THREE GOODBYES By John Mariani This has a sad week for American gastronomy. Three remarkable men died, two after long illnesses, one after a good long life, whose presence helped guide the way we eat and drink in this country. Jamie Shannon, the latest great chef to lead the kitchen at Commander's Palace in New Orleans, died after a bout with cancer at the age of 40. For 17 years he worked happily in that crucible of a kitchen, whose graduates include Paul Prudhomme and Emeril Lagasse. In 1996, under Jamie's tenure as exec chef, Commander's won the James Beard Foundation Award as America's outstanding restaurant, as well as the 1993 award for outstanding service. Jamie himself won the 1999 award as the best chef in the southeastern U.S. He was New Jersey by birth but after the Brennan family, which owns Commander's, got hold of him, Jamie was suffused with a love of the regional food culture of Louisiana, carefully maintaining the progressive traditions of the restaurant while always coming up with his own ideas, many of which are included in the Commander's Kitchen Cookbook, co-authored with Ti Adelaide Martin. Jamie was a big guy with a gusto for life that just poured out of him. His red-blond ponytail was as much a part of him as his acquired N'awlins drawl, and while he proved a natural for t.v., he never strayed from his kitchen in an effort to become a media celebrity. I remember watching him at Commander's spotless kitchen--which you pass through on your way to the bar and garden patio--barking like a gentleman in control of a small army, telling this cook to take a pompano off the fire, that one to add some seasoning to the remoulade, making sure every plate looked perfect before it went out to the guest. He was the kind of chef who earned the respect of his peers and the awe of his crew. Some chefs seem irreplaceable, and though I know the Brennans will find the right chef for the future, right now, it will be difficult to imagine Commander's without this gentle giant running the frantic show backstage, helping the Brennans make the show in the dining room look so effortless. Jamie, like all chefs in America and indeed the rest of the world, regarded another chef, Jean-Louis Palladin, with a respect few have ever enjoyed in modern gastronomy. Jean-Louis, who died last week of throat cancer, was one who could easily lay claim to that overused cliche of "chef's chef," not only for his extraordinary creativity but for his precision, technique, and commitment to the very best. If any chef can be credited with improving the quality of raw ingredients in America, it is Jean-Louis. Tall, thin, shaggy haired, possessed of thick eyeglasses that made him look like a comedian from some French farce and a voice that sounded like a 78 RPM record played at 45, Jean-Louis was nothing if not a character. Ever ebullient, incredibly energetic, and always ready to have a good time, Jean-Louis established his reputation as a Michelin two-star chef in France, then as the most innovative French chef in American when he opened Jean-Louis at the Watergate in Washington, DC. Gourmets and chefs flocked to the restaurant (which never made money) to be amazed at the caliber of cooking and ingredients. Jean-Louis was as much a teacher as he was a chef, as much an inspiration as an instigator. He changed the way haute cuisine was perceived by Americans in the 1980s. When he worked he worked very hard, and when he played he did the same. Unfortunately the latter took too much time from the former, and Jean-Louis was often absent from his restaurant. Still, he was always out there teaching and preaching, ever the ambassador of good taste. So it was not surprising that his illness (he was an indefatigable cigarette smoker) brought the entire restaurant community to his aid with an astounding array of special dinners whose proceeds went to a medical fund in his name. Jean-Louis was very French, very funny, even very silly, but behind it all was a disciplined master of his craft of a kind we shall not likely meet again. Sol Forman was not a chef and only became a restaurateur by accident. When Peter Luger, Brooklyn's most famous steakhouse, closed in 1950, longtime customer Forman, who made stamped metalware and had no business being in the restaurant business, picked the place up for a song and brought it back to life. Forman's dedication to buying the very best beef put Peter Luger into a class of its own: Even its biggest Manhattan competitors admit that Sol puts out the best porterhouse in the world, sliced on a tilted plate, and served by a waiter with no time for chitchat. Indeed, the cult status of Peter Luger is such that it has, for decades, been the toughest reservation to get in New York--a wait of two or more weeks is not unusual, and then you might get a table for 2:30 in the afternoon. In 1961 Sol opened a branch on Long Island, which he tended with the same finickiness as the Brooklyn original, turning the critical selection of beef over to his wife Marsha, herself a legendary figure in the New York meat market. Upon here death in 1998, their daughter Jody Storch took over the demanding task. If a man's success can be judged by his doing one think better than anyone else in the world, Sol Forman was surely among the great success stories of the food world. And, by living to the age of 98 (going to the restaurant every day until two weeks ago), he showed that a man happy in his work will go on seemingly forever. What a wonderful story his is. Do you have any questions, comments or suggestions? Email: jwdineline@aol.com Copyright © 1998 Inter Active Media Solutions. All Rights Reserved. The interactive components of this site require that you use a current browser version of Explorer; be sure to maximize your window out so you can see the entire page. This page was created by Inter Active Media Solutions.