Burn the Place Read online

  Advance Praise for Burn the Place and Iliana Regan

  “Perhaps the definitive Midwest drunken-lesbian food memoir.”

  —Kim Severson, The New York Times

  “A remarkable exploration of the [memoir] form… Burn the Place is a ‘chef memoir’ only in the sense that the author turned out to be a chef. More rightly, it belongs on a shelf with the great memoirs of addiction, of gender ambivalence and queer coming-of-age, of the grand disillusionment that comes from revisiting, as a clear-eyed adult, the deceptive perfection of childhood.”

  —The New Yorker

  “This raw and emotional memoir testifies to the power of persistence and grit. With vivid description, we explore Regan’s almost inborn connection to food and the earth, her rise as a queer woman in a male-dominated industry, and her journey to sobriety.”

  —Real Simple

  “With this deeply personal work, Iliana reminds us that there is great strength in vulnerability. Her story is one of resilience, determination, and vision.”

  —René Redzepi, chef and co-owner of Noma

  “Iliana Regan’s story is a memorable tale, with prose that deeply conveys the resilience and intensity she needed to find her undeniable success. Burn the Place will serve as inspiration for those in and outside of the kitchen.”

  —Eric Ripert, chef and co-owner of Le Bernardin

  “Iliana’s perspective is honest and unprocessed and speaks true to her own experiences. Burn the Place takes us through the incredible events that shaped her identity as a person and a chef. Iliana is one of the best chefs I’ve ever known.”

  —David Chang, chef and founder of Momofuku

  “[A] blistering yet tender story of a woman transforming Midwestern cooking, in a fresh voice all her own.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “It turns out that Iliana Regan writes the way she cooks: with a voice that’s bold and soulful, tender and tough, impossible to ignore, and utterly her own. Burn the Place is much more than an account of hustling in the kitchen. It’s a story about identity and addiction. It’s about getting creative and becoming a boss. And it’s full of scenes of gothic drama that still give me goosebumps when I think of them.”

  —Jeff Gordinier, author of Hungry

  “The dynamic story of a dynamic life.”

  —Ms.

  “What bold new voice is this? Iliana Regan is out to shake up the literary world in the same way she’s shaken the culinary world. Unexpected, flavorful, and distinctive, Burn the Place is a debut to savor.”

  —Beth Ann Fennelly, author of Heating & Cooling: 52 Micro-Memoirs

  “Renowned chef Iliana Regan turns stuffy patriarchal stereotypes upside down. She is self-taught, charismatic, delightfully foul-mouthed, and utterly devoid of pretension as she parallels her ascent in the culinary world with a past strewn with AA chips, jail cell stints, and brutal family losses. This groundbreaking memoir reinvents the well-worn trope of the ‘bad boy’ superstar chef, presenting us instead with a palpably vulnerable, complicatedly feminist, and sexy-queer-girl genius who takes no prisoners, including herself. Regan’s wild rags-to-Michelin story has appeal far beyond the ‘foodie’ market, particularly among those hungry for tales of unapologetic women who have made it entirely on their own terms.”

  —Gina Frangello, author of A Life in Men and Every Kind of Wanting

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  To my beautiful wife, family, and dogs, who love me for all of my contrasts, both external and internal.

  And to my sister Elizabeth, aka Bunny, and her daughters. They all shaped me.

  Note to Readers

  This book is written to the best of my recollection. Some names have been changed, and some events have been pushed together or rearranged for narrative flow. Many important people and events in my life do not appear on these pages, because the story as written didn’t call for their inclusion. Maybe there will be another memoir in the future that will include them.

  PROLOGUE Living the Dream

  It’s Saturday night. The last night of our workweek. We’ve shut down and a few of my employees are gone. A few are still inside. I pull the gate shut and lock it. I’m too tired to care. I’m completely over all of it. It’s late now; the moon is bright and casts my shadow against the door. They realize I’m finally doing it. I hear them screaming like in some postapocalyptic movie where I’m only allowed to save myself, maybe one other, but the rest we have to let die.

