In Memoriam

The Death Of Charlie, Substance before Style, And The American Chef

It’s funny how sometimes the shock of one event dislodges memories so deeply buried they could not have bubbled up any other way.

Yesterday morning my friend, former boss, and once-upon-a-time partner in a prank gone very bad, died. Charlie Trotter, formerly of Charlie Trotter’s, Trotter’s To Go, C, and Restaurant Charlie, was one of those chefs that serve as litmus papers to cooks: those who are serious, dead, fully, serious, about their work, would love him, those who only slightly wavered, took the occasional shortcut, or were in it more for the money, would hate him. And loved and hated he was.

Despite the media’s propensity to paint Charlie as a culinary enfant terrible, a screaming and violent autocrat of his kitchens, those who stayed with him, made it big. Grant Achatz, Graham Elliott, Homaru Canto, and others — names that mean kitchen business — started in his kitchen and stayed there for years. He made even honed star chefs nervous, famously once berating Gary Danko for sloppily ladeling sauce onto fish.

He wasn’t TVgenic or presentable. When he poked his bespectacled head into the limelight, like his short appearance in Julia Roberts’ “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” he poked fun at his reputation, played the screaming chef, threatened people to kill them and their families if a dish wasn’t perfect. He truly lived up to the chef motto that those who can, do, and those who can’t do it on Food Network.

He hated foodies, critics, and TV chefs, spending time only reluctantly on TV, including his own show on PBS. He wasn’t PC or marketable, strangling Graham Elliott in front of a group of people he knew would make a stink out of it, or kicking kids out of his shuttered place after they refused to sweep the floor before taking pictures inside the dining room and kitchen.

One night at Charlie Trotters’, after the last dessert had been sent and everyone, still silently and methodically, as was the atmosphere in Charlie’s kitchens, cleaned surfaces and hoods, he and I procured a calf’s leg. The idea was that I wold bent over the Hobart mixer, pretending to clean it, then “accidentally” turn it on and shred the leg. Unfortunately physics played the ultimate prank on me, throwing pieces of meat everywhere, leaving nothing to hold and scream. Charlie, seeing the disaster, wordlessly grabbed a rag and began cleaning, sending his cooks home for the night. His mess, his cleaning. And mine, of course. He demanded a lot, but he also stood for what he’d done, putting the same amount of work into it he demanded of others.

Charlie was that kind of person, unpolished and brilliant at the same time, loud, opinionated, and yet humble where it counted — before his work and food. He hated “animal rights” groups just as much as foodies, not for what they stood for, causes he supported mostly, but the uninformed way both groups went about their business. He hated ignorance and saw it, sometimes rightfully, sometimes not so much, in critics, foodies, and food writers in general. He hated food bloggers, more than once ejecting them from his restaurants in Vegas and Chicago for “tweeting instead of eating,” leading to more press about an unhinged chef that would, inevitably, reach more readers than the news about his engagement for the environment, new cooks, education for low income future commis, and his personal engagement in causes he believed in.

For what it’s worth, I love Charlie. He embodied my kind of substance over style, hated the same groups, loved most of the same things, I love. I didn’t and don’t play in Charlie’s league, but then, no one did. Around him we all, from Ducasse to new commis, from hyped TV celebritard chef to washed up cooks from Iceland, felt we had to give about ten percent more than we ever gave, just to tone down the criticism to a workable level.

And we’re all better for it. Thank you for being here for us, Charlie, and rest in peace. Every evening Andhrímnir, chef to the Æsir, prepares a feast for the fallen. Even in Valhöll a cook runs the show, relax and let yourself be served for a change, resist the urge to barge in and tell him what all he’s doing not as perfectly as he could. At least for a bit. We’ll miss you around here.