We had met the chef before in glancing encounters in the hallway, but like all the other staff members in previous visits, he had no time to stand around. There were meats to braise and sauces to prepare and fennel to shave. But this year we bumped into him in the entry area just as we were checking in. To our surprise, he recognized us and chatted for a moment. It happened again a day or two later. And then again that afternoon as we returned from our cooking classes at King Arthur Flour. He asked about our experience and I chuckled about the fresh pasta I had made and carried back without any real use since we wouldn't be cooking for awhile. Chef Jason volunteered to do something with it and took it off my hands. That night, the server presented as our appetizers "Tim's Pasta Two Ways." Two different pastas. Two different recipes. Two fabulous dishes. When the Chef came out to see what we thought, our praise led into an extended conversation -- about cooking, to be sure, but more broadly about farming and nutrition and sustainability and a passion for authenticity. Surely there were dirty pots that needed scrubbing -- or no doubt more important things to be doing in the kitchen -- but the conversation prevailed and this wonderful, powerful interaction was as nourishing as the food.
Despite our best efforts to slow down time, our last evening arrived and we found our table in the dining room. First the server appeared, and then Chef Jason, who asked if it would be all right if he cooked for us that evening. It seemed impolite to wonder who had been doing the cooking on previous occasions; besides, we were too flummoxed to say much but a croaking "sure." What followed was a harbor of food with undulating waves of courses that bore no resemblance the menu from which other diners in the room were selecting. A Latin theme -- the Chef had picked up on my Texas roots and culinary leanings -- each course presented a familiar concept elevated to grandeur: a chilled avocado soup with echoes of guacamole; a chile relleno stuffed not simply with cheese but silky sweet potato as well. And on and on until the delectable denouement of flan for dessert. The Chef, himself, presented each course with a description of the preparation, before slipping back into the kitchen to continue his work. Five courses in all, each leaving us more speechless than the course before. By the time we savored our final bite we had no words to offer proper thanks; the food, to be sure, but moreso the gift itself was far beyond words.
At breakfast the next morning we expressed our humility and puzzlement and gratitude to Innkeepers Dave and Jane. "What was that all about," we queried, "and how were we privileged to receive such an indescribable gift?" "It's simply Chef's way of expressing appreciation," they responded.
"Simply." That hardly seems an adequate word. And if appreciation was merited, it flowed that night in the wrong direction. It was the Chef who better deserves it: a young man of extraordinary talent, extraordinary vision, deep culinary integrity, a passion for honoring the good earth and those farmers who steward it, and an humble spirit that understands himself to be part of a larger cycle of sun and soil and seed and harvest and hunger and the delightful blessing of food, joined with the privilege of receiving it as an artist of sorts with the holy purpose of preparing and presenting it in such a way as to honor and celebrate the gift that it is.
That, I think, is what it means to be a Chef; and we are still tasting the joy of being fed by a great one -- fed in more ways than one.
Thanks Chef Jason. It was a dinner -- and a kind generosity -- that we will never forget.
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