  I listen. It’s pathetic, really. The red tank of gas gurgles as I pour its contents over everything—the doors, the walls, the garbage container where the gas line runs up the side of the building. My hands shake, my gut drops, and my head, oh dear, my head. My fucking head. Obsessively I recall every time I’ve had to repeat myself, every time they don’t listen, every time they fuck something up, every time I just have to do everything MY. GOD. DAMN. SELF.

  “Fuck you!” I scream.

  I want to take out the whole fucking block. I light a cigarette and get in my truck. I sit there for a minute and suck hard. The smoke enters my lungs and it hurts, but I like it. It’s a good hurt, like I know I’m doing something bad, something that could kill me or will.

  The smoke blurs my vision as I slowly let it seep from my mouth. I step out of myself, objective for a moment, and think, Do I want this? Do I want to change my mind? But I don’t.

  I pull away and with a flick of the butt, it’s all gone.

  Part One

  CHAPTER 1 The Farmhouse

  In the summer of 1983, I turned four and learned a whole lot. For starters, I found out I wasn’t a boy.

  I sat at the top of the creaky stairs of our old farmhouse. I traced my finger along the wall, outlining invisible unicorns. I’d already gotten in trouble twice for using crayons. My sister ran up the stairs, naked beneath her robe. Nina was seventeen. I pointed at her boobs.

  “Am I going to get those when I get big?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat next to me at the top of the stairs.

  “But why? I don’t want them.”

  “Because you are a girl.” It hurt my ears. I felt ashamed. Why was I a girl?

  “But I don’t want to be a girl,” I said. Often I prayed at night for God to make me a boy.

  “Sometimes you don’t have choices.”

  Nina might have been my first girl crush, what with my being so young and not really understanding then what a sister was.

  After she got ready, she left. My parents distracted me whenever Nina left the farmhouse. If I had to witness it, pure agony followed, as if the bogeyman was biting off my fingers, one by one.

  * * *

  On the morning of my fourth birthday, I used thumbtacks to pin a sun-faded and threadbare tablecloth over the picnic table.

  The pig was already speared and spinning over charcoal embers in our driveway. My dad roasted all the animals out there in what looked like a big silver box with a chain on the side. That’s what made the animal slowly spin. He was proud of that box because he’d built it.

  Nina and I had bopped up and down in the back of the pickup truck going down Randolph Street to Mr. Elich’s farm when we’d gotten the pig. Mr. Elich had little minks in boxes that I liked to look at, but he used those for fur. Nina liked his goats. She always liked goats. She used to show them in 4-H. But we never ate the goats.

  Sometimes we had our own pigs to roast. One time my dad brought baby pigs home that he said must have been strays because he found them in the middle of the road, their baby eyes shining in the Oldsmobile’s headlights. We kept them in the garage for a while before we penned them in the pole barn. The runt had hemorrhoids. Each night we went out there to rub cream on its butt. I remember squeezing the tube into my dad’s hand while he held the pig between his knees. When the pigs grew up, my dad shot them. I knew he would eventually. He held his shotgun and laughed as he walked out the back door. I ran to my room and buried my head beneath my pillows. I could still hear the pop and echo of the gun firing. The pigs had a good life and a good death.

  * * *

  Extraterrestrials might have planted me in our garden like the corn, growing up wily among the squash vines and beans. The farm was my identity even before I understood what my identity was.

  The farmhouse was like a lot of farmhouses, I imagine. I was in love with that place. Everything about it was outrageously enchanting. It was in that house that I cooked my first chanterelles, gathered from my grandfather’s farm. I stood on a footstool and stirred in the butter. My mom and I added salt and pepper. The earthy aroma filled my sense memory. I never forgot. This is the house where I would thumb through Gourmet magazine while I sat over our heat vents in the winter. One time, I came across a beautiful picture of fresh pasta and marinara, something we would re-create. People always ask where I went to culinary school; it was in that farmhouse I learned everything I needed to know.

