Talking with My Mouth Full (15 page)

It occurred to me that I had never actually had a job where I could be promoted before, and it felt great to get the recognition. The Classic in Aspen was revered in culinary circles. It was a massive learning opportunity, and for the first time I would be the leader of a team.

I quickly realized that being a manager of people is deceptively difficult work. From Daniel and Georgette, as well as Chris and Frances, I learned that you need to take responsibility for your team’s mistakes. Daniel’s name is on the door. If a captain or chef screws up, it reflects badly on him. The same principle applied here. Their mistakes would be my mistakes. Errors happen, but if it was my department I had to take the blame, teach, direct, and correct it for next time. I also had to lead by example and support my staff in their tasks while still finding time for my own. Applauding and problem solving, celebrating their successes, and helping them to improve was all part of it too.

The Classic was heading into its twenty-fourth year when I took over the job. That’s a long time in the life span of an event. There were deeply rooted, complicated relationships that I had to learn very quickly. Aspen has a complex mix of protective locals and luxury vacationers, multimillion-dollar real estate moguls and families going back generations.

Our job was to preserve the integrity of the town while also appeasing our consumers, sponsors, and advertisers, with whom we had long-term, loyal relationships as well. All the while, I was coordinating the needs of our culinary talent: finding an extra hotel room to accommodate Thomas Keller’s lamber, confirming that José Andrés’s Iberico ham had made it through customs, or that Giada De Laurentiis had enough security to not get mobbed by the hundreds of fans at her book signing.

It was like a polygon: the magazine, the sponsors, the talent, and the town—with our little team stuck in the middle, charged with figuring out how to make everyone happy.

Working in tandem with us was the team in Aspen. Devin Padgett, our special projects producer; his right hand, Mike Morgan; and a crew of more than twenty contracted crew members handled on-the-ground details, including but not limited to negotiating our city licenses, coordinating all the build-out and breakdown, creating and managing the programming schedule, and working to meet the needs of every wine distributor, every caterer, and every venue.

It’s almost incomprehensible how hard they work and the minutiae of detail they tackle. Devin knows every microscopic detail of every facet of the event. He’s been working on it almost since its inception. For me, Devin became a kind of Buddha, best friend, and consummate advisor. He is a trained chef. He knows everyone. Sort of like MacGyver; you want him in every situation. He makes you feel safe. He’s unfazeable.

In addition to Devin’s operations crew, there were two people at the Aspen Chamber Resort Association who worked with us almost year-round as well, Jennifer Albright Carney and Julie Hardman. They coordinated an enormous amount, too—from the details of every glass poured in every wine seminar, to our complex lodging needs, and of course our relationship to the town’s retail and hospitality community, whom we relied on so heavily. They managed anywhere from five to seven hundred local volunteers who worked closely with us the week of the event to ensure that it all ran smoothly. They also happened to be the most calm and reliable friends to have at an event like this—equally adept at finding immediate solutions to a crisis and telling hysterical stories over sushi and too much sake after a long day of meetings.

When you factor in everyone’s travel accommodations and transportation, the operations end of the festival becomes nearly endless. There was another team on the ground that organizes all our flights, attendee registration, and passes, and an extensive culinary crew who produced our cooking demonstrations. Finally, from
Food & Wine
alone there were more than one hundred staff members who come to Aspen to work on the event in some capacity over the weekend.

My favorite part of the job was when I went to Aspen at other times of the year for planning meetings. We’d sit around a conference table for three days and pound out the details, then, with luck, get an afternoon to ski. It was a chance to spend more time with the people who ran the hotels and restaurants, the shop owners, the caterers, and the people at the Aspen Chamber Resort Association.

For three years, I would leave my team without a boss for weeks at a time to shoot
Top Chef
. Going back and forth between the two worlds was disorienting. In the span of a single day, I would go from wearing a cocktail dress at a glamorous red carpet event to Crocs, cargo pants, a
Food & Wine
T-shirt, a fleece, a puffy vest, and a backpack. There would be times when I would be wired, with a headset, a walkie-talkie, a cell phone, and a BlackBerry all at once.

One year during the event, running out of the St. Regis Hotel with my headset on, yelling into a cell phone, putting out a fire, I ran into Nan Strait, then a supervising producer for
Top Chef
(she now runs the show as our co–executive producer). She was in Aspen shooting a video package for the Season 2 reunion show about winner Ilan Hall’s prize. She and I were wearing the same uniform.

She loves to remind me of that moment, because until then she only knew me as the food critic at Judges’ Table in full hair and makeup. When she saw me in all my gear, we realized we did the same job in a strange sort of way: we produced.

