The most interesting thing with the Master Chefs was their confidence—not a confidence to show you what they know, but confidence in their manner and how they teach you. Chef Henin is one who will tell you something, maybe in a meeting or a coaching session, and you may have forgotten about it. Later in the kitchen, he’ll call you over and say, “Monsieur …” He’d always say, “Monsieur, monsieur, come here,” and then he’d execute it. He remembered, with all the stuff he was doing, to teach me that lesson—bring you over and show you what he meant.
Raimund Hofmeister was team manager, Roland Henin the team captain, and Walter Leible team co-captain, but they were also competing themselves, putting their own work on display. They didn’t want too big of a disparity between some of the younger guys on the team; it was a learning environment. When I take inventory of that, having the opportunity to work two and a half years with three Certified Master Chefs … not many people would get that opportunity, that intimate training. The most interesting part of that experience was hearing them speak! A casual conversation about Wiener schnitzel or making spaetzle would turn into a master class. In those days, we had “on demand live programming” whenever we walked into the kitchen and went to meetings. We worked hard in the kitchen and would finish the evening in the hotel lobby for a nightcap. I’m not a big drinker, but I always enjoyed a nightcap before turning in. If we threw out a term like Royal glaçage, we would sit there for hours, usually with Chef Henin winning out on the technical side of it. Royal glaçage was hollandaise-based sauce that you glaze, as with coquilles St.-Jacques. So the big conversation was, “What is a glaçage? Is it a mousseline or a sauce on its own?” The chefs would give us these passionate reasons why it’s called this and take us through a culinary history. If you needed a final final answer—if you needed a lifeline on classical cuisine—you’d call Roland Henin. He’d always get the last word, or it would be shelved until breakfast, and they’d bring up the royal glaçage again.
Chef Henin has an interesting style of teaching. He makes you learn by answering your own questions. If you came to him with something easy and he felt you didn’t put enough effort into the answer or the solution—like rolling the galantine the right way or if your aspic was cloudy—he wouldn’t tell you how to correct it. He would take you through the steps of how you made it and then you’re like, “Oh, I didn’t cool my galantine in its own protein liquid, and that’s why it broke up and the texture wasn’t as smooth as it should have been.” He changed you from someone who just expected an answer to someone who would look a little bit deeper into the process and figure out why it didn’t come out the way it should have.
All those Master Chefs reminded me of my dad. In those days it was a different set of rules, a different mentality—tough love. I got that my dad was doing it for my benefit—dressing me down in the kitchen or taking me apart in the storeroom about something I messed up. You would have the end result—that aha moment—yup, I should have thought of that. That’s what drew me to Chef Henin. He was a disciplinarian—even in a team environment, even if we were up against a time limit to get our displays, even moving things into a van to take them over for a practice. He never hesitated to call us together. We’re working as a guest in this hotel’s kitchen. Before we leave, we’re going to organize the walk-in. If that walk-in isn’t clean and organized when they come back, how can they possibly set up to work and feel good? It was those things that made you better—not just a guy who makes a beautiful platter and wins gold medals, but as a chef who stops and takes care of those things … not necessarily at the most convenient times, but I think at the most important times. You are a reflection of your work, both on a platter and in your workstation.
The chefs put together a number of “tune-up” competitions, whether it was the National Restaurant show (NRA) in Chicago, the springboard to Frankfurt, or more exciting for us, Expogast in Singapore. We’d have to prepare some things in our own kitchen and bring them in the coolers—a galantine, a terrine, different garnishes, etc. Some of the guys came up with an idea to pour aspic in the gelatin; that way, when the air freight guys were throwing luggage around and stuff, all our stuff inside would be protected, surrounded by the gelatin. Then we could re-melt it, clarify it, and use it for aspic on our platters.
We drilled down and got to work, making mock platters out of Styrofoam or cardboard to simulate our exact platters. We practiced our layouts with these cutouts. We used Polaroids of the previous platters. I’ve never seen anyone in competition as organized or meticulous as Chef Henin. Whether it was the diagrams, the addendums to the diagrams, the numbers coordinated with the diagrams, the individual Post-it notes that were taped to each individual sheet pan or tray … down to a science. These were just as important as cleaning that walk-in.
