Old, dark and damp: my first impression of a “broken icon” – the Ryland Inn.
I was sitting alone, anxiously awaiting the inn’s rise from its “ashes” in Whitehouse Station, nervously pondering if I had the level of skill required to return the grand dame of Garden State dining back to prominence, and gently nudging my insecurities aside. My early time at the Ryland Inn made me hyper-aware that ego is not what drives experience or community engagement. Nor does it create memories, reshape neighborhoods, share culture or play an essential role in a thriving society. Ultimately, creating or reimaging a restaurant is all about collaboration with like-minded people and a human connection; it’s emotional, real and authentic. It takes a community to conceive one.
At the time, the Ryland Inn, in my mind, symbolized haute restaurant culture in New Jersey. Emblematic of the generational “superstar” that once took up residence in its venerated kitchen, its lore and legend continued to grow. What made it work so well? Could the soul be recaptured? Did it need to be?
Holding my role in high regard, and embracing the responsibility associated with it, were non-negotiable. A true respect for what preceded me was even more important than writing the next chapter of the restaurant’s history.
My eyes were opened by spending days on that construction site more than a decade ago, witnessing seasons change as the restoration proceeded. It was not about unlocking culinary secrets such as mastering the extraction of the blemishes and veins from a lobe of foie gras, or maximizing umami with the use of white soy, or creating texture to layer the way flavor reads on the palate. Those days, as Ryland physically was rising again, did not teach me how to master food cost or labor percentages or influence the creation of the perfect wine program. Nor did it help me deal with insecurities.
No. Lessons came vicariously, through the unique and real tales of the people who had experienced the Ryland Inn’s past.
There I was, in an empty building in a rural part of New Jersey, being visited by countless people. Perhaps they saw a car parked in front of a long-vacant building and, at some sign of life returning, a memory ignited. Curiosity took over. People would drive up the half-mile drive to see what was going on.
We talked. The common thread? No one remembered what they ate or drank at Ryland. In an industry defined by the senses, I learned that the most important memories of the inn had nothing to do with taste or the choice of linen, but with the very intimate tie to human emotion.
People remember the why, I realized, but not always the what.
Those moments encouraged me to re-think aspects of my professional self, altering my style of motivation, encouraging authentic connections, and shifting focus to relationships and community. The food, the drink, the service are all important. But they do not define us and they certainly do not become our legacy.
Storytelling is a recent pastime for me; maybe it ties into my age – or maybe it is because I am learning to clearly articulate my basic feelings. A strong narrative seems to pair well with a career that exposes one to constant critique, creating a narrative not riddled in cliché, but founded in credible experiences.
I do understand New Jersey’s pop culture; I’ve watched “The Sopranos”; I listen to Bruce when he surfaces on Spotify. I think it’s goofy to debate whether there is a Central Jersey or merely a North and a South. I get it, I guess. Here is the thing: We all love New Jersey; we live and have survived the memes. I am not sure that aspect of our state needs to change.
No, the impetus for this piece comes from the lack of inspired or relevant stories as they pertain to the industry that I love, that I have committed to.
Eating and drinking in the Garden State has much more depth than a series of recycled, uninspired newspaper “Tops” lists.“ These lists insult the lifelong culinary professionals who give of themselves to enhance and inspire the communities they serve. To think of our Garden State – multicultural, diverse – as defined by lists of “best” hot dogs, pork rolls, red-sauce joints and greasy spoon diners reinforces an outdated notion of New Jersey’s dining culture. It also denies future storytellers – gifted culinary professionals – the chance to share their gifts.
I know this because I’ve been fortunate enough these past decades in our industry to build great relationships with talented peers in New Jersey. I’ve watched them achieve, accomplish and succeed even without a strong press narrative in support. That is inspiring.