apocryphal. But what we did know about Patrick for sure impressed the
hell out of us. He was kind of famous; he was big and black; most
important, he was an American, one of us, not some cheese-eating,
surrender specialist Froggie. Patrick Clark, whether he would have
appreciated it or not, was our hometown hero, our Joe Di Maggio—a
shining example that it could be done.
As we assembled for menu-planning sessions, the process of getting our
kitchen up and running began. We formed in our already dope-fogged
brains a plan, a national movement even, that would sweep away all the
moribund old European chefs and dazzle the world with our New
American act . . . as soon as we figured out what that was.
We even planned a hit, a sort of Night of the Sicilian Vespers thing,
where we'd straighten them all out in one fell swoop. Back in those days,
the older European chefs—Soltner and his generation—would attend an
annual Chefs' Race, a downhill ski event at Hunter Mountain where
contestants would bomb the slopes in full kitchen whites, toques
strapped to their chins. Our plan was to lurk in the woods at the side of
the trail, also dressed in whites, but luridly adorned with skull-and-
crossbones painted in chicken blood. We'd intercept the geezer
contingent as they waddled down the slope and whack them rudely with
our ski poles, maybe bombard them with foie gras. We were younger and
(we assumed) better skiers, so we would have no problem fending off
any counterattack. We believed this would be a bold and memorable way
to announce ourselves to the world—until the coke ran out and our
enthusiasm with it.
I still laugh out loud when I remember our earnest strategy sessions.
However cruel and pointless and stupid the idea might have been, it was
a measure of our faith in ourselves. Soltner, of course, was a god to us;
the idea of whacking him upside the head with my ski poles, or running
over his Rossignols with my rented skis was always unthinkable when
lucid.