bold move of putting his arms around Addie, giving her a big smiley grin and asking her for her recipe, her method for making these wizened looking fruits.

Incredulous, she looked up at this man, this world famous chef standing inside his million dollar kitchen in a land-marked building she'd known far longer than he had and said, "Of course I'm not going to tell you how I dried these persimmons! Then you won't buy them from me anymore!"

It is this line, this surprised remark, this unbelievable exchange I think of when I see and hear people looking for recipes that have made people famous. Recipes that have made whole restaurants famous. Methods chefs have discovered/re-discovered and made their own. One could say that there are no new recipes, that every thing's been done before. I know I have eaten things for the first time and been wowed, only to "discover" their "recipes" in an Escoffier cookbook or learned they were made years before Western Civilization as we know it existed.

But, every once and a while, I eat something which transcends words. Food that is so utterly perfect it stuns me. I might ask the chef how she or he got there, what their history was to inform such immeasurable joy in my mouth, but I do not ask for the recipe. I might hope and pine for the day their book is signed and I might discover their "secret," but I would not ask for the recipe. Some things are sacred.

When I look at how people arrive at Eggbeater, whether they stay for 5 seconds, none or an hour, I laugh aloud when I see a person has typed in "Pierre Herme Macaron Recipe," or "Chikalicious Cheesecake Recipe," or "Meetinghouse Biscuit Recipe." Are you kidding me people?

Recipes are guides. They are as loose as linen on a hot day or as constricting as a straight jacket at Belleview. Recipes have a life of their own when released into the hands of all and sundry. They flit and skip and hide and ambush. Recipes can not be secured forever. Even in the most light and airtight rooms, recipes have a way of turning into ether and quietly air-tip-toeing through the keyhole.

I have worked with people who asked and with those who stole. I have worked for chefs who borrowed and begged, created and put on new spins. I have started from nothing and used guides as my starting points. I have asked for advice and watched to remember. I have learned with my hands and written with my taste memory. I have shared and taught, gifted and been gifted.

We are all very caught up with "The Recipe." Is it possible that we can just eat Chika's cumulus cloud-like "cheese cake" (in quotes only because cheesecake, no matter how open your mind is, can not be what this creation is) and when we leave, vow, in just let blood, to return? Can't we just be happy someone as wacky and wild as restaurateur Joanna Karlinsky could find her calling when she absent-mindedly whipped up her first batch of biscuits at The Meetinghouse (now closed and re-invented by new owners into Quince in San Francisco) to serve instead of boring old table bread? Aren't we overjoyed that we don't need to cover our kitchen floor with flour, we can merely mail order what she is known to do best? And Pierre Herme's haute couture macarons?! They are supposed to reside in Paris! Where high heels are sharp, streets are still paved with flag stones, and the volume control on romance has been torn from its knob and thrown on the ground.

There are recipes out there, some simple, some wildly complex, which will never be placed in a cookbook, exposed on a blog or given out at a class. Some recipes are like love letters carried to the grave, never to be shared among those who did not participate in the affair. I like to think these recipes, as well the ones which are given out freely, are our "golden apples of eternal desire." Our reason to keep learning, to continue attempting to understand the science of food, the science of human relations, the science of love.

I once worked with someone who stole recipes from me. This act was not her only betrayal, but it was the first.

Gerry sat down with me one night, as I held my head in my hands, after I found out about this person's act. He explained something to me I hope to never forget. He told me I was not my recipes. That someone could steal all of my recipes and they could not go to another kitchen and recreate me. They could not steal my identity and be me. That my signature, who I was and had become as a pastry chef, came from my heart, my experience. That what I brought to the kitchens I would go on to learn and teach in, was something much bigger than my recipe book.

There are chefs who share, whether it be obviously: directly and verbally, and those who do not, whether it be passive or honestly. Although it is sometimes a great risk to give and share with those who may go on to do better and greater things, I believe, and have experienced, that I receive greater joy from sharing, discussing, mentoring and teaching.

I understand the desire to find "The Recipe." Sometimes I think if I find it, it will unlock mysteries which keep me back, keep me ignorant in ways I would rather not be. But, like waiting for strawberries to be in season again, the months without makes me long more intensely. My mouth is that much more grateful, satiated, if even for a fleeting summer, to have waited for the time when they would be ripe again.

Cooking and baking rely on recipes as guides. Floor plans and blueprints and ideas. We take what we know and apply it to raw ingredients using intuition, experimentation, manipulation, science, whim, love, convenience, history, and alchemy. The best recipes are those we mined for ourselves. We took, we borrowed, we stole, we begged, we gave, we shared, we finessed, we ate.

When the time is right for you to receive, appreciate, understand, use, safe-keep, share, acknowledge, and let go,

I hope, no matter what you're looking for, you find it.

                     h     a      p       p     y           j     u     n     e  !

Comments

[Jennywenny]

Thanks for your beautiful story to brighten up my friday. I'd like to think that whoever stole your recipes just couldnt make them as good, might even make them inedible in a similar way to that cake in 'like water for chocolate' where her tears falling into the dough made everyone cry.