  It was summer, finally warm, when we made that pasta. My mom stood in silhouette with the sun behind her. She had four bowls in front of her. They were clear, and each ingredient was so perfect: yellow egg y
olks, flour, milk, green-tinted olive oil.

  She poured the flour out onto the table, then pressed the bottom of the bowl into the flour and created a well. Her hands seemed big and old, but they weren’t much older than mine are now. Her wedding ring seemed so big and thick; it just looked bothersome. She poured the egg yolks, milk, and olive oil into the well of flour. She dipped the tongs of a fork into each yolk, and one by one they began to gush bright yellow, almost orange. Carefully, she pulled the wet ingredients through the flour, incorporating a little at a time in a circular motion. After a few minutes, the middle turned from wet to pasty, and then shaggy. She pulled up the fork and ran her fingers over the tongs, loosening the clumps of flour.

  At this point, I got really interested. Things got visceral. She plunged her hands into what was now dough and began to fold it over and over onto itself. Little by little, the flour on the cutting board disappeared into the ball beneath her hands. Like a little yellow sun beneath her palms. Supple. I got closer. It was aromatic. I fell in love.

  After she put it through the pasta dye, which turned it to spaghetti strands, she draped the strands over a rack and set them on the back porch, saying, “This will help them dry.” Back in the kitchen, I helped her chop warm tomatoes and herbs we’d collected from the garden. She dropped the tomatoes and herbs in a lightly oiled cast iron with crushed garlic and sprinkled salt over the top. I don’t think she cooked them much—just warmed them, really. She cracked black pepper over the top.

  She dropped the pasta into a pot of heavily salted water. “Fresh pasta doesn’t take long,” she said, then spooned up a strand and gave it a little pinch. “It’s done.” She handed me the noodle and I ate it. She strained the pasta, lightly oiled it, added it to the pan with the tomatoes, and mixed it quickly. Then she turned it out into two bowls for us.

  “Are you going to eat the tomatoes?” she asked me, because I didn’t usually like tomatoes.

  “Like this, I am.”

  This was how I learned to cook. I’m always asked this, and truly, this was the start.

  * * *

  The house was old. The basement was often full of water and the furnace was fueled by lumber. I went down there in the winter with my dad and handed him the logs. I remember the red, splintering logs and floating ashes, wearing my dad’s rubber boots and his old coat, which brushed the ground. My mom is still mad at my dad for that basement and “having to wash his underwear in water up to my knees for years.”

  The house was two stories. Some of it was gray brick and some of it was wood. My dad said he did a lot of fixing it up, as it “even had dirt floors in the bedrooms.” Some rooms had electricity, and some didn’t. Mine didn’t till I was five or six. Lots of nights I slept in my mom’s room with her or on the living room floor with my dad. The floors in my room were plywood. I remember the day my uncle put the electricity in and I got carpet. My vocabulary became larger with all sorts of “what’s its” and “fuck its.”

  I adored the wallpaper in the kitchen. It was tan and printed with images of old-fashioned kitchen whisks, bowls, presses, cranks, and dough-makers. The countertops were orange and the cabinets were dark brown. The refrigerator, of course, was avocado green. Inside you’d find pigs’ feet, sauerkraut, headcheese, milk, butter, rendered fat, pickles, and mushrooms my dad grew in the horse’s manure out in the barn.

  Underneath the cutting board island was a cabinet of cookbooks: The Art of Orient, Dim Sum, Italian Cooking, even Larousse Gastronomique. I don’t recall my mom ever turning to these books, but occasionally, when I was inspired after watching an episode of Yan Can Cook or The Frugal Gourmet, I’d take them out and ask my mom to attempt something. She did, but her fried rice never tasted like the fried rice at Wah Yuen, a Chinese restaurant in nearby Merrillville.

  This farmhouse was dropped smack in the middle of ten acres of cornfields, wild edibles, and Native American burial grounds with pulsating ghosts. A few miles beyond were Deep River and an old gristmill. The closest restaurant, the Beer Barrel, was another couple miles. All week long the sign read “Tonight’s Special: Fried Frog Legs.” Everything was miles.

