Saturday at Gus’s: My Origin Story.
The first word I could spell was “cow”. The second was “satay”. At six I would sneak downstairs before my parents were awake, pull out all of the cereal boxes onto the counter, set up plates and silverware (those within my limited reach) and then loudly startle my parents awake by welcoming them to Chez Jake. They ordered the cereal; I poured it.
My earliest memories include a weekly tradition: Saturday mornings my sister and I would wake up early and run into our parents’ bedroom, hushing each other as we slowly opened their door like burglars. We would creep quietly around to my dad’s side of the bed, careful not to wake mom, and tap him on the shoulder until he would snort and wake up startled.
“Dad, can we go to Gus’s?” I would whisper.
“Mmmm. Urghhh. Uhhhh. Yah, okay. Yah. Give me twenty minutes.” Every week he gave the same response, tired assent.
Gus’s is not actually named “Gus’s”. The real name is Stella’s Diner. Stella’s is a classic American diner, decked out in overstuffed, vinyl upholstered booths with a sassy service staff sporting black aprons tied around their waists, order pad in pocket, pen behind the ear. A chalkboard announces the flavor of the day’s milkshake. (In my eighteen years of Saturday breakfasts, the flavor of the day never changed from Oreo). A rotating glass dessert display stands tall next to the entrance, different types of pies on offer, first come first served.
Stella and her husband were Greek immigrants who had chased the American Dream, opening a diner on the near north side of Chicago in 1962. The food remains simple and eclectic, egg platters in the morning, pasta, burgers, meatloaf, thanksgiving turkey meals, and chicken tender plates at night. Stella’s Diner is the definition of a neighborhood spot, still family owned and operated. Stella had three kids, Maria, Gus, and the one who runs the kitchen and to this day I still only know as “the cook”.
Maria and Gus run the service team, taking turns standing behind the cash register while the other walks around schmoozing with customers. Everyone who goes even once knows that this is Gus’s terrain. Maria, a bold personality in her own right, takes a backseat to the large and imposing presence of her brother. Gus is a big man, thick and round head, a gut bulging over his pants line, short curly hair and almost always wearing a semi-buttoned up bowling shirt. He has an easygoing smile and bold laugh that echoes across the diner.
We loved Gus. We would walk in — Dad, my sister, and me — and Gus would beam and shout from across the room “Well, look who it is” and come over and give my sister and me a big high five, bending down on one knee to be on our eye level. Thus Stella’s was renamed Gus’s, and known by no other name in our household. “Give them our best booth!” he would shout, as if there was some tucked away prime VIP spot in the humble and admittedly tacky operation.
My sister and I ordered the same thing every week: a large glass of chocolate milk (milk and Hershey chocolate syrup mixed together, none of that pre-mix garbage) and the off-menu combination of scrambled eggs with French fries and sausage links. Plates doused with ketchup, we devoured like ravenous animals as Dad slowly sipped his coffee. My dad, who worked so much during the week when I was a toddler that he seemed more a rumored ghost in our house than actual resident, would take this time with us to make my sister and me laugh so hard that our chocolate milk would shoot out of our noses. If the food was taking too long to arrive, he would explain that they needed to go to the farm, find the eggs under the chicken and dig up the potatoes for the fries. We would eat and then walk home to finally wake up Mom. In my early teens, I progressed into ordering an egg skillet, piled high with crispy ham, hash browns, and American cheese slices. The skillet is still my order today. That, plus a chocolate milk.
No memories of my childhood are more prized than these Saturday mornings. There were no worries or real-world problems. I was young and dumb and naïve. I still am, but less young.
I was thirteen when I emailed Alinea, a nearby three Michelin star restaurant known for their molecular gastronomy cuisine, to ask if I could make a short film about their operation for my science fair project. Chef Grant Achatz gave me a personal tour of the restaurant. While I had expected a loud and raucous laboratory, I found instead a polished and pristine metal kitchen humming with the sound of men and women at work, nobody talking. Every cook floated around in perfectly pressed chef’s whites, waist aprons draping so low that they almost touched the floor. I was familiar with television personalities, yelling ‘Bam’ as they performed their alchemy and decanting romantically over bubbling cauldrons of risotto that they carefully stirred. I had never contemplated the kitchen as a real place of work. Cooking, I realized in that moment, was a career path, a profoundly skilled profession, to which people dedicate their lives. And why would anyone not?
I was desperate for a chance to prove that the kitchen world was the right one for me. I started bugging every chef I met at every restaurant I dined at if they would have me. All said no. Finally, after one particularly good meal at a neighborhood restaurant when I was sixteen, I asked the chef if I could come spend a day in the kitchen. With my parent’s assisted badgering, he hesitantly said yes. I understood his hesitancy. Kitchens are dangerous, knives and fire are ever-present, plus a myriad of other ways a naïve teen like myself could be maimed. The environment felt meritocritcous. My age did not matter, only my skill set. Everyone relentlessly mocked everyone. The cooks seemed constantly behind and agitated. The energy was full of the palpable tension of oncoming doom as service approached. I watched the grill cook swinging tongs full of meat back and forth, effortless, majestic, like a ballet dancer. After service the bartender brought the kitchen crew a pitcher of beer, cold and frosty in direct parallel to the ripping hot kitchen environment. The crew poured me a pint, not caring that I was barely three quarters of the way to legal drinking age. We sat and drank away the stress of service, the sense of doom gone, now replaced with sighs of relief. Exhaustion crept in and replaced the adrenaline-fueled energy of the day. One day and I was hooked. I went home and read Kitchen Confidential for the tenth time. I wanted hands like how Bourdain described them: calloused and rough with cut marks and burns, and moves like that grill man.