He would stake out an area in the kitchen. It was kind of a joke. While checking in and getting room assignments, Chef Henin would always be suspiciously missing. He wasn’t so concerned about “Did this cooler get there?” or what room he was staying in. He was already staking out his area. He would go back into the kitchen and bring our coolers in, and you’d already see his station set up, his cutting board and tools already there. Typically, it was the nearest station to the cooler. He’d already have some cases and speed racks lined up. He’d put a tag on ’em—RGH. After all these years, I don’t know what his middle name is, but he marked RGH, RGH on all his stuff.
He was all about getting down to business. Sometimes we’d wanna go relax, take our shoes off, change into our uniforms and stuff. We’d come back and Chef Henin would have all of his diagrams, prep lists, and stuff for the next day, everything all organized already on the station. We knew the reason; he had to compete and set himself up for success, because he and Chef Hofmeister also had to worry about our table. They had to put together our centerpiece and deal with logistics. It was just a running joke, when arriving: “What is the kitchen like?” However the kitchen was, rest assured that Chef Henin claimed the best spot.
Chef is wired to do it correctly. I’ve never seen anyone quite like him, who wants to make sure that everything is done absolutely right. We were at the Westin Stamford in Singapore, in a competition called Expogast, a tune-up for Frankfurt. Chef Henin had to deal with logistics: organize our table, find a florist, get tablecloths, etc. We knew he was taking care of team business and had already organized the cooler, so we didn’t have any concerns. We started early that morning and asked Chef Leible, “Chef, when’s lunch?”
He says, “I haven’t heard from Chef Henin.” We would eat meals together as a team; that was kind of a rule. “But you guys have been in all day. Okay, as team captain, I’m gonna say let’s go eat.”
We came back in the kitchen, feeling good about having some nourishment, and went back to work. Chef Henin came in with a couple of bags, decorations from a local market, and a centerpiece for our table. He spent the entire day outside the kitchen, not being able to work on his stuff, and he was hungry, too. He said, “Let’s go have dinner.”
Chef Walter walked up to him and said, “The guys have eaten already.”
I think maybe he was a little bit irked that we didn’t wait for him. He said, “Okay, fine.”
There was an open space in the kitchen. Chef Henin rolled a table in—a standard size banquet table. He rolls it in and sets it up. We’re looking at him: Maybe we’re going to display there or plan our centerpiece? We’re going to mock it out and see where the food’s going to go, and maybe do the setup? He sets up a sixty-inch round table, gets a tablecloth, and places it on the table. He comes back with a chair and puts the chair next to the table. Then he—I don’t know where he found it—finds a bud vase, and a flower, and puts them in the center of the table. We’re like, Is he inviting someone for dinner? It’s only set for one person. Did he invite the general manager? Are we going to cook something for our host—reciprocate his taking care of us?
Henin heads into the walk-in and comes out of the cooler holdi
ng some eggs and a bunch of herbs. He minces these herbs meticulously, and I mean, minces the herbs down—if you were to lay them out under a microscope, they’d all be about the same size. He places the minced herbs on the table, cracks the eggs into a stainless steel bowl, and whisks them gently with salt and pepper, then gets an omelet pan hanging above the range. He makes this perfect thin herb omelet—the most beautiful omelet I’ve ever seen. By this time, we’ve all stopped to watch him. He barks out, “What are you guys looking at? Go back to work!” He slides the omelet onto a plate and gets a glass of water. He sits down at that table and enjoys his dinner.
To this day, I don’t know if it was an example for us or a pushback that we didn’t wait for him to have dinner. Either way, it showed that when this guy does something, even fix himself a meal, he does it with that degree of detail and precision. (I would not be surprised if that’s the way he fixes his meals at home.) He finished his omelet, broke down the table, and started working on his competition stuff. It was amazing. Most of us would pull up a milk crate and head off to the corner, and that would have been good enough. He followed through: his omelet needed to be served on a draped table. I watched him fluff his eggs, how he whisked them together in the bowl. It was about watching him, learning from him, seeing his moves, not necessarily saying a word sometimes, just observing the technique. We looked at each other in disbelief that he would go to that extreme making himself an omelet, but to him, his food commanded that type of service. Make the best food, even for your own self. That message stuck with me.
