Paul Prudhomme Was My Mentor And My Inspiration

My mother, Aida, loved to travel, and, as she told me in a letter she wrote to me three days before she died, "We were good travel companions." We would often go on the road together. She was infinitely generous, and had boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm. We'd talk for hours about things we'd never thought to say in 30 years, and she told me family stories that I always suspected she embellished, so I never knew what was true and what was not. Consequently, I got to know, love, and appreciate her as a woman who wanted to accomplish much in life, but, in her own words, had compromised too much and lost sight of her dreams and the chance of a truly fulfilling, happy life. In this way, I also came to realize that she was living the life she dreamed of through me.

On one occasion, in 1981, we planned to take a cooking class, with Julie Dannenbaum, who taught regularly at the famed Greenbrier resort in West Virginia. Mother relished a great hotel, and this one was known both for great service (there was a ratio of two service employees per guest) and luxurious accommodations. She wanted to add this experience to my album of memories — but just as we were about to depart, we were informed that the employees had gone on strike, and the class was cancelled. This was during the Jimmy Carter years, and Mother suggested we go to Atlanta in place of The Greenbrier. I turned her down. I had no interest in learning how to make peanut soup.

We decided on New Orleans instead, and called the Chamber of Commerce to inquire about cooking schools there. They recommended a place called The Enraged Chicken. On the first day of class, I discovered that this was not a serious program, but rather a cooking school/restaurant where the students made all the food served to patrons at dinner. The first day we made... peanut soup — from peanut butter and canned chicken stock. I quit.

Ever the optimist, my mother told me not to worry, we'd spend our time dining at different restaurants and duplicate the food when we got home. Early the next morning, we took a class at the New Orleans Cooking School, and had the jambalaya we learned to make for breakfast. That was followed by an exquisite lunch with sole amandine at Galatoire's, then a stop by the Central Grocery to sample its trademark muffaletta sandwich — a giant crusty roll dripping with olive oil from its deliciously tangy, salty, crunchy olive and celery salad filling. We followed that with beignets and chicory coffee at Café du Monde.

On our way back to our hotel, we walked past K-Paul's, the restaurant of the famed chef Paul Prudhomme (who died on October 8 this year). Our morning instructor had recommended it, and Mother insisted that we stop and try it, although neither of us thought we could eat another bite. But a spoonful of the restaurant's hauntingly smoky shrimp and andouille sausage gumbo reawakened our appetites. We ordered bracingly spicy Cajun martinis and tucked in. The waitress suggested the sticky chicken for my mother and I had three exquisitely tender filets (veal, pork, and beef), each served with its own magnificent sauce. These were flavor and texture combinations we'd never experienced, and we realized that this food was not conceived by an ordinary mortal, and this was no ordinary restaurant.

The atmosphere was casual and electric — I'd almost say euphoric. Years later, a customer would tell me that he knew the food at my own restaurant would be good because all the staff walked around smiling; but here the servers, extremely friendly in that Louisiana folksy "honey-chile" sort of way, seemed to be always laughing. I later learned that the floor was tightly run by the chef's wife and partner, Kay — the "K" in K-Paul's. Long-legged and rail-thin, she not only looked a little like Juliet Prowse but carried herself like the famous dancer.

They had sat us at a table right near where chef Paul was presiding, checking every dish that came out of the kitchen. Snappily dressed all in white, with his cap placed at a jaunty angle, there was no doubt that he felt good about himself, despite his girth at 500 or so pounds. We noticed that he was watching our reactions intently with his kindly yet penetrating grey eyes. He was obviously trying to figure us out, and Mother suggested I go talk to him. I was very shy then, and hesitated. She insisted. I refused. She pressured me some more, and just to shut her up I said, "OKAY!!!"

It would turn out to be a life-changing moment. I introduced myself to Paul and told him about our disappointing cooking class. With a heart as big as his body, he invited "Mom" and me to cook in his kitchen for the rest of our stay — we'd teach him some Mexican dishes and we'd learn from him in turn. From that moment on, we became fast friends.

It was my first time in a professional kitchen. The cooks took us in with a missionary zeal and began teaching us the doctrine of Cajun food, chef Paul's way. The pace was frenzied and the near-military precision of the squad of playful cooks was awe-inspiring. For the first time, I felt that special rush that line cooks feel when they're in the groove. The menu changed daily and one day the restaurant featured the crab enchiladas I'd learned from Lillian Haines, a Beverly Hills caterer who'd give me a one-week private cooking course when my mother decided I should go into the food business. They were a hit and, most important to me, Paul loved them. It was thrilling to be able to excite his palate for a change.

The week ended much too soon and I went back to my little catering business in El Paso, Texas a changed woman. I had seen how exciting the restaurant business could be, experienced the instant gratification of customers telling me how much they loved my food, and instinctively knew that this was this was what I had been born to do. Moreover, I knew that this was the break that I had been hoping for. Chef Paul was revered and inspired respect and adulation. He was a superstar and I had worked by his side for one whole week!  Surely, some of his magic would rub off on me. 

A month later Paul called to tell me that he'd been invited to cook for 120 noted French members of the Confrérie des Maîtres Cuisiniers, at New York City's landmark Tavern on the Green. By now, Mother was metamorphosing into Madame Aida, stage mother extraordinaire, and she chided me for not asking to be taken along. I'd never do that and she knew it, but, as luck would have it, fate stepped in. A few days later Paul called to ask, "What are you doing on April 2?"

