Scott had some chops now. He was good on the line. He had a résumé,
some notable names and recommendations, working experience,
exposure to France and French food.
So did I, at that point in my career. I was good! I'd been to France. I had
a CIA diploma—at a time when that was a pretty rare and impressive
credential. So, what the hell happened? How come I'm not a three-star
chef? Why don't I have four sommeliers?
Well, there are lots of reasons, but one reason is that I went for the
money. The first chef's job that came along I grabbed. And the one after
that and the one after that. Used to a certain quality of life—as divorcees
like to call it, living in the style to which I'd grown accustomed—I was
unwilling to take a step back and maybe learn a thing or two.
Scott was smarter and more serious. He was more single-minded about
what he wanted to do, and how well he wanted to do it. He began a sort of
wandering apprenticeship, sensibly designed to build experience over a
bank account. He came to New York and went to work for Brendan
Walsh.
Brendan Walsh and Arizona 206 are names that seem to pop up in the
résumés of almost every '80s-era American chef. John Tesar, Kerry
Heffernan, Pat Williams, Jeff Kent, Maurice Rodriguez, Herb Wilson,
Donnie Masterton—everyone, it seemed passed through those kitchen
doors at some point in their early careers. And for Scott, it was his
version of "the happy time", a period where "everyone knew what we
were doing was important. It was a team of cooks." From this early petri-
dish of culinary talent, Scott moved onwards and upwards, parlaying one
once-in-a-lifetime gig into another, racking up a box score of famous
chefs and heavyweight talents that would make any ambitious young
cookie jerk to attention just at the mention of their names.
The Gotham with Alfred Portale. Back with Kinkaid at 21 Federal in DC.