Alright, I would now like to talk about something that really sent me in a different direction, which was a hotel in Newport, RI, called the Sheraton Goat Island. I got a call from a German general manager named Klaus Ottmann. He needed an executive chef. At first, I was hesitant. Could I handle the job? But he assured me that he would help me. His background was very similar to mine. He had started as a cook in Germany and worked his way up. He told me, “Gert, I will be by your side from the beginning.” And I can tell you one thing, this is the man who actually shaped me into a good executive chef and taught me how to work, organize myself, and how to treat people.

So I went down to Newport, Rhode Island, for a day, and it was on my day off. I asked Gretchen if she could maybe take a break from school, and she was ready to say, “Yes, I’ll take a break.” So we went down there together. The two years I spent in Newport were wonderful. Gretchen and I visited many more places in New England during this time, and I learned how to be in charge of a real collection of people.

Tom, who worked as a broiler man, originally came from Wisconsin and had played football in college until he got hurt. During high school, he had worked in kitchens, so thank God he had something to fall back on. He was a great worker and a great grill cook. The broiler was an important position at the time because when the steaks were ready, the rest of the food on the ticket had to be ready too. He was the lead guy, and seldom was a steak not cooked to perfection.

Mario, who was my rounds cook, was a Filipino who had joined the Navy like so many of his countrymen. He had served on a nuclear submarine. He told me many stories about his time at sea and how many sailors couldn’t handle the months of being on the water, the closeness, and the feeling of being like a sardine packed in a tin can. Not seeing the sun, no news from the outside world, and the total unknown of what could happen without a moment’s notice. All the torpedoes were tipped with nuclear warheads. This was the Cold War, and the subs were on total alert 24 hours a day. Through him, I met many Filipinos who had started off like him in the military, then got out, brought their families to the United States, and made their dreams a reality. He was hardworking, extremely smart, and driven to become a great chef. He had a great family, and all of his children became doctors or nurses, and a cousin of his became a congressman. We became very close friends, and I am the godfather of his only son. By some coincidence, we lost touch, and I have no idea where he might be now.

The prep crew was a funny bunch, and Mario helped out with them for overtime pay. Danny, also an old Navy man, loved to take a sip from the liquor cabinet. Many mornings, he would say, “Chef, I need a little nip,” his hand shaking. I tried to tell him, “Dan, go to rehab.” “Yes, Chef,” was the answer. “Tomorrow I will go, just a little today, that’s all I need.” Many times, I said to myself, “Gert, what you are doing is wrong, you are enabling him.” Mario always said the same thing, “Chef, don’t worry about him. You know you have a banquet to serve. His liver was gone before you arrived, and it will either survive after you are gone, or he will live for a few more years and then he will die.” Maybe Mario’s harshness came from his childhood—I know they were very poor—or perhaps from the submarine days. He always told me, “Gert, you are too nice. It’s not your obligation to care for your cooks’ lives.”

Our other co-worker was Antoinette, a French woman who had come to America through marriage. What a woman! She could out-prep anyone, always in a great mood, never complaining, and always ready for a little mischief. A great cook, a jewel of a human being, and all she ever asked for was a glass of red wine. I was more than happy to get it for her. I am sure that the purchasing agents set aside a few bottles for her. I told her once, “You can have a bottle if you like.” Her answer? “Absolutely not. The morning prep crew can’t afford another dent!” The team was the best. They worked their asses off, but we also had a lot of fun. I was always thankful to them; their work was crucial to my success. There were others working in the kitchen part-time, high school students, but Tom, Mario, Danny, and Antoinette—they were the real deal.

I will also never, never forget Don, Dan Cutler, the best short-order cook who ever worked for me. He could serve 100 breakfasts all by himself. I had it all—a great crew, a beautiful girlfriend who was loved by everybody.