Hanging with iconic chef Jacques Pépin at the 2011
Food & Wine
Classic in Aspen

(
© 2011 American Express Publishing Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Photo: Allan Zepeda
)

By the spring of 2009 I realized the juggling act between my two lives could no longer be sustained, so I handed the Classic reins over to a colleague in whose capable hands the event remains as exciting and relevant as ever. I have taken on a different role with the magazine: special projects director, which allows me to branch out more in the media and pursue other projects, both with
Food & Wine
and on my own. I do far less event producing now, but I miss it.

I came to feel like an honorary Aspen citizen, part of the fabric of that small town. I’ve been there more than sixteen times over the last seven years. Now, when I go back, to shoot the show or to participate in the Classic as part of the talent I once managed, it is a sort of homecoming—just without the headset.

ELEVEN

At the Judges’ Table

WE ARE IN
Singapore, on a crawl of hawker stands with a local chef. We have Kaya toast with runny eggs and buttered toast with strong coffee for breakfast. Slipper lobsters in garlic sauce with Chinese spinach. Crabs deep-fried in corn flakes. Rice with peanuts and mackerel presented on a banana leaf, made famous as the alleged obsession of the sultan of Brunei. White pepper crab (almost floral), black pepper crab (much more aggressive), and chili crab, soaked in a super-messy, spicy red sauce. We break open the shells, spoon the sauce over the crab, and sop up the rest with slices of white bread. And laksa! The famous Malaysian soup made with coconut milk, curry, ginger, shrimp, meat, pea shoots. Ten different people in the market serve laksa, but every one is different. You need to know which stall has the best. In this case, it’s Katong Laksa, which uses evaporated milk and black clams. There’s also “carrot cake,” not made from carrots, but thick rice noodles with shredded daikon radish (locals call daikon “white carrot”), shredded fried egg, and chives. Hokkien prawn noodles with chili paste from the table bottle, calamansi squeezed on top. The chewiness of the two different kinds of noodles with the acid of the fruit, sautéed squid, shrimp, and fish is a perfect balance of tastes. Lard cracklings on top. What’s better than lard cracklings? I could live on these noodles. And to drink, bright green palm sugar juice, so sweet and packed with ice, a miracle on a hot sultry night. No flavor, just sweetness.

Over the past nine seasons as a judge on
Top Chef
, I’ve had a dizzying array of meals and adventures. The show has changed the trajectory of my career, my life. When I think back now, I’m still amazed by how casual I was about the audition.

It was early September 2005. The powers that be at
Food & Wine
asked me to go to 30 Rockefeller Plaza with a few others to do a screen test for a new food-based reality show being developed by Bravo. I had done a number of TV appearances, so I suppose I was a logical candidate, but I still felt unprepared. First, I didn’t even know what a screen test
was
. Second, I barely knew what this show was about. The only reason I wasn’t nervous was that I didn’t really understand why I was there to begin with.

Programming executive Dave Serwatka sat me in front of a camera in a tiny closet of a space. With the camera running, he fired question after question at me, and I did my best to answer him.

“What do you like to eat?” Dave asked.

“Just about anything except black beans,” I said. “Oh, and veal, if given the choice.”

“And where do you like to eat?”

“It depends on my mood and what I’m craving. But the adventure of restaurants always excites me, from the moment of being greeted at the door to that very last bite of dessert. Living in New York has given me the opportunity to explore it all.”

“What are the hallmarks of a good chef?”

“A humble respect for food, knowledge of quality ingredients, and technique,” I replied. “An understanding of its basic chemistry and science. Extreme focus, years of dedication—and comfortable shoes.”

Dave then asked me to describe my worst restaurant experience. That was easy.

One recent morning, Jeremy and I had gone to a local diner for breakfast. I wanted an omelet. I’m obsessed with eggs in any form, especially omelets, but only if they’re cooked as they should be—just until soft, pillowy, and still a bit runny in the center. I despise the dry, rubbery, overcooked versions that too often pass for breakfast in this country. If it’s crispy and brown on the outside, it’ll be chewy and hard on the inside, with a texture that reminds me of a flip-flop. Yuck.

Jeremy, all too aware of my high omelet standards, warned that this particular diner might not be the best place to order one. But that’s what I was craving, so I told the waiter I wanted my omelet soft, with no brown crust on the top.

Several minutes later, a flip-flop arrived.

Very calmly, I explained to the waiter that I had ordered a
soft
omelet, and would he mind asking the kitchen if they could please make me another?

