was available in the way of a culinary education. The only thing going then was the CIA, and he knew exactly—“with total clarity,” Ryan recalls—what he was going to do. There was never a doubt.
Ryan enrolled in the Culinary Institute in 1975 and graduated two years later. His father had died of bone cancer while Ryan was in school, so rather than travel in Europe, work in New York City or on a cruise ship, as he’d originally foreseen, he instead returned home and found work as a chef at a place an hour outside Pittsburgh, three bus rides away, at the highly regarded Ben Gross Restaurant, then later as the chef of La Normande, which became one of the finest restaurants in the area and whose owners periodically sent him to Europe.
Metz, who was then an executive with Pittsburgh-based H. J. Heinz Company, dined at La Normande and got to know its young chef, encouraging him to participate in culinary competitions and occasionally judging his food. In 1982, not long after he was named president of the CIA, Metz—fresh from leading the United States to its first gold medal in hot foods at the Culinary Olympics—placed a call to the kitchen of La Normande in the middle of a busy service. A flabbergasted Ryan—he was just twenty-four—took the call. Metz wanted to know if Ryan would consider coming up to Hyde Park to open a new restaurant that would specialize in exploring American regional cuisine, one of the first in the country to make this its goal.
At the time, if you were serious about cooking, nouvelle cuisine and all things French ruled. “I didn’t want to do chowder,” Ryan says now. But he came for a visit and was inspired by Metz and the challenge of having an impact on students. It was later to be remarked at the school that Ryan was Metz’s number one draft pick.
After opening the American Bounty Restaurant, Ryan would excel with impressive speed at everything he did—he passed the Certified Master Chef exam at age twenty-six, the youngest ever to do this, became captain of the champion U.S. Culinary Olympic team, also the youngest to do this, and was the youngest president of the American Culinary Federation. In the midst of his day job and extracurricular cheffing, he earned a bachelor’s and an M.B.A. from the University of New Haven, then a Ph.D. in education from the University of Pennsylvania. Clearly, the guy was driven. He brought to every assignment the focus and tenacity of the chef. But the chef was now a doctor.
This was consistent with what I knew about being an excellent chef. It was not something you could turn on and off. If you were truly a chef, that was your core; it defined who you were and directed your every decision. Chefness was not a hat you put on when you got in to work. Perhaps this is why he refused to let his kids, when they were toddlers, win at Candy Land. His wife, Lynne, thought this was ridiculous, but Ryan defended the practice. It was not that he played to win at everything he did no matter who the competition happened to be; it was, rather, that he wanted his kids to play to win, and when they did win, he wanted it to mean something. Also, he’d realized what he called the American Dream, a key facet of which was to be able to give your children more than you had as a child. But privilege, he wanted his kids to understand, did not mean you got things for free—you still had to earn everything. This meant that if you were one square away from King Kandy’s Castle and you drew Plumpy—back you went, three years old or not.
He was a chef and a perfectionist. Lynne was a chef, too. A tall, attractive blonde from Alabama, she had been a nutritionist who didn’t take to hospital work and so enrolled in the CIA, graduating in 1987. Ryan was already in the administration by then, and their paths never crossed. She met him a few years later at a chef convention when she was the corporate chef for BlueCross BlueShield. They endured a year’s long-distance
Ryan enrolled in the Culinary Institute in 1975 and graduated two years later. His father had died of bone cancer while Ryan was in school, so rather than travel in Europe, work in New York City or on a cruise ship, as he’d originally foreseen, he instead returned home and found work as a chef at a place an hour outside Pittsburgh, three bus rides away, at the highly regarded Ben Gross Restaurant, then later as the chef of La Normande, which became one of the finest restaurants in the area and whose owners periodically sent him to Europe.
Metz, who was then an executive with Pittsburgh-based H. J. Heinz Company, dined at La Normande and got to know its young chef, encouraging him to participate in culinary competitions and occasionally judging his food. In 1982, not long after he was named president of the CIA, Metz—fresh from leading the United States to its first gold medal in hot foods at the Culinary Olympics—placed a call to the kitchen of La Normande in the middle of a busy service. A flabbergasted Ryan—he was just twenty-four—took the call. Metz wanted to know if Ryan would consider coming up to Hyde Park to open a new restaurant that would specialize in exploring American regional cuisine, one of the first in the country to make this its goal.
At the time, if you were serious about cooking, nouvelle cuisine and all things French ruled. “I didn’t want to do chowder,” Ryan says now. But he came for a visit and was inspired by Metz and the challenge of having an impact on students. It was later to be remarked at the school that Ryan was Metz’s number one draft pick.
After opening the American Bounty Restaurant, Ryan would excel with impressive speed at everything he did—he passed the Certified Master Chef exam at age twenty-six, the youngest ever to do this, became captain of the champion U.S. Culinary Olympic team, also the youngest to do this, and was the youngest president of the American Culinary Federation. In the midst of his day job and extracurricular cheffing, he earned a bachelor’s and an M.B.A. from the University of New Haven, then a Ph.D. in education from the University of Pennsylvania. Clearly, the guy was driven. He brought to every assignment the focus and tenacity of the chef. But the chef was now a doctor.
This was consistent with what I knew about being an excellent chef. It was not something you could turn on and off. If you were truly a chef, that was your core; it defined who you were and directed your every decision. Chefness was not a hat you put on when you got in to work. Perhaps this is why he refused to let his kids, when they were toddlers, win at Candy Land. His wife, Lynne, thought this was ridiculous, but Ryan defended the practice. It was not that he played to win at everything he did no matter who the competition happened to be; it was, rather, that he wanted his kids to play to win, and when they did win, he wanted it to mean something. Also, he’d realized what he called the American Dream, a key facet of which was to be able to give your children more than you had as a child. But privilege, he wanted his kids to understand, did not mean you got things for free—you still had to earn everything. This meant that if you were one square away from King Kandy’s Castle and you drew Plumpy—back you went, three years old or not.
He was a chef and a perfectionist. Lynne was a chef, too. A tall, attractive blonde from Alabama, she had been a nutritionist who didn’t take to hospital work and so enrolled in the CIA, graduating in 1987. Ryan was already in the administration by then, and their paths never crossed. She met him a few years later at a chef convention when she was the corporate chef for BlueCross BlueShield. They endured a year’s long-distance
Similar Books
