Most chefs seem to have fond memories of dining out with their parents; not so for the Kitchen Ninja.
As a child, most of my dining experiences were within the confines of ‘hunting lodges’. These are a popular German restaurant concept as old as the Holy Roman Empire itself – and some of them probably date from that time period as well. The decor of these places was identical. Large, heavy, crudely made tables, worn to a smooth glossy finish by time – the kind of tables Restoration Hardware would have a heart attack over. Low wooden benches were more common than chairs, and chandeliers were made out of clusters of antler bouquets. Dead animals festooned the walls: birds stuffed to give the impression of having been caught ‘mid flight’ and boars with their comically small noses staring with a fixed expression of mild alarm as you contemplated your breaded cutlet in sauce. These places smelled of roasted meat, old leather, furniture polish, and generations of stale cigarettes. The ambiance was smoky – the air thick with cigars and cigarettes smoked mid-meal. The people sitting across from you were in soft focus, sometimes obscured from view altogether by a passing secondhand cloud. I stood at approximately 4’2″, and seated on a low bench, spent my meals with my head constantly in a low-lying blanket of smog.
There are no children’s menus at German restaurants. It’s more acceptable in Europe to bring your dog out to eat than your child. German children are notoriously dreadful little shits in restaurants – I’m assuming that because they are never brought out into adult social situations. On the rare occasions that they are, the novelty of the situation overwhelms them. Over-stimulated and unsure how to act they panic and inevitably wind up crying or throwing some awkward scene.
My parents were very modern – or I suspect, very poor. Either they decided I was mature enough to socialize with the grown-ups or they were too poor or unable to find a babysitter. Whatever the cause, I wound up eating out at German restaurants. This provoked no small reaction. Fellow customers would eye me warily, as if I was going to throw my bowl of soup across the room and start tearing the animal carcasses off the walls in a fit of infantile rage. I never really gave them the satisfaction. I was a boring child. Perhaps if my parents had been blessed with an energetic, sport-loving, red-blooded daughter things might have gone differently. But I was a ponderous, daydreaming sort. I could stare out of the car window for hours at a time, watching rows and rows of farmland drift by. At the time I assumed my ability to think patiently for hours marked me as introspective. Clever. These assumptions would make me very unhappy when I reached college and found out I was simply boring.
But being patient and able to amuse yourself quietly for hours proved indispensable in a childhood filled with ‘hunting lodges’. Dinner in one of these smoky hell-holes was not a quick 2 hour affair like American dinner engagements. They could last hours. And hours. And hours. Service in these places was lackadaisical at best, and unpardonably non-existent at worst. Europeans take their time dining – it’s more of a fun activity than a furtive guilt-fueled binge. A glass of wine before we even get out menus? Why not! An hour later and the menus are nowhere to be found. So why not just order the bottle – looks like we are going to be here awhile! Such impulsivity that created amazing diner experiences for my parents set my nails on edge. I would literally dig them into the wood under the table, flinching as our waiter casually asked, “Would the lady like another glass of wine; perhaps white? And maybe after that an aperitif? How about some coffee? Dessert! Another cup of coffee – sure, stay as long as you like!”
I was a saint of patience, and controlling my seething inner rage. Couldn’t they see I had shit to attend to? Barbies to groom and clothe? That sitting here was killing me? That with every additional after-dinner aperitif and coffee they ordered I vowed more fervently never to speak to them again. My parents were clever people – that was the worst part of it. They talked about the EU, law, NATO, currencies, and politics. Their conversations were hardly light or inviting for an 8 year old. As the wine flowed, I also failed when they would ask me things like “Oh- who was that girl- from that movie- you know the one where….” As a dinner conversationalist, I was an utter failure. There I sat – Hanna, Patron Saint of Gastronomic Stoicism. One day, people would come to know my resignation, my angelic forbearance in the face of this second cup of coffee.
The food itself made little impression on me. I always ordered soup – a safe choice – then proceeded to pick at whatever brown thing wound up on my parents plates. If you’re unfamiliar, Google ‘German food’ – it’s pretty much just a mess of fried, tired, brown things on round white plates. The wildest thing to happen to it since the 80′s has been the widespread acceptance of paprika. Dessert was always a soggy square tiramisu. Sodas were always served tepid and without ice, water was always sparkling.
Inevitably the secondhand smoke headache, tepid soda, and onion soup would get me. I’d excuse myself and go outside. Outside at a hunting lodge was always interesting. The places were practically medieval. I suspect some were converted barons houses, or rich landowners’ ‘keeps’ at one point. Many are shaped like fortresses with thick walls, turrets, even moats. Once free to wander I’d find my way into wine cellars, deer pens (enclosed fields filled with skinny-legged deer for the lodge), old WW2 bunkers and anti-aircraft towers or when all else failed I’d stand in the parking lot kicking rocks.
It’s humorous to me now that I’ve built a career around my least favorite childhood activity. Reading the biographies of chefs, they always tell romantic stories of “the privilege of going to a nice restaurant with their parents”. Apparently the privilege was wasted on me. Silently I sat, regarding the stuffed duck nailed to the wall beside me, daydreaming that I’d won the horse lottery – any moment a man in all white would come charging into the restaurant and tell me that I’d won a stable full of race horses and needed to come train and care for them all immediately. My thoughts would be occupied for hours with the thorny logistics of caring for and training so many pretty ponies. In reality, the only lottery I ever won was when my mother would let me eat the little milk chocolate biscuits that came on the saucer of her coffee.
It seems like all the famous chefs have quaint memories of the thrill of dining out at a fancy restaurant with their parents. For me it seems my life has followed a linear path. Even as a child I was bored to death, staring at the walls of some restaurant.
Written by Hanna Youngling