He snatched up my petrified omelet and soon returned with its replacement, probably spitting on it between the kitchen and our table. This time the eggs were completely raw and translucent. I considered trying to eat it anyway but the thought of salmonella poisoning made me think twice. I was frustrated and ravenous. My upper lip started to quiver and my eyes filled with tears. The tears started to puddle on the diner’s faux-wood table. My lovely Jeremy paid the bill, grabbed my hand, and whisked me across the street for a perfectly cooked falafel.

“So you probably think I’m nuts, don’t you?” I said to Dave. “Like, ‘If you’re that picky about your omelets, why not just stay home and make one yourself,’ right?”

Dave didn’t respond.

I rambled on to defend myself: “Well,
I
don’t think there’s anything wrong with ordering what I want the way I want it, whether I’m at a diner or a four-star restaurant. That’s just how an omelet is
supposed
to be cooked. Besides, they’re not paying for it—
I
am.”

Dave nodded blankly. “Thanks, Gail,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Sure.

Flash-forward a few weeks. I was at my desk in the
Food & Wine
offices when an email popped up from Chris Grdovic. All it said in the subject line: “It’s you!”

What’s me?

Puzzled, I walked over to her office. Chris was on the phone, waving her arms wildly and motioning for me to come in. Finally she hung up and said, “You’re going to San Francisco to tape the first season of Bravo’s
Top Chef
!”

Really?!?

Wait—what will I tell my mother when she finds out I’ll be appearing on
reality television?

Compared to most people I grew up with, I haven’t exactly taken a traditional career path. Until recently, my family and friends back home had little idea what I actually
did
for a living. (Until just a few years ago, my mother still joked that if things didn’t work out in the food industry, there was still time for me to go to law school.) And now here I was, about to shoot a reality TV show. I felt I had to reassure my mom that I wouldn’t be tied to a tree in a bikini, escaping from a tank filled with snakes, or eating live spiders the size of dinner plates.

In 2005, reality shows were still fairly new to television.
Fear Factor
and
Survivor
had led the charge. They were enormously successful, but they were all I really knew of the genre.

With several successful reality shows under Bravo’s belt—
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
and
Project Runway
among them—the network’s next idea was to create a reality show based on food and cooking. When
Food & Wine
had been approached by Bravo’s marketing team about a partnership on the new series, Chris had had the foresight to give it a shot.

We learned during those negotiations that Tom Colicchio, the venerable chef and owner of Gramercy Tavern and Craft in New York City, had signed on as head judge, which made us more than a little enthusiastic. Tom was already a trusted member of the
Food & Wine
family; knowing he had agreed to take a chance on this production, we knew we could, too.

And so, within a month of landing the role, I found myself in San Francisco for a month of shooting, four suitcases packed with every piece of clothing I owned and no idea if this improbable endeavor was going to work.

But work it did, and the winning formula has been pretty consistent since that first season. My husband affectionately describes my job as “I eat, I yap, I leave,” but it’s a
little
more involved than that.

It takes six weeks of almost-daily shooting—and a cast and crew of well over a hundred—to film a single season of
Top Chef
. The “chef-testants” are quarantined to keep the playing field even and fair, so we can’t really break for weekends. Each episode consists of two challenges: the Quickfire Challenge, which tests basic skills (such as cooking with only canned products, or with one hand tied behind one’s back), and the Elimination Challenge, a more elaborate scenario that requires contestants to cook over several hours or even days and serve their food to a larger group or at an event. Themes for Elimination Challenges range from fantastical and absurd to sophisticated and cerebral. Beaches, deserts, museums, campsites, boats, football-field parking lots, casinos, rodeos—no location is off-limits for our cast of talented young chefs. Dinner guests have ranged from three-Michelin-starred chefs to firemen, CIA agents to Natalie Portman, Cookie Monster to Buzz Aldrin—almost anyone with an appetite and an interesting point of view. Watching contestants fight it out in the kitchen is always exciting and full of drama—but above all else,
Top Chef
is about celebrating food, and the art and craft of professional cooking.

The bulk of the season—twelve to fourteen episodes—is shot over five consecutive weeks; several months later, we’ll regroup for a week or so to shoot the finale. Each episode takes two to three days to shoot: one for the Quickfire and one or two days for the Elimination Challenge, depending on how much cooking time is needed. Although every day is different, a typical Elimination Challenge day goes something like this:

We start with hair, makeup, and wardrobe, at about 10 a.m, while the chefs finish their allotted cook time. In the first season, I wore most of my own clothes, but now I depend on the shopping expertise of the show’s stylist. (Who has that many cocktail dresses in her closet? Plus, we shoot at picnics, at four-star restaurants, even at school gyms. That’s a lot of outfits.)