Chefs are great people. We have a good work ethic, but we also have a mischievous side. Once, we were in the Bismarck Hotel in Chicago getting ready for the NRA show. We were able to recommend our own apprentices from either a local culinary school or even in our workplace. If you got a confirmation from another chef, they would be considered for the team. I brought this kid named Robert, an apprentice who was assigned at a previous competition. Chef Henin said, “I’ll take Robert anytime. He’s good, he’s quiet. He’s fast. He gets the work done.” I put that as a feather in my cap.
Some apprentices had a sense of entitlement, however. They had worked with Master Chefs and were full of themselves. One of those apprentices, Jeffrey Mora, was assigned to work with Chef Henin. This apprentice thought he knew a little bit more than he probably did, but he soon found out that Chef Henin doesn’t play. You got to contribute with actions and production, not just with words. Jeffrey would come out and blow off steam, complaining about having to work with Chef.
Another chef on the team, Mial Parker, looks over at me. “Man, Jeffrey’s an A-hole. Bigmouth needs to be put in his place.”
Chef Mial came up with this plan. “You know how Chef Henin has all of his stuff organized on the speed rack?”
“Yes, to a high degree.” Chef labeled all garnishes, emulsions, and everything on his trays, so if he needed to build a duck platter at any point, it would be easy. Even the shelves on the speed racks had Post-it notes saying what category each was: tray one, category A, item number one; tray one, category A, item number two, and so on.
Mial goes into the walk-in cooler and comes out a couple minutes later. “I’m counting down. Henin is going to explode, going to blow a gasket.”
“What did you do?”
“I switched Post-its on a couple of platters on his speed rack.”
We go back in the kitchen and it’s getting kind of hot and heavy. Chef Henin is barking at Jeffrey: Hey, bring me this, bring me this! Bring me this!! Jeffrey goes into the walk-in and brings Chef Henin the wrong item for the platter. He brings out the seafood garnish for the meat platter. Chef is screaming, “No, no, no, no, no, get me the right garnish!!!” Jeffrey goes into the cooler and comes back with the same platter. Needless to say, Jeffrey couldn’t find the right garnish, and Chef tore him apart. Mial got a big laugh out of it. I got a chuckle out of it, too. Henin didn’t appreciate it at all, because he was the one losing time. The apprentice was humbled in the process; that was the good part. The bad part was that Chef Henin kicked him out of the kitchen. “I don’t want you here! You’re messing me up! Go!!”
I looked over at Chef Mial and mouthed, “How you going to fix this?”
He says, “Watch this.” He went over, took Chef’s platter into the cooler, put everything back, and fixed everything. It was wild.
The thing was, it was like a silent movie. The kitchen was part of a butcher shop. Chef Henin appropriated the entire place. We were on the outside of the shop, looking through an enclosed glass window. You could see him in there, from the waist up. We were looking through the window. Henin was just taking him apart … just seeing that apprentice’s head nod …
SUSAN: Did you ever come clean and tell Chef?
LARRY: I don’t think that we ever did, and Mial passed away a couple years ago. He was the only one, other than me, who knew about it. I know what Chef Henin would tell me, though. He’d probably call me an A-hole!
I look back on my career as a chef. I got involved in media in San Diego—having my own radio talk show and cooking show—with a local affiliate ABC chef, for ten years. Henin loved it and would ask me, “How’s the TV going? Are you a star?” He would always know what was going on with me, but he’d ask to hear it again because he was proud.
