When I was in high school, most of us guys were interested in hot rods and quarter mile drag cars. The parking lot of our Winn Dixie routinely hosted Dodge Challenger R/Ts, Boss 302 Mustangs, Plymouth Chargers, and Chevrolet Chevelles, one with a 396 and cold-air induction. Our town had a drag strip, LaPlace Drag Strip, that annually hosted the big boys and girls at the NHRA Cajun Nationals. The sound of those alcohol-burning monsters could be heard throughout our little town and across the Mississippi. Yet somehow, I was following Formula 1 and Indy cars. No one in my family, on my street, or in my circle of friends cared about road racing yet somehow, I found it and was enamored with it. Mario Andretti, Dan Gurney, Colin Chapman, Gilles Villeneuve, and Jim Clark were my automotive heroes. I bought Clark’s book, At The Wheel, and was reading it in a class with a few upperclassmen. One of them saw it, yanked it out of my hands and the words that dimwitted jock hurled at me were truly fighting words. (Albert if you’re still around, name the time and place.) High school led to college, led to culinary school in New Orleans and eventually I landed as Chef at Greenville’s Augusta Grill.
In 1999 and 2000, I was Food Network’s Flavor of the Month. I’d spent a few years chasing that TV glory and when it came, I embraced it with both hands. Owner and host Buddy Clay would often come into the kitchen on a Friday evening and announce that some damn producer from Food Network was on the phone for me. When I questioned producer Mark Dissin as to why he would call at the busiest hour of the week, his answer was, “Because I know exactly where you are.” That was life before cell phones.
At the time Food Network had a show titled Food Fantasy. It was a mediocre show that offered to make a guest’s “food fantasy” come true. I caught a bit of it on TV and a light went on. Maybe this show could get me to a racetrack? I then emailed my pal Bob Tuschman at Food Network and received a quick reply that I should reach out to Banyan Productions, the people that created Food Fantasy. I did so with a cryptic “I have an idea for the show.” Banyan responded the next day and asked me to write a summary of what I had in mind. I wanted to cook for Chip Ganassi IndyCar team and specifically 1996 IndyCar champion, Jimmy Vasser. Vasser was California cool, a gentleman on TV and a gifted, smooth driver on track and in 2000 he was teamed with future F1 star Juan Montoya. I wrote a 500-word essay on why I loved open-wheel racing, why I respected Jimmy Vasser, and how I envisioned my day would go, and ideally this would occur at Mid-Ohio race track. Mid-Ohio is set in the lush, rolling hills of Lexington and a track I hadn’t yet visited. 24 hours later I heard back from Banyan. They loved the idea and would reach out to the Ganassi team. Late the following night, maybe 11:30, I was walking up the stairs to our bedroom and I called out to Amy because it sounded like she was on the computer in our office. When our eyes met she looked angry.
“You’re going to be on Food Fantasy?”
“I am?”
It was at this point I realized I hadn’t told her about my latest foray with the network. At the time it was understood that I would get another phone call and have another opportunity. And I didn’t want to talk about anything until it felt certain. Apparently, this one was now certain. But somehow this one wasn’t sitting well with my wife because she was definitely upset.
“You’re going to be on Food Fantasy, on my birthday, and you’re taking me to a, to a …damn car race!? Why aren’t we going to Paris?”
I brushed her, and her disappointment aside to read the email. The Ganassi team was all in but they wanted to film at Chicago which was their main sponsor’s (Target) headquarters. Chicago meant a 1.5 mile oval racetrack, a track better suited for stock cars. And that race would take place on Amy’s birthday weekend in late July. I turned to her and managed an awkward, conciliatory smile.
“But we love Chicago, right honey?”
I had to go outside, walk down the street to shout my hallelujahs. I would spend a race weekend cooking with the Ganassi IndyCar team. The next day at the Grill, Buddy had to listen to me offer another “Guess what I’m going to do?” story with a Food Network ending.
A couple of months later I met the Banyan crew at Chicagoland speedway. We would film on Friday, during timed practice. That meant just a few hundred fans and few VIPs, but all the teams were there getting the cars ready for Saturday’s qualifying and Sunday’s race. I met Ganassi’s chef, Jon Wheeler, who was equally excited about his TV debut. Chef Wheeler cooked out of a tight kitchen built into the back half of a 53-foot tractor-trailer. He was a gearhead from an early age, and we shared quite a few stories of kitchen life. We planned our meal then he took me through the paddock and under the rope for an up-close tour of the team’s cars. That season, Ganassi cars were powered a 2.65 liter Toyota turbocharged V8 with (gulp!) 45 inches of boost, fueled with methanol and screaming to 13,500 revolutions per minute. Even when the cars idled, they sounded angry, furious. As Jon and I toured the paddock, all seven members of the Banyan crew with their cameras, lights, and mics in tow, the entire IndyCar paddock was wondering “who’s this guy?” And who would appear but Mario Andretti. He stopped in front of us, put his hands on his hips and asked Chef Wheeler what was up. I introduced myself and when I told him what we were doing he laughed.