[Anita]

Love this one... very, very much.

[maggie]

I think this is your best post ever. Just beautiful. And interesting. And, I think, true.

(BTW, I walk by Veritas every day on the way from the office to the subway...I've never eaten there though.)

[Danielle]

He told me I was not my recipes. That someone could steal all of my recipes and they could not go to another kitchen and recreate me. They could not steal my identity and be me. That my signature, who I was and had become as a pastry chef, came from my heart, my experience. That what I brought to the kitchens I would go on to learn and teach in, was something much bigger than my recipe book.

This is exactly right. It is also exactly why I believe in sharing recipes. We lose nothing by sharing them, because they are not our cooking. Our small touches, our lives, the way we lay on our hands.. that is what makes our food special. Not the guidelines. So I love sharing them, love playing with those others have shared, and feel that we are all enriched by the exchange.

[Anastasia]

Your choice to teach and mentor is an act of love -- love of your craft, love of your ingredients, love of future possibilities. Triggering an act of genius in another is a powerful contribution. To touch someone else's life in a way that leads them to a better place professionally or personally is always a thing of beauty. You seem to do that nearly every day.

[devon]

! ! ! ! ! ! HAPPY JUNE ! ! ! ! ! !

[H.Alexander Talbot]

word

[Lydia]

Beautiful post, Shuna. I hope that the person who stole your recipes enjoys them as much as you enjoyed creating them. Whenever someone asks me for one of my recipes, I'm happy to give it. But I like to be asked.

[Maureen]

What a lovely post. Freely sharing a recipe is about a generous heart. I have recipes given to me by friends who are no longer living. Each time I see that recipe card, fix that dish it brings back the memories of time spent together from someone with a generous spirit. They are still with me by what they so freely gave.

[Alice Q. Foodie]

I have to agree, recipes are just roadmaps, but everyone will wind up at a different location. It's so much more dependent on technique, etc. Great story and a nice post - I remember the biscuits at the Meetinghouse!

[cheryl]

Excellent post about a controversial subject- the recipe, who is the author, we "owns" it, who can make it, who may make it etc. . . but a real chef is one who marries techinque, ingredients and the guide- the recipe together. It takes time, talent and practice to marry all the elements or a recipe into a dessert that taste and looks good. You should see if the Chronicle or one of the food mags will accept the text of this post. This is really a good explanation of how to understand a recipe and the chef who either makes it or came up with it.

[lindsey]

well said, as i'm still thinking of the recipe i'm trying to get right.

i have asked, and i have stolen. and i find i most often use the recipes i asked for but never in a way that would replicate the signature dish of someone so generous to share, more as a meditation in process until i can understand enough. always out of love and gratitude, which is how we should feed people.

[Garrett]

Wow... now that is a quality piece of writing.

[david]

well said, Shuna!

[Aaron]

I don't even have words...

[faustianbargain]

i was laughing out loud while reading addie's antics. were they blanched in sugar syrup first?

the laughter was only slightly less harder than when you brought up 'pierre herme macarons'. it is next to impossible to replicate his macarons at home. his recipes are also notoriously cryptic..i always find it funny when the book buying public thinks that an acclaimed chef will freely give away his most famous recipes/techniques for what finally translates as a fistful of pennies from the book sales. now that most people actually taste the food they read about, they have realistic expectations.

personally, i dont get it when home cooks try to replicate a restaurant dish. why? it is so much better when it is served to you in a nice setting. homecooking has its place and restaurant food has it's place. i am really glad that people are cooking more at home, but i also notice that they are overextending themselves with ambitious, multi-faceted recipes and multi course menus given their limited resources, space and equipment..not to mention lack of cheap/free labour.

on another note, it's probably different with pastry, but with cuisine, its the same template. you can pretty much replicate it if you have the right instructions and reliable, high quality ingredients. on the line, no single cook is creating a dish. it is a composite of several components delivered by several commis. the instructions and implementation of said instructions have to be precise. every single time.

thanks. nicely put. i enjoyed this one...had a laugh or two.

[French Laundry at Home]

Wow.

[Helen]

I got lost in your words. Awesome post Shuna. I will always remember when the pastry chef leaving was giving me a crash course on the dessert menu I would have to follow (he had to leave permanently in an emergency). He wrote down some of his recipes for me and I refused to take them because they were his creations. He said "these are just recipes, not my soul or my talent. Read them, play with them, make them yours or throw them away, but if you need a hand here they are". I believe in teaching people how to put their creativity and talent forward. You do it everyday because you have that fire...the same one that makes us jump with adrenaline going into a hot and dirty kitchen everyday, wanting to learn and pass it on.
Wish I could come to Chicago and meet you in July.

[jules]

lovely story.
totally agree about recipes.. no one can ever really steal one from you...it's all about what you put into it,..

[Chubbypanda]

Well written. This is the type of post that got me reading your blog in the first place. It's insightful, thought out, and has just the right amount of personal storytelling.

