I have often been asked, "What is the best thing you ever ate? or What has been your best experience at a restaurant? What is best?" These are the questions that have so many different answers, but there is no immediate answer.
Every art form is subjective to what is believed to be the ultimate standard to what is considered the ultimate masterpiece. In cooking, every chef is different, the saying, "Too many cooks spoiled the soup!" always comes into play especially when it comes to ones critique of what is the standard of a great meal or dining experience. For me, it is all about the story. The best meals I have enjoyed involved the company I shared it with than what was presented on the table.
I spent my high school days in Conception Bay South, Newfoundland penning rhymes to follow in the footsteps of being the next great white emcee, battling rappers to become Eminem's right hand lyrical assassin twin to then forming a band called Madman Orchestra. I dressed in thrift shop outfits and tore up the half empty venues and bars of East Coast of Canada. And although there was the dream of Madman Orchestra it was not meant to be. I guess I was wrong when I thought I had my life all figured out in high school, dang! I then made the to move back to Ontario to fully pursue a career in cooking.
I never thought in a million years I would be in my 30s, writing anything, or even hosting a food program on a community radio show. From working as a busboy at the Old Bath House on Lakeshore Boulevard at 15, to beating around fast food chains and meat shop clean up crews, the rest of my teens, I never thought I would be here, a career cook/chef.
Through all the stages of my life I do remember something that changed my life at a young age. It was really quite simple.
My Mother was born in an out port village on the South Coast of Newfoundland called Grey River. This community is so remote that it can be only reached by ferry or in case of emergency helicopter. The last time I visited was during a summer holiday. I was 15 years old, lived in Ontario at the time, city-slicker, bad-ass, weed-smoking gangster from the streets of North York, I was trying to be all hardcore when my uncle who was about twice as tall and 30 times my size, invited my over for some lunch,
I was like, "No! Yo!!"
Then he said holding a fillet, “Got this from the wharf this morning!” and walks out the door only to cross the fresh water brook that ran beside his house. Alongside the step rocky hills he grew potatoes. A long time ago, this hill was a long harvest a quarts mine, which also produced tungsten. It was all very interesting and it explained a lot in regards to the minerals in the soils, (I would learn later in life as the snobby food term of 'terroir') and right there I was engaged in the food and the experience I was about to have.
All of a sudden, into a pot of sea water goes the spuds, salt pork diced small into the pan, halibut dipped in flour and fried into the rendering fat… WTF!…OMG!.. Yeah!
I was hooked on quality. I knew it was good. I knew there was taste. And for me, the most captivating part was that there was a story. There was no waiter, no kitchen brigade finking around to make the next Michelin star, it was just honest, simple, an uncle cooking a lunch for his nephew, which is still to this day one of the best meals I have ever had. This moment with my uncle sparked my passion for food, and it only opened more inspiring food adventures throughout the years.
