The Road to the Stove

My road to the stove was not without adventure. Especially since the furthest career thought from my mind was to become a chef, waiter or restaurant owner. But, many find that one of the easiest careers to conquer is in the hospitality world of New York City. That was my momentary plight.

Hitching a ride from Burlington, Vermont with a guy I had known for two weeks proved to be my first connection with cooks, chefs, and recipes. A University of Vermont drop out, he was also heading to The City to make his mark. His resume qualified him for the position of head French fryer at Nectar´s, a restaurant/bar known for it´s mountainous plates of French Fries capped with a rich, thick, lumpy, brown gravy, fresh out of a number ten can. The hangout was a late night favorite of wandering, staggering, students diligently trying to sober up before early morning classes. The gravy plate frequently assisted seniors in accomplishing that task. The French fryer had decided his position at the end of the cook´s line at Nectar´s was exactly that. No future. With three years of college behind him he was packing it in and heading for the CIA- the food academy, not the intelligence organization.
Having recently completed writing a play, I assumed I sold it the moment an off Broadway producer called and invited me to lunch at "21". At the same time, my girlfriend, who I had met a year earlier during a late night expedition to Nectar´s, had called and said it was time for me to move to Manhattan.
The party for the French fryer the afternoon we were to leave for New York lasted longer than planned. Every breathe in a college town is a reason to celebrate. When an overweight, French fry gravy groping student found that his favorite French fry-fryer was leaving he organized a going away party.
Nectar, the 45-year-old Greek dynamo restaurant owner, with more stamina and endurance than anyone I have met to date, proved the importance of flashing your name in neon. He was dating every college girl at UVM at the time and would never turn down a private function, of any sort, at his restaurant. The attendees at the gravy boat bash topped 200.
The party continued for what seemed a semester. Once on the road, eight hours past our scheduled departure time, Frenchy, who reeked of brown gravy infused with a late night breathe of Peppermint Schnapps decided to use the aroma as atmosphere for his constant diatribe of recipes and food jargon. The conversation began the moment we got into the beater, an old Chevy Impala that had seen one too many Vermont winters. By the time we reached Montpelier, I had learned of his dream of opening his own New York styled Nectar´s.
Many think of the capital of New York State when they think of Albany. To me it was the city where an education on boning an entire chicken without breaking the skin was completed. I wish I would have listened better and taken a few notes. To this day that chicken trick intrigues me. By the time we hit Manhattan, at daybreak, we were both sober and tired. Getting out of the car in the middle of the whole chicken-stuffing course in front of my destination, The Royalton Hotel, was a paramount mistake. The complete recipe would have been a sure selling menu item in a comfort food house.
Although we never saw each other again, or even really knew each other´s name, I still look on menus for whole, boned, stuffed chickens, knowing that if served with French fries topped with brown gravy, Frenchy would most likely be orchestrating the kitchen.


The French fryer had decided his position at the end of the cook´s line at Nectar´s was exactly that. No future. With three years of college behind him he was packing it in and heading for the CIA- the food academy, not the intelligence organization.

Having recently completed writing a play, I assumed I sold it the moment an off Broadway producer called and invited me to lunch at "21". At the same time, my girlfriend, who I had met a year earlier during a late night expedition to Nectar´s, had called and said it was time for me to move to Manhattan.

The party for the French fryer the afternoon we were to leave for New York lasted longer than planned. Every breathe in a college town is a reason to celebrate. When an overweight, French fry gravy groping student found that his favorite French fry-fryer was leaving he organized a going away party.
Nectar, the 45-year-old Greek dynamo restaurant owner, with more stamina and endurance than anyone I have met to date, proved the importance of flashing your name in neon. He was dating every college girl at UVM at the time and would never turn down a private function, of any sort, at his restaurant. The attendees at the gravy boat bash topped 200.

The party continued for what seemed a semester. Once on the road, eight hours past our scheduled departure time, Frenchy, who reeked of brown gravy infused with a late night breathe of Peppermint Schnapps decided to use the aroma as atmosphere for his constant diatribe of recipes and food jargon. The conversation began the moment we got into the beater, an old Chevy Impala that had seen one too many Vermont winters. By the time we reached Montpelier, I had learned of his dream of opening his own New York styled Nectar´s.

Many think of the capital of New York State when they think of Albany. To me it was the city where an education on boning an entire chicken without breaking the skin was completed. I wish I would have listened better and taken a few notes. To this day that chicken trick intrigues me. By the time we hit Manhattan, at daybreak, we were both sober and tired. Getting out of the car in the middle of the whole chicken-stuffing course in front of my destination, The Royalton Hotel, was a paramount mistake. The complete recipe would have been a sure selling menu item in a house of comfort food.

Although we never saw each other again, or even really knew each other´s name, I still look on menus for whole, boned, stuffed chickens, knowing that if served with French fries topped with brown gravy, Frenchy would most likely be orchestrating the kitchen.