I’d done the culinary team and worked at the Disneyland Hotel. They had management rights to a place called the Queen Mary, the big ship docked at Long Beach, California. I went there as part of a Task Team. Disney wanted to turn it into an aquatic theme park. I went there on a task force and wound up staying about five years. Long Beach didn’t want to give them as much control as Orlando had given them to build Disneyworld, so Disney pulled out. As a result, I had an option to go back to the Disneyland Hotel or go east to the Epcot Center Contemporary Resort, in Orlando. I chose neither, getting a job instead, in San Diego.
A number of years later, I get a call from Chef Henin. “Monsieur, how are you? How’s your family? How are your kids? I have a project for you. I’d like you to come up and have dinner with us. We’re taking over a property that you may be familiar with—the Queen Mary. Come out. We want to use you as a consultant. You were there with Disney. You know the place better than any of us. Come up and offer your knowledge. Walk the property.”
My ninety-day consulting agreement turned into two years. My family continued to live in San Diego, but I wanted to rejoin Chef as a professional in a work environment rather than in competition—in a company who has Chef Henin on their webpage as their authority on food. Once I started, I would go too long before reaching out to him, so I’d get emails like, Monsieur, are you still alive? I am. Give me a call. He wasn’t being mean or facetious; he wanted to know how I was doing. I’m humbled to have been taken under his wing in such a personal way. Even to the point of telling me, “You may need sometimes to take a step down to move up.” To this day, I always look at it as a learning experience. Having worked with him, I have a stronger respect for my fellow chef, as a craftsman and as an artist. I owe that to Chef Henin.
Jeffrey Mora
Chef/Owner of Food Fleet
That ostrich saved my ass.
JEFFREY: I worked at the Century Plaza Chef with Raimund Hofmeister when the Tower opened in December 1984. My first exposure to Roland was in 1987, as an apprentice on the 1988 Western Regional Culinary team. I joined them at the springboard to Frankfurt competition in Chicago in 1987. From there, I competed on the Culinary Olympic team from around 1990 to 1996.
I met him at the ACF Regional Convention in Anaheim, California, for our very first regional team meeting. Roland Henin and Franz Popperl were leading us and Hofmeister was the team manager. This was a springboard to competing in Frankfurt, Germany. All the chefs on the team were gathering at the Anaheim Hilton. I had to pick up a bunch of ’em at the airport. There was a team meeting that lasted till 11:00 at night. We began walking to our rooms, all set to go to bed. Roland looks at Franz and goes, “We’re g
etting ready to go to work, aren’t we?” We looked at each other and Roland says, again, “We’re going to go down and get started, right? Right now, no?” There’s no saying no, so instead of getting a good night’s sleep, we spend the whole night and all through to the next day working on a display. I believe that was a thirty-six-hour stint, being awake. It was me, and Franz, and Roland. Roland was constantly harping on Franz. Remember, it was an Austrian and a Frenchman—not exactly a good combo. [Laughs] Franz is probably one of the most talented guys I ever met … way, way, way ahead of his time. Franz was the first guy to do the whole concept of Nose-to-Tail.
SUSAN: Nose-to-Tail?
JEFFREY: He utilized everything. Franz did that on his first display, with rabbit: a terrine with the head, a dish with the shoulder, a dish with the rack, a dish with the loin, and a dish with the leg. When he did his salmon platter, he smoked and cured the belly. He utilized every piece of the fish or animal, according to what it should be. That was back in 1987, and people weren’t necessarily doing that back then. Franz definitely was an innovator on that. How much Roland influenced him on that, I don’t know. That would be a question to go back and ask Franz. It would be an interesting one to find out.
In order to compete in Frankfurt, the team had to first compete in Chicago. Hofmeister wasn’t going, so I asked him if I could go work with Henin. Hofmeister said sure, so I took my vacation time and bought myself a ticket to Portland. Franz picked me up. I spent the night with Franz, and then Roland picked me up to take me up to Salem. Roland told me to bring a sleeping bag because he didn’t have an extra bed. I’m thinking to myself, What the hell do I need a sleeping bag for? I can probably just crash on the guy’s couch. From Salem, we’d go straight to Chicago, and I wasn’t about to drag a sleeping bag all around the country.
Roland G. Henin: 50 Years of Mentoring Great American Chefs Page 11