[Sara]

Very nice, Shuna. Thank you. :)

[Dave]

Too true. So long as credit goes where it's due, I say good chefs copy, great chefs steal.

[Lori]

What a WONDERFUL post. Truly, you are a poet. I often find that when I try to share a recipe on my blog, I'm not able to express the nuances of it. I *think* I have the recipe right here! on paper! but what I've got is a list of ingredients -- some of which I've left out, and some of which are missing from the list -- and guideline quantities, some of which I've modified. As much as I want to share an amazing creation, I almost always regret it halfway into the typing. I end up thinking, "it'll be a miracle if anyone can duplicate my experience based on this."

On a somewhat-related note, a couple years ago I started a scrapbook-style recipe book, and the best thing about it are all the notes in the margins about adding this or removing that or trying a different technique next time. I figure when I finally hand it down to my son or my niece or my nephew, it'll be cherished as much as a record of my personality and tastes as it will be for any recipe gems it contains.

[martine]

"He told me I was not my recipes. That someone could steal all of my recipes and they could not go to another kitchen and recreate me. They could not steal my identity and be me. That my signature, who I was and had become as a pastry chef, came from my heart, my experience. That what I brought to the kitchens I would go on to learn and teach in, was something much bigger than my recipe book."

= inspiring, SO true, and something that every one needs to be reminded of every so often, regardless of their craft or profession. thankyou.
oh, and one more thing:

"Paris!... where the volume control on romance has been torn from its knob and thrown on the ground."

=so sexy.

x

[chef Don CHRISTIAN]

I TRULY THINK THAT RECIPES ARE ONLY AN EXTENSION OF OUR SELF, RECIPES CAN BE CHANGE TIME AFTER TIME, BUT IT TAKE THAT TRUE FEELING OF PURE LOVE FLOWING TRUTH OUR SOULS. IT IS GOOD TO SHARE, IT IS UP TO THOSE WHO USED THOSE RECIPES, STOLEN OR NOT, ORIGINAL OR NOT, TO MAKE THE BEST THEY CAN FROM A WRITEN IDEA, WETHER PASS ON OR GIVEN TO;
IT IS LOVE THAT MAKES ANY RECIPE COME TO LIVE WITH A UNIQUE TASTE THAT MAKE THOSE WHO TASTE IT ASK FOR MORE, AND THE BEST TIME OF ALL THIS IS TO MAKE THOSE WHO LOVE WHAT YOU MAKE WAIT JUST ENOUGH TO SEE THEIR FACES TELLING YOU HOW GOOD, HOW GREAT, HOW TASTEFUL, WHY YOU MADE US WAIT SO LONG KIND OF EXPRESSION. ONE LOVE DON CHRISTIAN

[Barbara]

Hey, Shuna--

That was a beautiful essay. You said so much, so well, I just want to thank you for putting it out there.

I, too, fall into the camp of freely sharing vs. keeping everything to myself, in large part, because I believe that recipes are like love letters to the world.

We give them away to spread the joy far beyond what we ourselves can personally give to others. It is a mitzvot to share recipes--it is a pebble drop of good karma in the well of the world.

When we freely give recipes, we give a bit of ourselves away--just a bit. But, think of it--long after we are dust, it is possible that we will live through our recipes, and our words and creations can still touch others, become part of them, and bring them joy.

I find that to be intoxicating.

Though, I also must admit that even as we give our recipes away--no one will ever cook them exactly as we do, no matter how carefully we record them. It is because cooking and baking are not just chemistry, but alchemy--we put our energy, our feelings, our souls into what we cook with our hands--and that is our signature, as unmistakable as a fingerprint.

[victoria]

What a lyrical post. A lovely way for me to begin a rainy gray but not unpleasant day in NYC.

[M Vroom]

I love the story.
How can one steal a recipe truly? When was the last time anyone made a dish that didn't build on the work of another.

[Jeremy]

One chef told me a while back, steal with your eye's and your ears. And the best chef story was one French Chef who said you can be 27 with 5 or 6 dishes you learned in the last place, but stay a while and learn to cook and you will have experience worth a lot more in the long run.

Thanks for the great read!

[John]

Just found your site. Love it!

[Charlie Lucas]

Thank you for reminding me what I love about cooking. My chef makes a ricotta gnocci dough with an eye ball recipe. The first time I had it, I laughed out loud in the middle of service, and kept laughing with tickets piling up. Take away the recipe and you become very intimate with what you are making. You learn something like that, and you learn more than your chef's shopping list, you learn his touch.

[Robertbp]

Hi Shuna,
I enjoyed reading this article. I operated a bakery for some years and it brought back so many memories. I like your writing style and will be bookmarking your blog. Looking forward to reading more of your adventures.
Robertbp

[Linda Kinsman-Saegert]

When someone steals a recipe they steal your soul. It is a shanda (Yiddish word)I found a text book from French Culinary on the subway with tons of recipes inside, I looked at it and mailed it to the school. It is different when you buy a cookbook but you cannot buy the passion in a Chef's soul who developed that recipe. Again, great posts and thank you