My dad passed away in February, 14 years ago. Another reason why I dislike Februarys so much, a dreary month with dreary days and dreary memories for me.
Dad was Polish, at least so he claimed. But when I look up his birthplace which he claimed was near Lvov, he could be Ukrainian. That area of Poland-Ukraine changed nationalities frequently. What citizenry the residents claimed to be depended on who was the most recent victor and which flag was currently flying over the region. To be on the safe side, residents of the area spoke Polish and Ukrainian equally well. When I visited the area in the late 1990’s, I found the residents had really covered their hind ends having both a Catholic church and a Ukrainian Orthodox one, two schools also and even two cemeteries. Still, in some ways the people there suffered even more for no matter who was dominant militarily, some of the people were still likely to be persecuted as they had divided allegiances.
My dad was not a well educated man, maybe some grade school, but if you ever saw the poverty of the region, you would understand that no family could have able body children having the luxury of attending school and not working the farm. So likely, if my grandparents had land, my dad was a farm hand. Born in 1916, when WWII broke out, my dad was drafted or enlisted, I don’t know which, into the Polish army as a cavalry soldier and went off to war. Poor man, poor Poland, six weeks later, the Polish army capitulated and my dad became a prisoner of war, transported to a farm labour camp somewhere in Germany.
While the war was going well for the Germans, my dad was not that badly off, working on a German farm, he was able to steal food, enough that he even smuggled butter and eggs to help less fortunate friends. But as the German war effort turned for the worse, my dad was put into a concentration camp, possibly sometime in 1943. His stories of concentration camp days matched the horror stories of any other interned prisoner, though my dad never spoke about his prisoner experiences very much. When he was liberated by the British and Americans in 1945, my dad was an emaciated skeleton of his former self. My dad thinks he weighed about 75 lbs at a height of 5-8. I think one of my legs likely weighs more.
The British began assigning work positions to the newly freed prisoners and when they asked my dad what he did, he replied that he was a cook. Our family didn’t lack for “smarts” even at the worst of times. My dad got assigned to working the occupation camp kitchens preparing food. Eventually, somehow, he manipulated his way into cooking for the officers and he must have been pretty good at it for he was offered a job in Canada by a British officer, Sir James Dunn. At first my dad was offered a job in the United States, but he was told his family would be split up for a time. He delayed acceptance and fortune finally smiled and he got the Canadian job as a chef in a small northern Ontario town, Sault Ste. Marie at Dunn's hotel, the Windsor Hotel.
The story of how my dad and mom met was never clear but I gather that once he was liberated my father began courting my mother. She has another dramatic story of German imprisonment, though it was far less torturous than my dad’s.
My parents must have married very soon after meeting, but that doesn’t surprise me as watching many a Hollywood movies about war time romances, couples married after brief courtships as they feared their tomorrows would not last very long. A year later, I was born and within two years my parents got a call to move to Canada to take up the offer of cooking in Sault Ste. Marie.
My dad proved to be a very capable chef and very soon he became well known in the Soo, as Sault Ste. Marie was nicknamed. It helped that the Soo was a small city, less than 75,000 then and so it was easy to build a reputation quickly, easier if you actually had the professional goods. My dad did.
By the very early 1950’s, he had established the Windsor Hotel as the premier dining room in the city. Soon after, he was wooed away to establish another restaurant as a partner.
Within a couple of years, the Golden Steer Steak House was recognized as the best place to dine in the Soo and soon after, it was the place for banquets. My dad seemed to work day and night, master of every aspect of his kitchen, a one man virtuoso. Butcher, baker, pie maker, he did it all with dynamic success. By the mid 1950’s, CJIC TV, a fledgling TV station created a live cooking show starring my father. Speaking in his broken English, horrendous accent, my dad had the courage to do a weekly TV cooking show. I do not know how long the show lasted but I remember he was justifiably proud of its popularity.
Dad’s independent cooking career came to a catastrophic end when his lawyer partner was finally caught embezzling funds from the restaurant. And though the Golden Steer had been doing amazingly wel, expanding to a banquet hall, adding a coffee shop, and even buying a fishing/hunting lodge with my dad cooking at each of the places. The crooked lawyer eventually was caught, charged and jailed but my poor father had been entrapped into co-signing many of the promissory notes for the man. My father was not jailed, but the court ordered him to repay the embezzled funds, even though he should have been liable for only half. Smart lawyer, trusting father!
This criminal incident must have knocked the wind out of my dad’s professional sails. But he was the kind of man that, no matter where he worked, he had to work his hardest, his best so that the establishment made money.
