Dinner with Mom
A Mother's Day tale.
In the 90’s I worked at an Italian restaurant called Spiaggia, it was in a large modernist building on the corner of Oak and Michigan in Chicago. It was my first real restaurant job and I loved/hated it very much. It’s safe to say the foundation of everything I am started there. I wrote about it before.
It was a heady time. But something that might seem different compared to today, chefs weren’t really as big a deal then. Sure, there were a handful of chefs becoming household names like Emeril Lagasse , Wolfgang Puck, and in Chicago, Charlie Trotter. But chef adoration wasn’t a a big thing yet, plus the internet wasn’t what is is now, and there was no social media. My friends thought it was kind of cool that I worked in an expensive restaurant but I think they thought it was a phase I was going through. My family didn’t really know what to think. A nice dinner out for my family was a rarity and usually meant a place like Ponderosa or something similar. We ordered pizza occasionally, and sometimes Mexican food but we were too broke when I was a kid, plus my father was notoriously reluctant to part with his money.
Working at Spiaggia was an instrumental part of my career, but at some point I was ready to move on, I had the itch to do something very different. But an idea had popped into my head towards the end of my tenure there. Most of the other cooks and servers at some point had invited their family to come and eat there. Whenever this happened we always rolled out the red carpet to make them feel special, a nice table, extra courses, extra wine, a tour of the kitchen, you name it. Often after dinner they would wander into the kitchen, buzzed from too much wine, and thank everyone, shake hands or even exchange a hug or two. As line cooks we didn’t really make much money, but it was a nice perk to be able to take care of someone you cared about like that, to be able to treat them and make them feel special for a night. So I figured that it was time my mom come to have dinner at Spiaggia. My father had passed away a couple years before and she had moved to Iowa to be with my sister and her family. But my mom had never eaten at a place like that and I felt it would be a cool thing to have her come in before I left.
I called her and made arrangements for us to have dinner in a few weeks time. She seemed very concerned with what she was going to wear more than anything else. One of the things she said to me was that Spiaggia was too fancy for her and she probably wouldn’t like it. It took some convincing to get her to agree to it, I could tell it made her uncomfortable. Like I said we grew up lower middle class and eating at a place like that was strictly for rich people, at least that’s what we thought at the time. But after seeing the joy that the other cooks’ families experienced, I wanted that for her.
A few weeks later my sister brought her to Chicago and I worked lunch that day but had plenty of time to go home and change. I met mom in the lobby of the building, wondering if I was doing the right thing, thinking I may have been too pushy. When my mom got out of my sisters car I could tell right way that she felt uncomfortable. I held her hand and guided her upstairs. Her first words were “You work here?” Before we move on I feel some context is needed here. Like I said my father had passed away a few years before and it was not an easy time for either of us. Before I started cooking, I went through a period of chaos and instability. There’s a Jackson Browne song lyric that sums up the last couple of years before I started working in kitchens, “no sooner had I hit the streets than I met the fools that a young fool meets”. Drinking and getting high were my priorities, and I was just lost. After my father passed I came to the conclusion that I had to get my head out of my ass and change. My mother was worried about me and when I enrolled in cooking school she was so relieved. She was always worried about me, I’m the youngest in my family and she was always very protective of me. So me trying to get my shit together made her feel better about my future.
When my mom saw that I worked in a glitzy building in the Gold Coast, I’d like to think it gave her hope for me. Becoming a chef was not on anyone’s radar when I was growing up. It was just not something people around me did. They were truck drivers, factory workers, garbage men, cops, welders, construction workers, that sort of thing. My mom was a bit befuddled with my career choice, I think, but she was very supportive. There was this time, a few years later,I drove down to Iowa to see her and my sister for Christmas. The next day we figured we would all go to Country Kitchen for breakfast. Country Kitchen was a kind of Bob Evansy breakfast and lunch place, serving classic Midwestern diner food, like biscuits and gravy. Anyway there was a twenty minute wait because they were pretty busy. My mom, cigarette dangling out of her mouth, replied to the hostess, “My son is a famous chef in Chicago, can we get a table sooner?” It was funny and cringe at the same time. My sister and I laughed, but that was mom.
When my mom and I walked into Spiaggia, with all that marble, brass, leather and a whole floor to ceiling window overlooking Lake Michigan, she grabbed my arm, “This is where you work?”
“Yes mom, but in the kitchen.”
The maitre d made a big show for my mom and took her hand and led her through the dining room and down to the front, neat the giant window overlooking Michigan Avenue, Oak Street Beach, and Lake Michigan. All the cooks waved as I walked by the open kitchen, a couple flipping me off, because that’s how cooks are. We had a 10 course tasting menu paired with wine. To be honest I don’t remember most of the food except my mom got gnocchi for the pasta course and lost her mind, asking me how to pronounce it and if I knew how to make it. She sent back the single lamb chop and asked for it well done which was embarrassing , but the server was gracious and the executive sous chef brought the well done lamb to the table with a wink to me saying “Mom’s always right “. She kept asking me if she could smoke, she kept thinking dinner was over after every course, and I tried to explain to her that we were getting a lot of food just spread out, but she insisted on lighting up so she went outside before the dessert course. Mom was not a big drinker, but every wine they sent us she would try some and raise her eyebrows “this is so good!”. By dessert she was pretty buzzed and I could tell she was getting tired. I don’t remember the dessert course but they served Moscato with it. When Mom drank some her eyes lit up and she looked at me with a wide grin. “What is this stuff?”
“Moscato d’Asti , mom” “Holy cow I like this!”
Our server overheard this whole exchange and asked my mom if she would like more, with a smile and a wink to me of course. Mom just nodded. She sipped her wine and stared out the window. I’m not sure what she was thinking in that moment, I know she was enjoying herself, despite being intimidated at first. I remember what I was thinking. I was happy to be able to bring her there, to have that kind of experience. I didn’t know at the time that would be the one and only time she would eat at a restaurant where I worked. I did cook for her a few times, at her home, she would always tell me that I made her nervous when I cooked, she thought I was going to burn or cut myself. She was always looking out for me. She would casually mention that I wasn’t doing something correctly, which made me smile, Mom keeping me in check. Our tab was taken care of, which I did not expect, I thought maybe a discount or something, not the whole bill. I was so grateful and my mom seemed so impressed. On our way out our server stopped us and gave my mom a bottle of that Moscato to take with her. Mom was overjoyed to say the least. It was one of those moments when you realize the true power of hospitality.
I’ve always said that Mother’s Day brunch service is the hardest service of the year. It can be brutal. After my Mom passed away, it became even more difficult for me. Before service I would aways think of her, and how she inspired me to become a chef. I would also admonish the staff if they hadn’t called their mothers that day, insisting they do so. Sometimes I would see the hardest, toughest, line cooks get emotional talking about their mom, and how they missed them. It can be a challenging day for everyone. Anyone who has worked a busy Mother’s Day brunch service has my respect and anyone who has worked a double on Mother’s Day, you are indeed made of sterner stuff.
Cooking was something her and I had in common. She loved cooking for people. On holidays in my house Mom started preparing days before. I know it made her happy when our whole family enjoyed a dinner together. She always made sure to send food home with everyone, and she knew what each person liked and made sure they had something just for them. Mom understood hospitality long before I did. I’ll be thinking of her.
I'm a broken record -- this was such a good read. I miss my mom, and now I miss yours!
This is such a sweet story Mark, thank you for sharing it with us.