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One embattled chef survives the International Association of Culinary Professionals convention. "I would NEVER make beef stew for a convention!" For about the millionth time today, chef Bradley Hargens rolls his eyes in indulgent mockery. It's clear that he knows he's dealing with amateurs, but they--the National Cattlemen's Beef Association--paid for today's lunch, so they get to call the shots. If they think stew slapped over fresh asparagus is the best way to showcase America's tasty beef products to the attendees of the International Association of Culinary Professionals, well, whatever. Hargens is the new head chef of the kitchen in the Oregon Convention Center. Now he has the once-in-a-lifetime chance to cook for Julia Child and the 1,499 other foodies who descended upon the Convention Center last week. "Nervous? Nah, give me a break!" says Hargens, sarcasm stretching his words. "Noooo, not at all." But he quickly recovers: "It's the systems, my friend, you gotta have good systems." His systems, management skills and good humor were the only thing Hargens got to show off during the convention. Though restaurants such as Oba and Atwater's had the chance to create their best dishes for a Wednesday night Chef's Showcase to prove their skills to the culinary elite, Hargens was stuck with a menu dictated by the many sponsors who are footing part of the bill for the convention. "400 turkey/cranberry pizzas," he quips. "Can you say Ocean Spray?" But that wasn't all. Like any convention, the IACP held workshops. In rooms sprinkled around the building, presenters showed the latest trends and techniques in the field. But this was, after all, a cooking convention. Instead of slides and a pointer, the IACP presenters used visual aids like sliced cod, tofu hash and fresh tabbouleh. Just like cooking shows on television, all the food had to be prepped, measured and organized so the chefs could toss their recipes together in front of the audience. That meant Hargens and his staff were at the beck and call of the convention cooking demonstrators who needed prep space, pans and assistance. Banquet chefs are sometimes considered the Jell-O mold of the culinary hierarchy, but Hargens is no slacker. He apprenticed under master chefs in Italy and Asia and has more than 20 years' experience in the business. He went to culinary school first in Las Vegas, then in the Air Force, and has set up kitchens for Intel, Willamette University and Whitman College. "I consider them my peers, and I would hope they would consider me one, too," he says of the conventioneers. Out of the corner of his mouth he adds, "And they damn well better appreciate what I'm doing for them." Then he guffaws. Hargens is a large, boisterous man who warms his speech with masculine terms of endearment and comes across as a beloved know-it-all older brother who doesn't hesitate to tell you how it is. He's got a knuckle-smashing handshake and a penetrating gaze. While his kitchen staff wears standard chef whites, 36-year-old Hargens sports wild hot-pepper-print pants and black Caterpillar boots. Last Thursday, Hargens orchestrated the day's lunch of beef stew, all the while dealing with the day's workshop presenters. Conventioneers could attend one of four workshops. While the beef stew ran by on conveyor belts to be served to the crowd, the outside chefs took over the kitchen. The Norwegians, culinary superstars who had taken home the gold in the International Cooking Olympics in Berlin in 1996, crammed hundreds of shrimp in a bowl for a shrimp mold, chopped cod for fish pizza and assembled more than 150 passion-fruit cheesecakes for their afternoon show. In another corner the woman who specializes in "ancient greens" and her fey Australian assistant took up an entire table to organize the dandelion bread and unprocessed cheese she needed for her back-to-basics presentation. And in the back of the room, a tiny, wizened soba-noodle master rolled out buckwheat dough with arthritic hands as amazed groupies who had sneaked in to watch gasped at his skill. Hargens lopes through his kitchen to make sure all is going smoothly. There is so much chaos and so many demands on his attention that he rarely finishes an action, sentence or thought. But he never snaps. No matter how many times someone hollers for his attention from across the kitchen or screeches his name over the walkie-talkie glued to his side, he stays calm. He doesn't flinch under the persnickety eyes of IACP reps who continually monitor the kitchen to make sure he's doing his job right. The only indication that the day's events might be piercing his jovial demeanor is an occasional Hargens-style bellow of "Are we having fun yet?!" Hargens struggles to find time to make a salad. A representative from tomorrow's lunch sponsor, the Canned Food Association, is coming in an hour for a taste test. He finds the recipe and says he's going to go out back for a smoke to read it over again, but is stopped by a maintenance guy who tells him the broken oven is ready to go but someone should stop using it as a storage bin for towels. Then a waitress runs in to demand a piece of plain meat for a conventioneer who's allergic to spices. As the minutes tick away toward class time, the urgency in the kitchen increases. The cooking demonstrators are scrambling to get things done for their classes. There aren't enough pans to go around, and thanks to outsiders in the kitchen no one can find anything. Hargens jumps in with a demonstrator making a tabbouleh salad. "Oh," she preens, "I wasn't expecting help from the chef himself!" But even Hargens can't seem to get the red onions cut fine enough for her as she anxiously looks over her shoulder. As he chops he scans the room and calls out instructions to his staff. When she walks away he grins and swipes the onions into a bowl. "This is fine enough!" He continues his rounds. He sees the soba-noodle master watching the frenzy in the kitchen and bends down to say uncharacteristically gently in his ear, "This is where all the action is." By noon, Hargens' kitchen staff has been working since 4 in the morning without a break. Julie mixes crème fraîche in a wheeled bowl the size of a bassinet and melts gallons of chocolate for strawberry dipping. The ironically named Tiny makes sure the Japanese cooks have everything they need. His brother, Mark, slices seasoned pork loin for the hospitality room. Scotty cooks up tofu hash. Aaron, the young buck of the kitchen, is poised to jump in and help wherever needed. Hargens runs his kitchen like a video-game pro, quickly adjusting to any unforeseen change in circumstance. "Yo! Mike! Drop what you're doing," he says after noticing a delivery man. "The tarts are here! Aaron! We've got 4,000 strawberries to wash. Let's get going." Between instructions, he reviews what's coming up next. "The real bitch is going to be prepping for all the booths." He's talking about the trade show, where anyone from the Australian food group to American Bison servers might call on the kitchen for help in preparing samples for the day. Reports on lunch are starting to come back. Word is that Julia Child finished off her stew. Hargens smiles but doesn't dwell on it. The Norwegian Cooking Team is waiting to thank him for his help. Harald Osa, executive chef at the Hotel Continental in Oslo and head of the team, says Hargens' kitchen is first rate. "Oh, yes, it's a very good kitchen," Osa says. "Very clean." After that comforting news, the Norwegians go out to wow the crowd, and things settle down. Hargens ducks into his tiny office, which has a view of the kitchen. His staff migrate toward him and they recap the day. The personalities of the outsiders are analyzed, and Tiny apologizes for getting irritated at the soya lady. Hargens tells him to let it go, the day is over. It's time to start concentrating on tomorrow. Hargens plans on coming in at 2 in the morning and the rest of his staff is scheduled to arrive at 6. There is a lot to do. "If I can get those 1,000 chocolate puddings and phyllo cups done tomorrow before you guys get here, all we have to do is drop on the topping. Bada-boom, bada-bing, they're out the door." |
