Cooked Raw

How One Celebrity Chef Risked Everything to Change the Way We Eat

Matthew Kenney

• Publisher: Familius
• Year: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781939629975
• Topic: Art
• Subtopic: Culinary Arts

"A tantalizing must-read for raw foods enthusiasts as well as chefs, restaurateurs, lovers of memoirs and biographies, and of course fans of Kenney's." — Raw Foods News Magazine An expansive, entertaining memoir that tells the story of how Matthew Kenney transitioned from a mainstream celebrity chef in New York, to a pioneer of plant-based cuisine, and his mission to change the way the world eats and thinks about food. Cooked Raw highlights a journey of courage, persistence, risk, the reward of following one's passion, and the future of food for the 21st century. "Kenney has provided a window into celebrity chefs, the costs, the competition, and the struggles to stay true to their own lives." — San Francisco Book Review Praise for Matthew Kenney "Everyone thought the raw diet was a fad soon to pass, but it's alive and well. [Kenney] is a virtuoso when it comes to raw and living cuisine." — Huffington Post "In 2004 Matthew Kenney and his then girlfriend, Sarma Melngailis, opened Pure Food and Wine, the restaurant that, perhaps for the first time in New York City's illustrious dining history, made health food sexy." — Vogue "A founding father of the American raw food scene." — Well + Good "Kenney has created a movement that aims to be as inclusive, accessible, and educational as possible." — LA Canvas

SPEAKER

When someone calls you “rock star,” you can take it a few different ways. Take it literally, and you’re likely to crash and burn before you get off the ground. Alternatively, if you brush it off entirely, you’re missing the wonderful fact that someone really believes in you—unless, of course, they’re just pulling your leg.

For all his glossy, cringe-worthy commercialism, Jack Wilson certainly believed that I was a rock star. We’ve all heard the theory that everyone comes into our life for a reason. After seeing many of these reasons firsthand, I definitely buy into that, and Jack, for all his flaws, brought me into a new realm.

Just after taking full ownership of the Oklahoma location, I received an email from Jack asking if I had any graduates to recommend as a chef for the raw food restaurant he was opening in Greenwich. The discussions evolved into a partnership deal: I would provide consulting services and retain 25 percent of the profits. Jack promised to oversee the time-consuming task of negotiating deals, arranging appearances, and creating the overall strategy of my career and brand. He had a space on Greenwich Avenue—nothing big or fancy, but it was in a good location—and a goal to bring well-prepared raw food to his community. No question, I was tired and a bit worn down, but Jack put together a deal that gave me hope. I still believed that anything was possible, that we were doing revolutionary work and doing it better than anyone anywhere, so I was willing to explore any means of stepping up our game.

But first, Meredith and I were invited to a very special event, a cruise to Central America.

I didn’t see Jack for the first two days of the cruise, so we did our best to entertain ourselves—playing basketball on the deck, reading, and finding spots on the ship to avoid the gluttonous behavior that surrounded us in every direction. We had to scrounge the various restaurants on the ship to find a few walnuts and oranges, pretty much the only thing we could eat that wasn’t covered in some scary sauce or glaze. I’d learned long ago that most food on cruise ships starts off on the wrong foot, with ingredients that are frozen and often out of season. Then, to make matters worse, they are generally overcooked and heavily dressed, left in steam stables to stay warm, and eventually evolve into congealed, smelly, tasteless renditions of something that was perhaps food at one time. If I had forgotten how much my lifestyle had changed in the past few years since going plant-based, this trip was certainly a stark reminder.

Finally, on the third day, we met up with our elusive host.

“Hey, rock star,” Jack beamed, ordering a bottle of Perrier Jouet in the middle of the afternoon.

There on the ship, he explained that he had “big things” in store for me. Jack’s plan was to begin my “new career” in LA, which I’d been wanting all along anyway. He envisioned me as I had always seen myself: the person bringing together culinary art and wellness into one neatly-folded, attractive, delicious package. The way to do this, much like Martha Stewart had, was to not only operate at a higher level but to also develop a strong media presence. He claimed to have resources who could help us see that goal to fruition.

I was excited at the prospect of this partnership, but back on land, days passed and Jack was M.I.A. I’d forward him inquiries on a daily basis. A publisher wanted to discuss a book deal. Two or three days passed, and after reminding him, he had his assistant fire off a rude letter to them. Former colleagues from New York contacted me and asked if I would consult on a new project they were doing, offering a pretty large up-front fee and a piece of the business. Jack let them know that I was onto bigger things now and was going to be a rock star, essentially shutting the door in their face. I cringed every time he communicated with someone on my behalf. One by one, his arrogance turned off pretty much everyone I’d built relationships with and tore down the reputation of quick, cordial communication that I’d built for our company.

It’s hard to imagine how I could have turned my life over to someone I barely knew, much less someone with such different tastes in everything but food. And yet, I did it, given the promise of progress and a better life. I agreed to hand control of not only my personal brand, but also my business, to Jack and his team. It did not matter that he had less restaurant experience than a twelve-year-old, or that his director of operations was a belligerent bully who reeked of cigarettes. The signs were there; I just didn’t want to see them.