The Stanghetta brothers saw my father’s potential and hired him as their executive chef at the Canadian Hotel on the northern edge of the city. Within a few years, the Canadian Hotel was a booming enterprise: its tap rooms, never empty; its dining room ranked as the best in the city. Dad had done it again! Now, even the city politicians asked for his cooking capabilities. I remember how he was the first chef ever to roast entire steers so that a local politician could have a lunch to remember for voters.
Eventually, likely because of my mother’s intelligent influence, maybe because he saw no future in the Soo working 20 hour days for little pay, my dad chose to come to Toronto.
Working for a Greek owner of a Mimico restaurant called The Pickfair, my dad must have thought he had returned to his prison camp days. His days went beyond 20 hours. He made profit for the owner where none should have been possible. Delicious fish chowders from fish carcasses and fish heads, outstanding barbecue ribs from cheap cuts, and roast beef to die for. But again my mother convinced my dad that he was being exploited and he moved again. It was Toronto and job opportunities were easier to find, particularly if you were a good chef.
Dad became executive chef at the Hook and Ladder Club at the Beverly Hills Hotel in North York.Owned by Jack Fisher, I think, it was a night club which promoted well known American stage stars, Eddie Fisher, the Ames Brothers, Billy Daniels, Sarah Vaughn and many more. The club was tremendously popular in the 1960’s and I even worked there as a waiter; tips were outstanding!
Soon dad found that working at the club was far more than he could keep up with. In his eyes, the owners wanted to spend less, but profit more and no real help was offered to my dad in the kitchen. I think my dad may have thought his prisoner days had changed little if he looked at how hard he was working. When the offer from the Ontario Jockey Club came to become their executive chef, my dad moved.
Work with the Jockey Club became a demanding as any my dad had ever undertaken. He had to administer the premier kitchens at all the Ontario Jockey Club race tracks: Fort Erie, Mohawk, Woodbine, and Greenwood. For a man in his late 50’s, it was a daunting challenge. My dad was a success but administration of the top rung kitchens did not eliminate actual line work in the kitchens. He had to wear two hats, chef's and accountant. My dad rose to the task but I am certain it was taking a toll on my dad’s energy: all the work, the demands of the job, the paper work. His biggest personal joy was his daily betting on the horses and mom kept track of his winnings. He was good in this regard too because of his amazing memory. He would remember horses from their races as other OJC tracks, and his betting record showed more wins than losses
At the OJC, dad’s work was in high demand and his excellence was well recognized. In 1973, he cooked for Queen Elizabeth II. He was thrilled. My dad was an emotional man and this was the highlight of his cooking career.
Finally, at the age of 65, dad retired. Though he would occasionally go back to assist the track kitchens from time to time, the jobs became less and less frequent. By age 70, dad retired completely to take care of mom who suffered from emotional illnesses for many, many years. Her’s is an intriguing story filled with far more traumatic events than any person should experience in an entire lifetime, she experienced them by the time she was 21 years old.
In his retirement years, dad’s joy was cooking for company during festive/holiday occasions. He was good but as he aged, his cooking declined, he prepared fewer dishes, and made simpler meals. Eventually, just his strip sirloin and boiled potatoes, a preparation he could do in his sleep.
Dad was never a wine drinker, preferring Crown Royal with water. He served wine, but it was not his preferred libation. He also was not a big eater, nor did he like elaborate foods. He never dined out for he remembered when he had in his younger days, he was terribly disappointed at the incompetence shown by so many so called chefs. Yet, dad never criticized them, simply saying I can do better. And he could, without fail !
My dad’s last years were very sad for he had no social circle of friends, never developing such in his younger days. Too many hours spent working, I guess. The closing years were also saddened by his carrying the extra burden of caring for my mother. He was a devoted and compassionate husband who undoubtedly gave my mother the care she would never have received without him. An amazing man!
And so, some recipes which I will write in my blog are either my dad’s creations or they were inspired by my memories of his cooking.
A last word, a response to the question, “Why didn’t I become a chef like my dad?” I wanted to and wanted to quit high school in my last year of attendance. Dad forbade it. He had wanted me to become a doctor. I knew I did not have the drive, the desire or the motivation to make the efforts required to pursue such a profession. When I told my dad I wanted to become a chef, he angrily responded, “Never !” When I asked for an explanation, he added, “A chef has no life. No social life, no family life. You are never part of any festivity though you work like hell preparing for them. You have no weekends, no night life. It is a terrible job.” I think my dad was right. His words haunt me whenever I prepare for a big gathering.
I went into teaching.
I remember his pride in preparing the simplest of dishes. To my dad, frying a steak was an art!
I dedicate all my food related blogging to my dad! He was the best!
Dad, you live on in my kitchen, every day!
2. I would try this recipe with finely chopped garlic in the marinade. I love garlic. Garlic is me! No Pole in the world can live without it! In that regard, I am a true Pole!
