Dearest Chef Rucker,
Your food wows me. From your Portland restaurant’s amazing flavor pairings (the foie gras terrine in August was fantastic) to your good deeds (albeit via the James Beard foundation, I do love a kiss ass), my love for your culinary genius overwhelms my taste buds. My palette aches for you. The New York Times has even convinced me I need to move to the city where my mother lives, something no one else has been able to do, but I am considering because I want to eat your food everyday. Writing this letter brings me to a chef-crazed groupie status, making it impossible for me to ever actually be friends with you. In my defense, how can I resist professing my love for a chef that Food & Wine says, “he’s talented and bold enough to play with classic dishes that might include…an entire field’s worth of vegetables.” *sigh* That’s not even what I love about your food, although I would love to eat an entire field of Pacific Northwest veggies. Oh and they quote you as saying, “I love any tongue.” *audibly giggling* Me too.
One of your groupies,
rara avis.