“What are you cooking for the Ganassi crew for? Chip doesn’t know good food from a flat tire. You should be cooking with my team.”
“Next time, Mario, we’re all yours.”
Mario had somewhere to be and we had a schedule. But damn! Mario Andretti had just shook my hand and shared a joke with me. Chef Wheeler pinched me and said “I have to do that all the time because when I was a kid, Mario was the man,1978 Formula One champion, Indy 500 champion, Daytona, LeMans. I mean come on, it’s Mario. And now he nods and calls me chef.”
Several team members walked past and waved to Chef Wheeler and one rubbed his hair and hollered “There’s our next TV star.” Then Bobby Rahal, the 1986 Indy 500 champion was there, he pointed at Chef Wheeler and said, “I heard you’re gonna be a TV star this weekend.” All too soon we had to return to the kitchen and get to work. The cars would be on track from 10:00 am until 12:00 noon and then the team and VIPs would have lunch. At 2:00 pm the cars would return to the track. With 12 engineers, 2 drivers, maybe 24 mechanics and 40ish VIPs to feed we had a real job ahead of us and Chef Wheeler was very happy to have help in the kitchen. We prepared lasagna and Caesar salad for the mechanics, a mustard glazed grouper with a variety of sides for the VIPs, and for the drivers, poached chicken breast with penne pasta, a touch of butter, and Parmesan cheese. The drivers ate the same exact thing at every race weekend. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, at every race, the same thing. Jon told me they didn’t want anything unfamiliar in their stomach, and certainly nothing too aromatic, or spicy, or sweet. Racing at their level required every ounce of concentration and even a bit of indigestion could be detrimental. While the Banyan production crew tried their best to blend in, we set up the VIP buffet, then plated up the chicken pasta for Juan and Jimmy. It was then I asked Chef Wheeler, “Hey they know we’re here, right?” The “we” was me and the seven-person squad from Banyan. The Ganassi PR gal had just walked in and heard my query. She exclaimed, “I’ll go give the guys a heads up” and dashed off in front of us. For some reason that set off my spidey sense.
“Jon, they do know we’re here, correct?”
Chef Wheeler just shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’ll find out.”
I had two plates of chicken pasta with two rolls of tableware, two camera guys, two guys with boom mics, an audio engineer, a director, and another guy with a large bounce light. And we were about to interrupt the inner workings of an IndyCar team during the middle of a test session. We trotted past the mechanics enjoying their lasagna and salad and I watched as the PR gal opened the door to the engineering room. A room where the drivers, engineers, and team manager would never expect to be interrupted by TV cameras.
“Heads up guys, there’s a crew from Food Network here.”
Chef Wheeler told me to go in and I took one step up and there was about 12 members of the Ganassi team sitting around a conference table with printouts, binders, and graphs. Team manager Mike Hull looked at me, shook his head and tried to hide his disgust. A couple of the engineers mumbled something under their breath and one guy put his head in his hands and I never felt more unwanted and out of place in my life. I held the plates out to Juan and Jimmy, mumbled an introduction, and tried to back out of the doorway but the director had her hand on my back and likely sensed everything going south, but she wouldn’t let me move.
“Ask them how’s the food” she whisperedd.
Juan took his plate without looking at me or saying anything and I was stuck waiting for Jimmy to take his food. Somehow, Vasser realized what was happening and he stood up, took the plate, removed the tinfoil, had a big inhale and said with a smile, “Wow, this smells amazing. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.” And just like that I felt the pressure come off my back. We stepped out, the door closed, and I could breathe again. We turned and were amongst the mechanics and they’re all on their second serving and joking and smiling and loving the lasagna. I got lots of thumbs up and high fives from them then we were off to check on the VIPs. They were also very happy with the food. Jon and I chuckled a bit for the cameras and laughed about the earlier tension. Then who walked up but Jimmy Vasser, the 1996 IndyCar champion and he offered me a California handshake, looked into the camera and said, “The food was wonderful.” I responded with “thanks for putting up with us.” And he laughed and handed me a Ganassi shirt, a couple of autographed hats, and two tickets to the race on Sunday. When the cars were back on track, I stood at the pit wall and got covered in burning rubber and methanol fumes while the team practiced their pit stops and Jimmy did what he does best.
How often have you heard that phrase “Never meet your heroes”? I don’t consider Jimmy my hero because I’ve always believed a hero is someone that risks their life to save someone else’s. I admired Jimmy’s style, competitiveness, and skill level because he succeeded at reaching the very top of his, and my sport. And for a brief moment he recognized my distress and offered me a hand. That’s pure class.
Thanks to the politics of competing sanctioning bodies, Jimmy Vasser didn’t get the chance to shine at the Indianapolis 500. With his Vasser/Sullivan IMSA team he still races, just not behind the wheel. Amy had a marvelous birthday dinner in Chicago at Gale Gand’s (her favorite pastry chef) Tru Restaurant. All’s well that ends well.