The hotel was located on Goat Island, a former naval shooting range during the Second World War. The hotel had a separate coffee shop, and we opened for breakfast and lunch, serving regular coffee shop food. This was Dan Cutler’s domain. I never had to worry about him. Another restaurant was the Raw Bar. It seated about 100 people and served oysters, clams, littlenecks, shrimp, and crab claws, and we usually opened only on weekends. It had the normal New England fare, but with my arrival, we added some more specials like veal scaloppini, veal chop, and lamb specials. I worked very hard with some of the local fishermen to get some unusual seafood if they could find it. I became one of the first New Englanders to sell fresh tuna and swordfish. Cod was still the most popular fish in New England restaurants, and we served it constantly. But we could not get enough lobsters. We served them boiled, baked, and stuffed. Sometimes, I created a special like Lobster Américaine or Thermidor, but even they could not replace the lobster casserole topped with lobster sauce. Remember, it was still the 1970s, and we were in New England. It had always been a conservative bastion for food, and it was no different. New England was the last holdout for traditional Americanized continental cooking. The new food revolution that had started in California swept the nation due to many chefs, but especially Julia Child’s TV show, propelling chefs into the 80s and 90s to incorporate local ingredients and reinvent old recipes. We had always done this in Europe, where people would never settle for canned green beans, peas, or carrots.

Another of our great successes was the Sunday brunch. We could serve in the neighborhood of 400 people with a wonderful display of chilled seafood, smoked fish, an array of fresh fruit, an omelette station where they were made to your liking, a roast beef and ham station, eggs Benedict, eggs Florentine, corned beef hash, salted codfish patties, roasted potatoes, bacon, sausage, and chicken crêpes, all beautifully presented in silver chafing dishes. There were also muffins, Danish pastries, and petits fours. It was a great feast and a feast for the eyes. Gretchen loved it, and Klaus always invited her for Sunday brunch, Friday dinners, Saturdays, and any other time she wanted to come. You can imagine, for a poor college student, this was a treat. I wondered, is that why she stayed around?

We were also busy with lots of banquets, weddings, and other parties. The bar was on top of the building and had a beautiful view of Newport and the bay. My apartment was basically a hotel room, but it was a corner unit overlooking the Newport Bridge and the bay. It was more than big enough for me. You could get there from outside without going through the lobby, so I had privacy. Maid service and laundry were handled by a lovely maid who adored me. It was a dream time in my job and a dream time in my life.

Mr. Ottmann was a strict manager, but also very fair. Little did I know when he said he would help me, he would guide me along the path to becoming a competitive executive chef. He introduced me to the Chaîne des Rôtisseurs, a prestigious French society. We hosted their dinners many times with classical French menus consisting of seven courses. It was a lot of fun. During this time, I entered the culinary show in Boston twice and won gold medals both times—one for a cold turkey dish and one for a gigantic 5 lb. lobster. Mr. Ottmann made sure I got my dues and always made sure that the local papers covered it. He was a wonderful mentor, and I will always be grateful to him.

During my time in Newport, RI, I saw a town slowly being rebuilt. During the Roaring 20s, Newport filled up with the ultra-rich. They mingled with some of the old established money who had the “cottages”—which were more like castles and chateaux. They played tennis and sailed the coast. With the crash of 1929, it almost all stopped; most left, but the Navy stayed. When the Second World War broke out, Newport became a Navy town. In the early 1970s, houses were restored, and some other buildings on Main Street got a facelift. Then the America’s Cup got things going again. The Tennis Hall of Fame was reborn, the cottages were put into a trust and restored to their former glory, and the Newport Jazz Festival became a gigantic hit. With all this going on, bars and restaurants opened, and if you go there today, it is overrun by tourists. In my days, it was calmer, and on days off, I would visit the coast, inlets, and bays, marvel at the beauty of nature, and look out at the endless Atlantic, dreaming about the present and the future.

Newport, in the early colonial days, was a center for religious tolerance, thanks to the liberal ideas of Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island. Quakers and Jews joined the Baptists who had followed Williams and made it their home. Their differences and hard work were instrumental in Newport’s success. In the 1960s, the town looked trapped in time, but restoration projects started, and many homes and other buildings were restored. The White Horse Tavern was among them, but it almost didn’t happen because of the two churches on either side. They tried to block it from getting a liquor license, but thanks to the state passing a special law that exempted taverns built before the 1700s, it was saved. The tavern is a beautiful place, and Klaus and I once thought we should take over the lease, and I think John and Maxine did at one time too. The town square is typically New England with the green and the beautiful Episcopal church dominating the square.

