Tin Chefs

While working at Chef Allen's, Andriola also studied and earned a degree in hospitality management from FIU, but didn't consider himself a chef "until I was given that title from Mark Militello at the Nash in 1999 — or maybe a little before that, when I was a chef de cuisine at Allen's. It kind of got heaped on my shoulders at the ripe old age of 24. I knew I was way too young and inexperienced, but I grew into it." Andriola has since teamed with Rodrigo Martinez to open Sunny Isles' smashingly popular Timo.

The maitre d' who gave Andriola his break was Dale LoSasso, who now collaborates with husband Dewey at their North One 10 restaurant in North Miami. Like Andriola, Dewey also went directly from high school to the CIA, graduating the institute in 1983. He had worked in restaurants since before his high school days, and continued to do so, without pay, while at culinary school. "I drove an hour each way two days a week. I also worked for free at fish houses on the Jersey Shore to learn about fish while working my other jobs, and I still work for free in kitchens when I go away for the summer." Dewey's first chef position came at a restaurant on Palmetto Park Road in Boca Raton. "I was the sous chef there and was promoted because the chef was drinking a little too much. Plus I was a cheap fix for them. That happens a lot; they promote a sous chef because it's cheaper. I was okay with that. I was like 23, 24 at the time." He'd go on to work as Donatella Versace's private chef, spend ten years as executive chef at Mickey Wolfson's Foundlings Club, and another decade at China Grill Management, where he "got to travel all over the world doing food research."

North One 10 is considered among Miami's prime venues for contemporary American cuisine, so Johnson & Wales student Andrew D'ambrosi volunteered to help out there "whenever I had free time" to learn a thing or two from the veteran LoSasso. D'ambrosi graduated J&W in May of last year and hadn't worked in restaurants prior to acceptance, "so as soon as I arrived at the school," he says, "it was my concern to try to get a job in the field." He found one with China Grill and worked there throughout his schooling. "I started at the very bottom, making $8.50 an hour. I was the dessert plater, because they didn't know if I could do anything with food. I didn't even touch the food. By the time my two-year tenure was done, I was at $11.50."

If he hadn't worked in a restaurant while attending classes, D'ambrosi contends he "would have gotten out of school in a little bit of a pickle." Indeed his time at North One 10 paid off in more than one way: When Schwartz was looking for a sous chef at the cutting-edge South Beach restaurant Afterglo, LoSasso told D'ambrosi to give Schwartz a call. He interviewed, got the job, and has been at Afterglo since it opened six months ago.

D'ambrosi landed a plum position relatively quickly, but Juliana Gonzalez's ascent has been downright dizzying. She graduated Johnson & Wales in 2002 and, like Andrew, had no food experience before entering the university. If Gonzalez had to do it over again, "I'd work first in a restaurant and then go to school. As a student, you have no idea of the speed and endurance that is going to be needed in the kitchen." Her initial job was at La Broche "as the tournet [roundsperson], doing a little bit of everything." When the brash Spanish restaurant closed, Gonzalez moved to Norman Van Aken's Mundo, and when that venture shuttered, she moseyed over to Mosaico as sous chef under Jordi Valls. Now, less than four years removed from putting on her houndstooth pants for the first time, Juliana is executive chef at one of the city's prize dining establishments.

Such exceptions notwithstanding, the climb upward, as we've duly noted, is slow and arduous. But for all the tribulations, kitchen work can also deliver a nightly dose of intoxicating, pressure-cooked, adrenaline-fueled fun — assuming you're employed in a large, bustling establishment. There is likewise a quiet, life-affirming gratification in the very act of feeding others, more often than not manifested in smaller, chef-driven operations. Michelle Bernstein is due to open such a restaurant, Michy's, this month.

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Grading J&W
If you take a pinch of Johnson & Wales students past and present, and a dash of chefs who've either graduated from the school or have had experience working with grads, you end up with a stockpot of opinions as to how things might be improved. Every chef we spoke with was supportive of the school and believes it's a boon both to the community and the food industry. Plus, as Andriola points out, "I love having a pool of workers to draw from less than five miles away from my restaurant. As long as you have the time and patience to weed through the bad, there are plenty of diamonds in the rough. My right hand at Timo, Frederica Schael, is one hell of a cook who definitely learned her lessons there."

Others cite similarly mixed results with interns and grads. LoSasso puts the ratio at "70 percent great, 30 percent not so great." Says Schwartz: "The range is so wide. Some are amazing; a few are so horrible that you wonder what the hell is going on over there." Jonathan Eismann, too, has had "fantastic workers" as well as "some who talk a good game, know all about foams and things like that — and they've got a complete understanding of the Food Network schedule — but they can't make rice."

The most common gripe concerns the school's admissions policy. D'ambrosi tells of the euphoric moment he walked into the university office and learned he was accepted. "I began jumping up and down. The lady looked at me like I was a maniac. She said, öAlmost everybody gets accepted. You have the money, you fill out the paperwork, you're in.' I didn't know that. I said oh, and sat back down."

LoSasso says that when he attended the CIA, "I had to interview and show hours of work. I've heard it's gotten lax up there, and I know it's definitely lax at Johnson & Wales." D'ambrosi remarks, "They're letting too many people in that you just know don't belong there," meaning those who lack prior culinary background, experience, and knowledge. This, in turn, can dull the learning curve of others in the class, which doesn't sit well with those who applied to the school seeking a more enlightened education.

