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In the South of France, Francine had met these two elegant chefs, Pierre and Alain, whom she brought to New York and helped get fixed up in this restaurant in the Hamptons. Their place was a major step above Magic’s—classic French food rendered by real French chefs. In its heyday, to get a reservation at Club Pierre on a Friday night was next to impossible. I’m not sure where the energy comes from. I heard my biological father was an Irish gangster, but I don’t know for sure. They put me up for adoption as an infant only weeks old, and I was taken in by second-generation immigrants, a Czechoslovakian couple already in middle age.
I wanted to celebrate and honor meat, not exploit it. Carefully drop the onion rings into the hot oil. Cook until they are golden brown, flipping them a couple of times so they cook evenly. In a bowl, combine the rice flour with the salt. Remove the onion rings from the buttermilk, a few at a time and let the excess buttermilk drip off.
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Pierre cooked effortlessly, in an apron and with a cigarette balanced on his lip like Errol Flynn. Unlike entrepreneur chefs nowadays who run to put on a chef’s coat before going out on the floor to meet guests, Pierre never wore a chef’s coat at night. He wore a gorgeous suit and worked the floor like a pro—always perfectly dressed, always perfectly charming. His slicked black hair and little French mustache were accessorized with Cartier, Hermès, and an eternally half-full glass of champagne. Magic’s was a legendary place in Westhampton in the ’70s.
We often had crowds on these weekends, and he’d get buckets of lobster and crab, and we’d spread newspaper over the tables and bury cases of Heineken in ice. The boys would be in the backyard shucking littlenecks and steamers. At dinnertime, we’d heave twenty lobsters up on the table with french fries, sliced tomatoes, and corn on the cob. I grew up about as far culturally from Dallas as could be imagined in America—in the boroughs of New York City and, perhaps more significantly, on the shores of Long Island. My parents were very strict and disciplined.
Knife: Texas Steakhouse Meals at Home
In a large bowl, whisk 1 1/2 cups dry mix with the sparkling water. The batter should have the consistency of a crêpe batter or vegetable oil. Sift or whisk together the cake flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, and salt. Remove the rings to a baking sheet lined with paper towels and season with a pinch of salt.
Pour the buttermilk into a nonreactive bowl. Slice the onions 1/2 inch thick and separate the rings; place the onion rings in the buttermilk and soak for 2 to 3 hours. During the daytime, Pierre designed the menu and Alain made the pastry.
Knife: Texas Steakhouse Meals at Home – Onion Rings
But I can cook—and our family’s cooking took a new turn as more and more of our lives revolved around the water. Our cuisine wasn’t farm to table; it was bay to table. A passionate fishermen, he’d often take me out with him to cast lines for flounder. He knew all the local fishermen and clammers and oystermen, and many a night, he came home with a bounty of the freshest seafood.
My new grandparents didn’t speak English, only Czech. Suddenly, I was John Tesar, the only identity I’ve ever known. But just as I am now a New York chef who has found his identity a long way away in the state of Texas, sometimes I wonder what the dynamic of being a kid with Irish DNA raised by strict Czechs has done to me. It must produce some amount of internal tension and energy.
My station was the grill, the steak broiler, rack of lamb persillade, and the Dover sole. Estimated delivery dates - opens in a new window or tab include seller's handling time, origin ZIP Code, destination ZIP Code and time of acceptance and will depend on shipping service selected and receipt of cleared payment. Delivery times may vary, especially during peak periods. Delivery time is estimated using our proprietary method which is based on the buyer's proximity to the item location, the shipping service selected, the seller's shipping history, and other factors. When I cook a steak it is a pathetic, sad, horrible thing. Cooking a steak for me means I’m going to be eating shoe leather.
Its cozy interior was furnished with reclaimed wood paneling. Oak tables were set with blue-and-white-checkered tablecloths during the day, red-and-white checkers at night. Everyone hung out at Magic’s, high society and low. My grandmother would make the Czech food—rabbit in dill cream sauce, venison-and-potato dumplings. My aunt would make the salads and the apple pie. My mother had spent time with Italian women and made Italian food.
I do it in the late afternoons after work—and before work continues. Aren’t you already on your feet day and night? The answer is yes, I’m on my feet all day long. The running is in fact to let off steam, to burn off the excess energy that buzzes in my mind and body every day. I’ve been running, burning energy, moving. Sometimes to my benefit, sometimes to my detriment.
My first job at his restaurant was garde-manger—keeper of the pantry and preparer of cold food. I started making salads—salade Niçoise, salade verte. We tossed the Caesar salad tableside to order.
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