There are beautiful parks in Newport, most celebrated being an open-sided stone structure. Among the various explanations is that it had Viking origins, that it was the Solstice legacy erected by giants, that pirates stored their bounties there, or that maybe it was just the wind. So the sagas abound, and as time goes on, no doubt people will come up with others.

I visited the Newport Casino, which was built at the height of the American Renaissance period. Lawn tennis was its pinnacle, and Newport hosted the National Tennis Championship from 1881 to 1914, which later became the US Open. No one visits Newport without walking the mansion walk of great homes, which were modeled after French châteaux, English country houses, and Italian palazzos. The “cottages” were summer homes for the fabulously rich, primarily from New York, and are located on Bellevue Avenue and Ocean Drive. The Elms, a French Renaissance château, the Château-sur-Mer, are beautiful, but the most famous of them all is The Breakers, built for Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was at the time the richest man in the country, known for his enormous ego and vanity. He used it only 10 weeks out of the year. It took 2,500 workers two years to complete, with materials constructed in Europe and shipped to Newport. You might recognize the Rosecliff, where The Great Gatsby was filmed, or you can go see the beach mansion, the Marble House, the summer home of the Astors. It goes on and on—Belcourt Castle is modeled after Louis XIV’s hunting lodge and has more than 60 rooms filled with European treasures, among them 13th-century stained glass windows and a 13,000-piece crystal chandelier from Imperial Russia. There are many others, and now Newport’s famous legacies and attractions are well known. The city is also known for the America’s Cup Museum and the summer home of the New York Yacht Club, where hundreds of regattas are held each summer.

In 1803, Newport had gas lights installed. They claim a Newport man ate the first tomato, but this cannot be true since tomatoes were being eaten in Europe in the 17th century, although they were long thought to be poisonous. There was also a synagogue in Newport, which was America’s first in 1763, and in 1657, they had the first free public schools in 1640. So, Newport has a lot to offer. Gretchen and I loved Newport, and we spent a good part of our time together in the city. She usually came down on Fridays, Monday was my day off, so we left after brunch on Sunday and went to Boston. While I worked late on Saturdays, she studied or sunbathed outside my apartment. East Coast people loved the sun and didn’t seem to be afraid of skin cancer or wrinkles in old age. Many Portuguese settled in New England, particularly in the New Bedford and Fall River areas of Massachusetts. These vibrant areas still had many immigrants who never learned to speak English. Some of the local restaurants reminded me of Porto with their awesome kale soup and salted cod. We frequently stopped there on our way to Boston for good and plentiful portions. Gretchen, being in college, and me, in my first job as an executive chef, didn’t have much time for long vacations, so we made the most of our days.

There will be many, many more stories I will write about the New England area, and I think I might want to put together a book entirely about New England. Well, all this beauty has to end, as they say, all good things must come to an end. Klaus Ottmann was the best gentleman I ever worked for, and one morning, I got a call from his secretary to come to the office. This was not unusual. I put on a clean chef’s jacket and told Antoinette that I had to see Mr. Ottmann. I was in a good mood. Then, after telling me to sit down, he said he was going to leave his post and go to Texas. I was stunned, speechless, and could not believe it. “Texas? What are you going there for? It’s nothing but desert, mesquite trees, and tumbleweeds,” I exclaimed. I tried to explain to him and pleaded with him not to go. He must have thought, “What’s wrong with this kid?” Maybe it was my insecurity, maybe it was the feeling of being deserted by a man I admired more than anybody. I felt my world was collapsing. I said something like, “If this is what you want to do, I have to take the rest of the day off to think.” It was Monday, and the hotel was almost empty. I went to my room and felt sorry for myself, but as you will see, everything turned out fine, and soon after, I joined him in Lakeway, outside Austin, TX.