Meatball Soup

I would like to start by apologizing those of you who are in Pinterest mode. If you followed this link hoping for a quaint recipe that you could make to bring to an upcoming soup supper at your place of worship, this blog amounts to nothing more than a classic bait and switch. The subtitle of this blog easily could have been "Where's the glory, Chef?"

There is a lot of misinformation out there right now concerning what it means to be a chef. Culinary schools, movies, and TV series are selling a rock star version of this fabled figure. We see chefs slinging expensive truffles and foie gras. Or some delicate blonde woman gently seasoning a butterflied breast of chicken. In reality my chosen field is not half that glamorous.

Chef Charles Claringbold II was fond of telling an anecdote about a young man who worked for him: The fresh-scrubbed recruit had bought the culinary school line that they would turn him into the next Emeril Lagasse. Charles had set him to the task of filling squeeze bottles with ketchup from the bladder bag that hung in a plastic frame on the wall. Charles walked past him and the greenhorn looked at him with doe eyes and asked "Where's the glory, Chef?".

I would be the first to admit that everyone's experience is a little different. Part of my perspective is due to my having spent years servicing corporate accounts. I have spent 12 years in this industry, however. I have been to culinary school, spent 6 weeks interning at the Waverley Country Club, worked the line in an upscale Portland establishment, slung food on several multimillion dollar campuses, owned a catering company, and worked to fill the needs of a demanding group of foodies at my current job downtown.

No matter where I have been, or who I have worked with/under, the story has always been the same. Being a chef is hard work. It is dirty work. I have watched every one of my chefs roll up their sleeves and scrub greasy pans. More than once I have seen them serve as exterminators, referees, secretaries, plumbers, and window washers in their own establishments.

Truth is, anyone can buy-in expensive ingredients, ferry them to the front of the house and resell them at 300% markup. The great chefs know how to impart value onto ordinary ingredients. As a chef I often find myself scrapping together leftovers to try and salvage my food cost percentage. The surprising part? Some of my most satisfying moments as a chef are born from this process.

That brings us to the meatball soup.

I really love making soups. There were a few misguided weeks in school where I fully intended to become a saucier (or sauce cook) and my love of sauces carries over into a passion for soup making. The Epicurean delight in question was the culmination of a series of deft cost cutting measures commonly used in my kitchen. The meatballs were made from excess meatloaf mixture from last Friday's special. The filler in this mixture was fresh bread crumbs. I never buy bread crumbs. We run bread scraps and loaf ends through the food processor and keep the resulting crumbs in a bucket in the freezer. The tomato base was a Fresh Tomato Basil soup that I had made last week from blanching, peeling, and deseeding overripe and moldy tomatoes that may have otherwise been thrown away. Combine these with a handful of rotini pasta and some stock. Voilà! It really was delicious.

I sold out both of my soups made from leftovers today. With an 8oz cup selling at $2.25, they sold at an effective rate of $36.00 a gallon, and my customers complimented me for a job well done.

I have seen this very poorly executed. There are some chefs who treat the soup station the way many would treat a garbage can. Attempting to peddle septic slop to unsuspecting customers. Shame on them. A pox be on their house. A chef should never take lightly the responsibility he has to the customer.

In the end I work in the service industry. It is not glorious. I am closer to being this guy-


Than I am to being this guy-



I do love it, though. Someday if I am referred to as a successful chef it will probably be due to the fact that I mastered the art of reworking leftovers, and my ability to unflinchingly wield a plunger in a public restroom.


"Where's the glory, Chef?".

- Posted from my iPhone

Call to Action

When I heard the garbage truck
go by this morning I leapt to my feet. Battling the panic born of knowing that our can was overfilled with holiday excess, I slipped into my work Crocs and dashed out of the door with two sacks of trash clutched in my hands. Lifting the lid, I flung the bags into the can and forcefully crammed it back closed. Tilting the large plastic container back to it's center of gravity I bumped it across our side lawn to the curb in front of our maple tree. Then a quick glance toward our neighbor Dan's curb for the reassuring sight of white kitchen bags poking out the top of his bin.

We are actually quite lucky. The truck goes by in a Westerly direction before it comes back East past our house to dispose of our refuse. If you are home sitting lazily on the couch, thumbing through Facebook on your iPhone, the familiar rumble is a clear call to action. Hesitate and you will pay for it for the next week.

The garbage incident reminded me of when I was a kid. We would wait in the warmth and security of our house and watch for the school bus to go past our driveway. This was our signal to make the trek down the long blackberry lined driveway and catch the bus on it's way back toward Lacamas Heights Elementary School. We lived very near the end of the bus route and the bus would turnaround and be back with haste. We dared not tarry. You need not run, but, with the short legs (and attention span) of a third grader, the journey required decisive action. We knew what was required of us. Hesitate and we would feel the scorn of our parents and receive a black mark on our attendance record.

I have long been capable of clear and definitive action when there is an immediate need for it. I jump in, get dirty, spurn brake periods, and cast aside thoughts of self preservation. I can think on my feet and adapt to adverse conditions. When it is over and the built up adrenalin seeps out of my endocrine system, I truly enjoy the satisfying crash that tells me I have poured myself out and given one hundred percent.

The thing that continues to be just beyond my grasp is the right-headedness that would make me a planner and a better leader. I react to the situations that I fall into, but I struggle to find the proactive vein that would help keep me from getting in those situations in the first place.

All those years ago in Camas why didn't I plan on being at the end of the driveway when that big yellow bus went by the first time? I would not have had to cross the road to get on and I would have been assured a ride as I would have had two chances to be on board. Why is it that I never put my trash cans out the night before? Why do I routinely go into work with a weak menu plan and find myself in a "black box challenge" to come up with my specials for the day?

I do not think that I am a bad leader. I would like to believe that if God had placed me on the beaches of Normandy I could have marched into the fray and led by example. (Although truly we can never know that much). I think that am capable of inspiring those around me to dig deep and find the potential inside themselves. It is those things that can not be won by the grit of your teeth and the sweat of your brow that I find so fleeting.

My prayer is that I could be granted those qualities that are truly important. Things like wisdom and foresight. I have the knowledge of the kind of planning and over-arching themes that might give me an advantage in life. I am profoundly foolish when it comes to implementing those strategies in my life.


Whoever trusts in his own mind is a fool, but he who walks in wisdom will be delivered. (Proverbs 28:26 ESV)


- Posted from my iPhone