We changed the restaurant’s name from 105degrees to “Matthew Kenney” and my likeness would appear everywhere—on the menus, on advertisements, and on the new website (www.kenneycuisine.com). Those menus were in the most obnoxious font (a dark gothic print on light green paper—think Irish Pub meets the Munsters) and my blurry black-and-white photo was emblazoned on the front of it. Jack set me up with Jerry, a $10,000-a-day photographer in LA who shot and edited my new photos, Photoshopped to the max with a big, toothy white smile blasting off the page wherever it was posted.

“Come join me, and change the world,” was the slogan on the home page of our new website. All the beautiful photos were gone; the sleek and elegant design was history, replaced by a parody of the worst branding that The Food Network could muster. This guy simply had horrible taste. When you combine a complete lack of aesthetic sense with an alpha male, trouble abounds.

Jack wanted me to pounce on every table in the restaurant and tell them my story about changing the world one bite at a time. I always had to be “on,” even if I bumped into a long-lost friend on the street. Cameras followed me everywhere, but the clips went nowhere. I was really so beaten up by the ups and downs of my career, the struggles in Oklahoma, and the fact that my vision just wasn’t enough to create a sustainable business or a sustainable life for myself, that I was ready to try anything. Trying is one thing, but believing is another.

About a month into the Jack regime, my staff was ready to commit mutiny; our numbers—despite Jack’s “marketing,” coupons, and shtick—were flat, and Oklahoma continued to bleed. Tension was high. Although Jack promised to invest whatever it took and claimed that “failure was not an option,” he whined every time the business needed a nickel.

Around this time, we received an email from a former prosecutor named Ken who was organizing a TEDx event in Oklahoma. (TED is a nonprofit organization that holds events to spread ideas by bringing together movers and shakers who give short but inspiring speeches. Originally it was an acronym for a focus on technology, entertainment, and design, but now TEDx events cover any range of topics.) Ken asked whether I’d be available to speak at the conference. As a big fan of TED Talks, I was both nervous and excited. I was still slightly shy about speaking in front of our students and would forever carry memories of when, as president of student council, I was unable to speak in front of my five friends without stuttering a dozen uhs.

After a series of meetings and discussions, we agreed that I would speak at TEDxOKC. Jack took control and poured more energy into this presentation than I’d ever seen him expend. The preparation was exhaustive. We had numerous conversations each week where he pumped me up about my duty to deliver a message that would change the world one bite at a time. I took speech lessons in New York City, days of being coached and taped and taught how to look my audience in the eye, about intonation, about confidence. I watched dozens of other speakers and tried to find my message, and I studied the script I was provided by Jack and some mystery team behind him. I took lessons from a ballerina who taught me how to walk properly and how to carry myself, and pored over the Powerpoint file that Jack’s team created for me to use as an outline for my talk. TED Talks are eighteen minutes long, eighteen minutes of standing in a spotlight in front of two hundred people and other speakers who expect you to blow their minds with your brilliant orating skills and your earth-shattering message.

By the day of the conference, I’d spent countless nights memorizing my speech, practicing it to myself, on tape, to Jack, and even to an imaginary audience. Still, I didn’t feel ready. I stayed up most of the night before, looking over my index cards, pacing, sweating, and losing faith that I had much to offer this inspiring audience.

My talk was titled, “Are You Feeding Your Body or Are You Feeding Disease?” It would touch upon topics that most in the audience could relate to: obesity, heart disease, diabetes, fast food, and cancer. It would also delve into sex and bowel movements, both of which I promised would be more fulfilling if one simply adopted a raw food, plant-based diet. The message was over-the-top, accentuated by images of smashed-up cars, highlighting the fact that obesity kills far more people than car accidents, and an entertaining exposé of the thirty-six ingredients found in McDonald’s “healthy” oatmeal. It was overly dramatic and a bit tacky, and the style and packaging of the message had very little to do with me, but my talk would rise to become one of the top ten most popular talks on TED.com and would stay there for quite some time.

Everything I said on that podium was sincere, even if it was delivered in a wonky package. It was time to push some buttons, to not be shy about why I was doing what I was doing. I did believe that the world would be a better place if we adopted a plant-based lifestyle. I was embarrassed by the packaging of this message, but it was delivered in a spirit I supported with all my heart.

After the conference, I received numerous emails and calls from people who were inspired by my message, some asking for help. This was a major turning point as I finally realized that putting out beautiful food was not enough. I needed to share my experience and my beliefs in a much more direct manner. In turn, I could, in fact, change lives. As a society, we are so misguided; how can it be that we exist in a place where food in schools, hospitals, airplanes, homes, and restaurants actually kills us and contributes to disease? Natural food tastes incredible, and it can be delivered without compromise while still making us feel better than we ever have.

I realized that my mission was much more than serving good raw food, and that I should use every means possible to convey the meaning behind my mission. I was inspired by it. Nothing felt quite like empowering others to improve their lives.

Back at the restaurant, though, we were having a hard time realizing that mission. Business was pretty stagnant, and I was having difficulty collecting my stipend from Jack. Our bank accounts in Oklahoma were often negative, and I’d been stripped of my purpose and authority; I was barely hanging on. Then, a week later, I woke early one morning to an email from Jack.

Jack was clearly in over his head; he was not the fat money cat he (and we) thought he was and likely just realized that his so-called magic wasn’t going to change much in Oklahoma. I could have told him that if he had wanted to listen.

Having been on the precipice a few times in my career, I had learned t...