In an exclusive excerpt from the renowned chef's new book, 'JGV: A Life in 12 Recipes,' Jean-Georges Vongerichten reveals how 1 meal changed the entire course of his life
By the time I was a teenager, my parents had enrolled me in an engineering program so that I’d be prepared to enter the wonderful world of coal. The oldest son was expected to go into the family business, but I had no interest in coal. I hated coal. It was filthy. My father worked his butt off, and I could see what a grind it was, especially the never-ending task of chasing down the people who owed them money.
But when my sixteenth birthday came around, March 16, 1973, my father felt guilty about not talking to me. His eldest son was inevitably becoming a man, and he decided to celebrate my birthday with a grand dinner. Just me, my mother, and him. He had a client in Illhaeusern, about a forty-five-minute drive away. We almost never went out to restaurants at all. Starters: Auberge de l’Ill, the three-Michelin-starred restaurant where the author's life in the kitchen began.
And my mom’s cousin Gaston ran a small brasserie in Otswald, the next village over from ours in the other direction. It served traditional Alsatian fare—potato salad with knockwurst, onion tarts, tartes flambée. We’d sometimes go there, though not often, because my mother didn’t think Gaston could cook. And she was right. It was just him and a couple of guys in back, drinking as much as they were cooking; they did a lot of parties on weekends.
The menu listed six dishes the restaurant was famous for, so I chose from those. I started with the foie gras. My mother always made several pounds of foie gras at Christmastime, and I loved it. But I’d never had it wrapped around a truffle, surrounded by a sweet-acidic gelée and a delicate crust. Oh. My. God. I would eventually learn that Haeberlin was renowned for his foie gras, that preparing it was the highlight of his day—it was his way of relaxing and unwinding every afternoon.
me. The month of May passed. Not a word from Monsieur Paul. Another month passed. My father grew angry. “You’ve failed at this, too,” he grumbled at me. I felt humiliated. Nevertheless, by the end of June, I was over the defeat. I was still happy. This is how I was then and still am—if I suffer a defeat, I sleep it off and I move forward. Don’t look back.
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