While it may sound fabulous, the wardrobe process actually gives me a lot of anxiety. Since I’m neither supermodel-tall nor cover-girl-skinny, our long-suffering stylist usually has to shop for me, rather than just calling in sample sizes from designers. There are certain colors and styles I feel comfortable wearing. But there are many rules for what can and cannot be worn on TV: busy or tight patterns are out, as are whites and bright reds. I’ve learned that jewel tones and solids always work well on my skin, and a bit of plunge in the neckline and a belt gives me some shape. Sometimes I try on twenty outfits to find even one I really like. I’ve certainly made some questionable choices along the way, and heard about them to no end on blogs, Twitter, and Facebook, but I’ve learned to be a bit more discerning about what I wear—and a bit calmer about the criticisms.

Once we’re dressed and ready, we travel to the challenge location. The hair, makeup, and wardrobe teams do a final touchup, and around 1 p.m. we’ll start shooting the service and tasting, continuing until about 5 p.m.

The chefs, meanwhile, have been cooking all day, usually under extraordinarily difficult constraints. It’s one thing to cook a great dish in one’s own restaurant. It’s another thing altogether to prepare a dish in an unfamiliar kitchen, with limited tools and ingredients, while eight cameras swarm around you (and sometimes in sixteen minutes flat!). Since air-conditioning interferes with the sound, we often have to go without, so the kitchen can be sweltering. Given the circumstances, when the chefs bring out their final dishes, I’m always impressed that they’ve managed to create anything at all.

When the service portion of the challenge is over—before moving back to the studio for Judges’ Table—Padma, Tom, the guest judge, and I will talk through each dish on camera in what we call a “mini delib.” We decide which plates were our most and least favorite. At this point the top three or four and bottom three or four contestants are selected.

While the crew moves everything to the
Top Chef
kitchen and sets up Judges’ Table, we get a break. I’ll usually grab a bite or drink with Tom and the guest judge, especially if we didn’t eat well at the challenge. Around 7 p.m., after a quick makeup touch-up, we’ll sit down at Judges’ Table. (During the first few seasons, we sometimes didn’t start until 11 p.m.!)

To kick things off, Padma usually calls in the top chefs of the challenge to see us—although once in a while we switch this up to keep the contestants on their toes. We stare them down a little, make them sweat, and ensure the cameras get those stress-provoking close-ups. (Cue the nerve-racking music.) The top chefs are then told they prepared our favorite dishes, and are questioned about their creative process. We’ll tell them what we liked about their food and discuss what inspired them. Though we try to keep the conversation upbeat and positive, we do give chefs constructive criticism if it’s warranted. At this point the guest judge announces the winner, and Padma asks that they send back the contestants who are up for elimination.

Out comes the next group. We stare them down even harder, so the cameras can capture all those uncomfortable moments. Padma tells the chefs that they’re on the bottom. At this point, it’s still anyone’s game to lose.

We spend a good amount of time going through each dish, questioning every element. We’re looking to discover if the chefs have any insight into their mistakes. Did they make errors in concept or in execution? If it was a team challenge, who was responsible for each component? Then we gauge who made the most egregious blunders.

In the “Out of the Lunch Box” episode in Season 7, contestants took over a Washington, D.C., school cafeteria, with instructions to prepare lunch for fifty kids. The budget for each child’s full meal was a strict $2.68, which at the time was the government’s reimbursement rate to schools for children eligible for free lunch.

Two chefs made extremely questionable decisions. For her chicken dish, Amanda bought an expensive bottle of sherry—an ingredient that wouldn’t even be
allowed
in a school cafeteria. Jacqueline, meanwhile, used two pounds of sugar—almost two ounces per serving—to make her bland banana pudding more appealing.

We wanted to hear what was behind their thinking.

Amanda defended her choice by saying that she “liked cooking with sherry.” She argued that the alcohol would burn off during the cooking process. Jacqueline, however, had no response when we pointed out the problem of adding so much sugar—and empty calories—to a child’s meal. (To say nothing of her pudding’s poor flavor and consistency.)

At this point the bottom-tier chefs head back to the “stew room,” where they wait and wait and wait, while the crew resets the lighting and cameras for our deliberation. With the cameras running, the four of us spend an hour or more going over every dish again and again, factoring in the feedback we received from each chef, to see if our opinions have changed.