I did not have to follow a path into the kitchen. I was a good student, studious and attentive. I went to a good high school, and a top university. I got good grades. I never did drugs, still don’t, and drink with self-control and dignity (most of the time). I don’t have particularly self-destructive tendencies, issues with authority, or a criminal record. I’m generally mild mannered and mild tempered, I’m a pacifist in aggressive situations, and don’t have tattoos or piercings. No matter how much I wanted it to be, I’m no Anthony Bourdain. Despite a background that would suggest a suit-wearing, desk-sitting career, I chose a life in the deep, dark bowels of the kitchen. I had everything in life going my way, and I chose a career path with rare success stories, terrible hours, and no social life. But for some reason, cooking had me hooked.
During my college breaks, as classmates would go off to intern at prestigious consulting firms and marketing agencies, I would weasel my way into the back door of whatever kitchen would allow me to work for little to no pay. During the school year I worked at a greasy spoon brunch tavern just off campus, putting in thirty-five hour workweeks with my full-time student schedule. I graduated college with a degree in business and no job offers (because I had not applied for any jobs).
To my parent’s dismay I moved to Sweden to work for free for Daniel Berlin, a leading figure in the Nordic culinary movement. I worked for three months unpaid, provided only housing and a daily staff meal, before being promoted to on-the-books cook. I did nothing but work and sleep, and was rewarded with an in-depth education in how to be a cook at the highest level of the industry. Eventually I left to study in Japan, and then made my way to the island Noirmoutier in the culinary mecca of France. I spent a year and a half doing nothing but cook fish all day, everyday, for the poisson genius Alexandre Couillon at La Marine. Then I moved to Berlin to work at Ernst, a young up and coming hotspot, a bright star on the culinary landscape horizon.
Twelve years since that kitchen crew poured me that beer and I’ve paid my dues. I’ve spent time in the kitchens of fourteen different restaurants spread across eight different countries, almost all of which have Michelin stars or “World’s 50 Best Restaurant” list recognition. I’ve studied under the tutelage of young hot shots and wizened aged experts. I’ve seen berating, punching, kicking, pan throwing, and cuts and burns galore, many on my own careless hands.
Through this entire journey, through every job and mentor and country, I have wanted but one thing: to eat.
I’ve traveled the world in search of culinary delights, new flavors and aromas, traditional techniques and treasured cultural dishes. I’ve sought the best meals money can buy and tried the most modern and classic restaurants at which I could get a reservation. I’ve eaten in shacks and shanties, in storage lockers, secret apartment restaurants, and grand palaces.
All my money spent pursuing my goals across the globe and at the expense of time spent with family and friends, I’ve realized that food is underwhelming. Not that the meals were bad; often they were sensational. But without hospitality, someone to enjoy the meal with, food is just food. Nothing more. Hospitality, a communal sense of welcome, turns eating food into a meal.
Set me up alone in a corner of the best restaurant in the world, no conversation, just me and my thoughts and the food, maybe a book to flip through, and the time will be pleasant. Give me a social experience, add friends, lovers (or both), and suddenly a banal burger in a humdrum diner might become a memorable gastronomical experience.
The collection of stories that I’ve been writing are my reflections on being welcomed into homes for communal dining experiences, sharing food in restaurants of the highest brow and the lowest, enjoying individual dishes and tasting others. These are stories of countries and cultures that are shifting with growing pains as the world changes, and people and places are forced to adapt. These are people’s stories. Generous people. Hungry people.
I hope that reading these tales has increased your desire to travel, made you want to find experiences outside your daily norm, and made you eager to explore and learn. Mostly, I hope my stories make you really hungry.
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I recently returned home to visit for the holiday season, having been removed from my childhood city for more than a decade. On Saturday morning my sister and I woke up early and crept into my parent’s bedroom. We shook my now gray haired and wrinkly father awake. Twenty minutes later we were walking into Gus’s. Maria was standing behind the counter looking older and exhausted, but smiling as always.
“Look at you, all grown up,” she said.
We slid into a squeaky rubber booth. I ordered chocolate milk. The waiters, the same grumpy bunch who had worked there since my youth, moved slower now, frail from years of early mornings and long days on their feet. The chocolate milk took a while to arrive. Dad explained how they had to go milk the cows on the farm.
I looked around for Gus.
“Dad, where’s Gus at?”
“Oh. I thought mom told you.” He was suddenly solemn. “Gus died a couple months ago. Heart attack.”
“Oh.” We ate our meal and sipped our chocolate milks in reflective silence.
I walked over to Maria before we headed out the door.
“Maria. I just heard. I’m so sorry. You know I loved Gus.”
“Everyone loved Gus,” she said, not as brag but as a joyful reflection. And she was right. Everyone did love Gus.
Those Saturdays as a little kid, saddled up in those booths, taught me the importance of a meal. We would laugh and eat and be a family. Then we grew up and times together have become scarcer and scarcer. I’ve had profound escapades, met fascinating and lovely people, been graciously welcomed into homes and kitchens, been patiently taught and given opportunity to teach, and yet I still look back mostly fondly on those Saturdays at Gus’s as a kid, jealous of the simplicity of it all.
My stories are dedicated to Gus, and all the Gus’s out there, for anyone who gives a piece of themselves to have a space where all are welcome and made to feel like family, for those who provide a haven where hospitality and food are shared in equal measure. I’ve sought out that feeling and those people in every country I’ve visited, and found them in most, often where and when I least expected.