The party had grown to more than 500 guests and Paul didn't feel that he could execute the food up to his standards for such a large number of people, so the concept of the dinner had to be changed. It turned out to be one of the first, if not the first, regional American food buffets. Alice Waters came from California with her boxes of home-grown baby lettuces, Leo Steiner of the Carnegie Delicatessen served pastrami and corned beef, Seppi Renggli of The Four Seasons made Italo-American food, Michael Tong of Shun Lee Palace presented Chinese-American, legendary baker Maida Heatter provided an infinite variety of cookies and desserts — but they needed someone who could do Tex-Mex food. Pronto, Paul suggested me. I refused at first. It seemed such a daunting task. I told him that I couldn't even chop an onion like a chef and he said, "You don't have to. You're the chef. Just say bring me a chopped onion."

He flew to El Paso to help me plan the menu and determine the ingredients and amounts needed and how to pack them securely for transport. Though Paul didn't know it, there was very little Tex-Mex on the menu we came up with, besides the border beef salad called salpicón, pork in red chile sauce, and homemade flour tortillas. Mother and I were not about to serve gloppy nachos and enchiladas, and combination plates were out of the question. Instead we decided to round out the menu with crab enchiladas and red snapper hash.

Paul also wanted me to know what an important role the press can play in a career. They bring you to the attention of the world at large, and he wanted to make sure I made no missteps. He said they would ask me if my cooking was authentic and stressed that I should reply that this was my food.

In no time at all, Mother and I and our numerous perfectly packed boxes were met at La Guardia International Airport by one of the assistant managers at Tavern on the Green, Tony Zazula, who was elegantly attired in a grey cashmere coat with black velvet lapels, and taken to the Essex House hotel in a limousine. Mother was in heaven; I was scared to death. We would be there three days, the first two leading up to the final event: the 500-person dinner.

The next morning we were at the kitchen at Tavern, and when Mother pulled out her dime store serrated knife, Pierre Franey, former chef of the legendary Le Pavillon, stepped in as sous-chef. The kitchen was abuzz. Pretty soon we had an audience drawn by the unfamiliar aromas. Used to common Tex-Mex fare, many of the chefs wondered if this really was Mexican food. And who would think that a fish with aromatic spices like cinnamon, cumin, and cloves could explode on your palate? And crab enchiladas? Most had never tasted two of our universally beloved flavors: piquant, refreshing tomatillo sauce, and the earthy smoked chipotle chiles in the salpicón. The bakers gathered around to see my mother roll out little flour tortillas with the baby rolling pin she always carried in her bag. She was on center stage and loving it.

The glittery décor of this legendary restaurant reflected the Hollywood background of its owner, Warner LeRoy, son of Mervyn LeRoy, who'd directed The Wizard of Oz.  He was another large — and larger than life — character who would play a big role in my life. He was eternally fighting his weight, and sometime later I asked him if he had lost any and he answered, "Thousands of pounds, honey, and I put them right back on!" Warner was of the if-you-can't-hide-it-decorate-it approach to wardrobe and loved to wear outrageous embroidered brocade, silk, velvet, or lamé jackets. He had a cherubic face, a broad smile, a generous heart, and I always think of him with wide-spread welcoming arms.

He invited us for lunch in the restaurant's luxurious if gaudy Crystal Room, hung with the chandeliers from the set of Gone with the Wind. We proudly followed the maitre d' in our uniforms reeking of fried garlic and onion to a beautiful corner table and ate smoked salmon and lobster salad (the only safe things to order in a restaurant that seats 1,500) to our hearts' delight, and Mother somehow finagled two complete rose-decorated place settings that she treasured until the end of her life.

When he got back to the kitchen, Warner yelled at the porters to keep the floors dry. The in-house florist shop was bursting with a riot of flowers, spilling water into the kitchen, and the floors were quite slippery. There was a complaint from the ASPCA when the organization heard that live goldfish were being used in the flower arrangements. The New York Post came around to snoop and they had to be nixed. Craig Claiborne, food editor of the New York Times, watched every step of the preparations, furiously taking notes. It was all high drama.

We had a night off and Warner asked if there was anything we'd like to do that evening. Paul wanted to hear Pavarotti singing with Joan Sutherland that night at Lincoln Center, but tickets were impossible to get. Warner called Paul to say: "I spoke to Gambino [the Mafia boss] and he said he could get the tickets but he'd have to murder four people so how badly do you want to go?" "We'll make other plans," was Paul's answer.

We went restaurant-hopping instead, and it was astonishing to see what a sensation Chef Paul caused everywhere we went, commanding attention by his utter star power. People fairly bowed down to him and he took it all in stride, elegant and restrained, focusing intently on each person and talking to him or her in his quiet voice, endlessly signing autographs. I had found something to strive for.

The big event was a resounding success. Now-famed restaurant impresario Drew Nieporent was the banquet manager. After dinner was served, I walked into the Crystal Room and sat at the first empty seat. Everyone was up and clapping. Arthur Schwartz, then food editor of The Daily News, said to me, "Stand up and take a bow — that's for you." (I realized later that Mother had purposely stayed back to let me bask in the moment.) That was pretty heady stuff for a young girl, and Chef Paul sat me down the next day and told me that I had been living in fairyland the last few days and that there would be a lot of press coverage, filling my head with dreams. But he warned me that I shouldn't believe what I read in the press, as I would be returning to the ladies luncheons and cocktails parties in El Paso. "You're only as good as your next meal," he said. These would be words I would live by in my career, which is why Paul was my mentor to the end.