School of Pots and Pans

Richard's Story

I’m often asked, “Why did you become a chef?” My usual response is that it started in college because I hated doing the dishes. Armed with my mother’s recipe for chili, I discovered that if I cooked a decent meal, I not only made other people feel good, they would also do the dishes.

If prodded, I might share my grandparents had a family farm in the truest sense, with eggs from the henhouse, cows, chickens, a vegetable garden, and lots of sweet corn. My brother and I would help pick the corn just before dinner; according to Grandma, picked any earlier it wouldn’t taste as good. Only now, I realize how lucky I was to have grown up with these experiences, which have virtually vanished in today’s world.

I certainly hadn’t the foggiest notion cooking was in my future when I left college in 1970, put on a back pack and headed to Europe like so many others. I fell in love with the culture, food, and lifestyle so much that I sold my ticket home and decided to look for work. Determined to learn French and to ski, I landed in the Swiss Alps, where I found work in a hotel kitchen as a plongeur, or dishwasher. The highlight of my day was sharing meals with my co-workers. We struggled to communicate in three and four languages around the dinner table, but what brought us all together was the food. The memories of those shared meals are still with me, just like the meals at my grandparents’ farm. I often tell people I learned to eat before I learned to cook.

After a few years in Europe, I was off again. The food changed as I traveled east, through Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan. What remained the same, however, was how proud people were of their food. Whatever was offered to me, I ate. Any inhibitions I had dropped away, replaced by curiosity. I kept going, hiking in Kashmir and Nepal, living beachside in Bali and Penang, and absorbing the culture and food as I ate my way around the world.

Eventually I made it to Tokyo, where I found work teaching conversational English and became friends with fellow instructor, who happened to also be a trained chef. One day I noticed a help-wanted ad for a chef at the Italian embassy. My friend Jean-Claude, who also spoke Italian, quickly landed the job. He encouraged my interest in cooking, and I became his part-time, unpaid apprentice, eating and drinking imported food and wine I never could have afforded otherwise. I still didn’t know it, but I was moving closer to understanding my life’s calling.

After almost six years abroad, I returned to the U.S., landing in Taos, New Mexico, where I found work at a hippie health food restaurant making, among other things, sprouts. And then, in a huge leap, I was hired to work the morning shift under a French chef at an upscale lodge in the ski valley. That’s where I learned how to scramble eggs the French way, oeufs brouillés. I thought it would be a breeze. “Scrambled eggs? How hard could that be?” During my first two weeks on the job, Chef Andre came into the kitchen early every day, peered over my shoulder, and tossed my dry, lumpy American-style scrambled eggs into the garbage. I dreaded getting up in the morning to prepare those eggs, unable to understand what I was doing wrong. I listened to his critiques daily and still couldn’t get it right.

One day, Chef Andre stopped coming, I was on my own. I finally understood what he had been trying to teach me. “Do it right from the beginning and you will never have a problem”. I discovered that there was no magic, no tricks, only the careful attention to every detail, no matter how seemingly minute. The rich, velvety texture of traditional French-style scrambled eggs can only be achieved by truly understanding the technique: whisking constantly until the eggs are held together ever so slightly, the tiny curds suspended in a sauce-like emulsion.

I found that lesson applied to more than just eggs. To cook well requires an attention to detail, a deep understanding of a vast number of ingredients, and a knowledge of technique that can only be acquired hands-on. To be a good chef involves all of this, plus a discriminating palate and a commitment to consistent excellence. Years later at the trendy Bistro du Nord on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, these lessons came in handy. One of the signature appetizers was an eggshell filled with oeufs brouillés and topped with sevruga caviar.

When I moved to New York City, I immediately felt at home finding all the limitless foods and cultures that had captivated me for so many years. I found a waiter job at a restaurant in the theater district and that’s when I met Mary Anne, who at the time was a free-lance illustrator. Totally smitten, I never went out with anyone else, and in little more than a year, we were married. While I hustled around tending bar, waiting tables, catering and starting to cook again, I knew it was time to grow up and pursue a career. Assessing the options, I kept returning to the familiar family-style atmosphere that happens in restaurants with the diverse cultures, and of course the food. Remembering the encouragement from Jean-Claude years earlier and my love of different cultures and cuisines, I put it all together. “Let me give it a shot,” I said to Mary Anne. Throwing everything I had into cooking, I passionately immersed myself in the world of Escoffier. Bluffing my way into a few kitchens, I soon found out I could hold my own at the stoves.

I cooked nights in restaurants and on days off I had stockpots simmering at home. I ate at noodle shops, curry stands, and four-star restaurants. My years of traveling had paid off in ways I hadn’t expected. Now that I was cooking, the meals I had eaten all over the world made sense in a new way. When people asked me where I went to culinary school, I said, “The school of pots and pans!” I’ve never looked back, and the excitement of recapturing my travel memories through food has never dimmed. Also, the French I’d learned in Switzerland came in handy when I got a job as a chef-instructor at the French Culinary Institute.

One of my earliest chef jobs was at Metropolis Cafe on Union Square, home to one of the liveliest farmers’ markets in the city. While shopping for specials there, I noticed that a lot of the produce came from the Hudson Valley. Mary Anne and I had often dreamed of a week-end getaway when somehow we stumbled onto an old fixer-upper barn just outside of Woodstock. Soon, we were spending all our spare time—and money—learning about plumbing, carpentry, general demolition, and repair work, all good things to know if you intend to own your own restaurant.

We eventually made the leap from weekenders to locals, and in 1993, on Bastille Day (July 14), opened Blue Mountain Bistro in Woodstock. Mary Anne welcomed people as if she were opening her home to them, and I cooked meals inspired by those I had eaten in my travels around the world. We developed a following and, a few years later, bought our own building just outside of Woodstock. We had a good, long run, but as our son was entering high school, we wanted more quality time and to enjoy dinners at home. That’s how we came up with the idea for Bistro-to-Go.

After 16 incredible years, we've passed our business on, but our journey is far from over. We remain committed to seeking out Feel Good Food, inspiring stories, and beautiful art to share with all of you. The joy of discovery and connection is what drives us, and we look forward to continuing this adventure in new and exciting ways. Thank you for being a part of our story!