I remember winter of ’53. I was an inexperienced punk whippersnapper attending cooking school in upstate New York. I’d already spent a few years cooking in my small-town mountain Chateau but had ascended to doing little more than pot washing and potato peeling. Now, I was in the big leagues, surrounded by students and the widest collection of Certified Master Chefs on the planet. In the beginning, we learned culinary math and history. We took basic business classes to learn simple...