  We had two gardens, one for vegetables and one for berries and herbs. Mom told me, “Soon as you could walk, each morning you’d run out the door, still in your diaper, and pull every single red raspberry from the bush.” She laughed, and I saw that she could still see me in her mind’s eye: “And I was always so amazed you already knew which ones were the sweetest and ripest.”

  The vegetable garden was carpeted with squash—big orange blooms hanging every which way—rows of corn, pumpkins, beans, peppers, and cucumbers. Name it and Dad was trying to grow it. There were all sorts of trees like apple, pear, mulberry, cherry, and rows of pine. There were shrubs of elderberries and peonies. Where our hedgerow met the road, we had wild hazelnuts and crab apples. We had everything one could wish to eat from the earth, right there in that boring red state of Indiana.

  We had a pole barn and chickens. There were a few pigs and a horse, April, and a pony, Smoky, who limped on a crooked hoof. I fed April apples; I don’t know the variety, but I feel I can still smell them at some of the farmers markets—they were little mangled-looking ones, the kind that people pass up. I fed Smoky bouquets of purple clovers.

  The pole barn contained rusted farm equipment and stalls for April and Smoky. There was a St. Bernard named George, who was many times the size of me. There was a commercial-size refrigerator, a freezer, and a big smoker. Those were from Jenny’s, my grandmother’s Polish restaurant. My dad hung beef to dry from the ceiling rafters. Right there in front of everything was a big hook from which you could hang animal carcasses to butcher or to skin. I liked to watch him. He’d back up the truck and unload the animal, tie its back legs together above the hooves, and up it went. He’d slice its throat and belly. There’d be a bucket underneath to catch the blood and guts.

  The barn was so full of things. Dad liked to keep Hills Bros. Coffee cans full of gadgets, tools, and tool parts. There were tables stacked with machines, and then there were machines with still other things stacked on top of them. There was a broken drum set. An old piano. Everything was covered in dust. Going in a bit farther, you could make out a broken-down shark-tailed Chevy, light blue, from some time in the ’50s. I’d always wished we could ride in it. I loved to climb in and pretend I was on dates. I had seen my sisters with their dates, and I imagined a girl next to me, holding my hand. Sometimes I’d lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek.

  A set of stairs led to the barn attic. Some steps were missing, and I was often reminded not to climb them, so of course I did. During kitten season I walked quietly around our property listening for their tiny hunger screams. I would find litters, lots of times up in the barn attic. When you got up there and sat at the top step, the daylight climbed in from broken slats in the roof and shone on layers of dust over dining room tables and chairs that had been retired from Jenny’s. I sat there, baby kitten in my lap, and wondered about that lost time and place.

  * * *

  Not long before my birthday, we were all in the station wagon, headed home from the hospital. My mom and dad in the front. My sisters lined up along the back. While they didn’t all live at home anymore, they were all there that day. I was lying across their laps. The doctors had broken my fever, but it was still coming down when they released me from the hospital. They told my parents to keep me out of the sun for a while and then that I should wear a white hat.

  The station wagon was way older than me. Maybe even older than my sisters. In 1983, Elizabeth—Bunny—was twenty, Kelley was nineteen, and Nina was seventeen. It was warm that day, sometime in late July. I was still hallucinatory from the fever, almost dreaming, barely awake. They kept talking, maybe to keep me present. They’d been instructed to get me into bed when I got home and to drape cool, wet towels over me.

  A few weeks before, they’d said that for my fourth birthday we’d have a roast pig and clowns and chocolate ice cream. All those images spun through my brain, like I could see and taste them. I repeated the words without speaking: Pig on a spit. Clowns and magic tricks. Chocolate ice cream. I had this idea I wanted a white oxford shirt. I thought I could button it all the way up and wear a tie, and if I did that, people might think I was a boy. Then I could wear Dad’s suit coat.