Donald "Mac" McGregor, J&W's Florida campus president, dismisses the notion of an open admissions policy. "It's not like you apply and get accepted. We require a high school diploma, and while SATs and ACTs are not required, they are strongly advised, because we use them for the basis of awarding academic merit scholarships." Prior food service experience isn't a requirement either, but McGregor believes that those without intense interest in the business wouldn't have reason to aspire to culinary school: "I'd be surprised if 99 percent of our students don't come in with some sort of background in food service."

McGregor is justly proud of Johnson & Wales's efforts to help youngsters from low- and middle-income families obtain a culinary education, even if it means being a little overly inclusive. The university offers a slew of grants and scholarships, and works closely with numerous programs such as ProStart, which offers high school students who desire to work in food service the chance to train in those culinary basics that the aforementioned chefs believe to be so vital.

The student population at the North Miami campus is composed of a wide array of ethnicities that hail from every state and 50 foreign countries, and their views of J&W are almost as diverse. One issue that troubles quite a few is the quality of ingredients used in classes. Bob, who along with all other students interviewed asked that his last name be withheld, complains that "food is brought in by companies like Sysco, and much of the product is either canned or frozen. At this price tag, you would expect the absolute best." Jill, who is seeking a bachelor's degree, says, "You might be assigned to make a gazpacho, then handed unripe tomatoes that have no flavor to them. Cooking should be about receiving beautiful products and showcasing their natural beauty and flavor. Johnson & Wales should be more aware of the great local farms out there." And a former student, now working at one of the city's best restaurants, bemoans the lack of a specific seafood cookery class, adding that "the fish comes in frozen, cryovacced packages already filleted and skinned."

Chris Wagner, director of culinary operations and a certified master chef, flat-out denies these allegations. "All of our fish comes in whole. We get them from Sysco as well as local fish houses and other seafood wholesalers." And he insists the students "cut and fillet their own fish in a number of classes." An impromptu tour of the walk-in fridges and storage facilities appeared to back his contention: Cases of fresh red snapper were neatly stacked on a shelf. The tomatoes could have been riper, and a few less-than-stellar brand names were on display (some of which were given to the school by corporate sponsors), but high-end products were in evidence as well. Still the lack of a formal fish course, as there is for meats, does seem puzzling.

Some, like D'ambrosi, think there's something fishy about the campus eatery: "When I first got there, they shut down the old school cafeteria for almost a year and made a huge project of renovation. I thought maybe they'd open up something interesting, but to my surprise they unveiled The Mix. The architecture was real nice, but I remember seeing it and saying, öHoly shit: a mall food court!'"

The Mix is indeed a food court, a lineup of colorful, sassily designed take-out stalls serving an array of popular fast foods: coffee, subs, Mexican snacks, brick-oven pizzas, pastas, and so forth. The operation is run by Chartwells, a spinoff of the institutional food service company Compass. D'ambrosi doesn't so much object to the choice of menus (although he does note they could have shown some innovation even within this genre), but that The Mix is used as a practicum facility for students who aren't eligible for more challenging placement.

The practicum is training experience, usually on campus, that is controlled by the university; if a student's grades are good enough, he or she can choose to go on co-op instead, which is an internship (or externship overseas) at any of a number of dining establishments that participate in the program. The Johnson & Wales online catalogue defines the practicum phase of education as a means of helping students "attain meaningful work experience" that "will look best on your resumé." But D'ambrosi wonders, "Do the chefs of the future, who pay $40,000 to go to school, really need to learn how to make sandwiches at Mondo Subs?"

"No student is spending the entire time making subs," responds Jordan Fickess. "One week they may be preparing sandwiches, but they'll be making filet mignon the next for a catering event. And they learn more than just cooking at The Mix; they learn about running a restaurant, how to order and store the food, how to do costing, and so forth."

McGregor relates how students, when they first arrive at Johnson & Wales and are asked if they want to eventually own their own restaurant, almost unanimously raise their hand. "But by the time they've gone through the school, they see that the breadth of the culinary industry is much wider than just à la carte restaurants," he says. "There are a lot of students who don't like the idea of being at work 8:00 in the morning and closing at 2:00 a.m., of burning the candle at both ends. They would prefer something with more structure, whether it be corporate dining or institutional foods or whatever. Like Chartwells."

Whether Johnson & Wales places too much emphasis on feeding the corporate food service industry can remain fodder for foodie debates. Juliana Gonzalez, Michelle Bernstein, Michael Bloise ('98, executive chef at Wish), Anthony Zamora ('03, executive banquet chef at the Biltmore), Adrianne Calvo ('04, restaurant owner and cookbook author with a Food Network show currently in the works), and numerous other notable graduates from the North Miami campus have used their education as a springboard for successful careers. The most important thing, it seems, is the students' own grit and determination.

As Andriola says, "There is only one proper way to sauté, deep-fry, et cetera. Both the CIA and J&W teach that. One may teach it better or reinforce it more, but responsibility ultimately falls on the student."

"The students," echoes D'ambrosi, "get out of school what they put in."

So dream on, tin chefs, dream on. Just remember: If you want to be like Emeril, you're going to have to kick it up a notch. Again. And again. And again. And for a while, at least, you will have something in common with Rachael Ray: $40 a day. Bam! Ha, ha!