JUNE 13 – 26, 2007 THE IMPROPER BOSTONIAN 31

AS A WRITER, I try to approach wordsthe way, say, celebrated chef-restau-rateur Ken Oringer approaches

exotic ingredients: with asense of wonder and a

knack for showcasing them in strik-ing combinations. But an article on aday in the life of Oringer himselfbrooks no zingy rhetoric. As he negotiates two nearly simultaneousrestaurant openings—taqueria LaVerdad and steakhouse KO Prime—on the eve of Clio’s 10th anniversary,his every moment is too full for meto waste space on style. Come joinus; you’ll see what I mean.

The man behind Clio and Uni is branching out his business, growing his family and having a blast.

By Ruth Tobias I Photos by Kerry Brett Hurley and Anthony Tieuli

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JUNE 13 – 26, 2007 THE IMPROPER BOSTONIAN 3332 THE IMPROPER BOSTONIAN JUNE 13 – 26, 2007

sighs. “Even Clio was easier [to open] thanLa Verdad. It has something to do withwhat’s not familiar to me. When you thinkabout it, a taqueria’s a taqueria; it’s as downand dirty as you can get. I had a really highvision of how La Verdad would be, but I’dnever had to deal with 250 people in onehour. We’re charging less for a taco thananyone”—I imagine that’s debatable, butdon’t interject—“yet we’re makingeverything ourselves. But people who comefor a $2 taco and a $4 Corona aren’t goingto notice. So even if your vision is as seriousas it is, they don’t take it as seriously. It’sbeen quite a learning experience.”

1:45 PM Clio

Ken and his longtime general manager,Christian Touche, catch up excitedly onthe preparations for Clio’s 10th-anniver-sary party June 10—a $1,000-a-head bene-fit for the Harvard Center for Neurodegen-eration, with guest chefs coming fromPatria, WD-50 and Hudson Valley FoieGras (and those are just the New Yorkers).As Ken goes to change into his chef’swhites, Touche—clearly in a reflectivemood—traces the path to such a momen-tous occasion.

Back when the Eliot Hotel had noworld-class restaurant, he recalls in histhick French accent, a young man with abackpack approached him in the breakfastroom after taking notes on his Frenchtoast. “He says, ‘I’m the new guy.’ Heexplains his concept: He wants to doavant garde food but with a base of tradi-tional French cooking. We connect, andhe asks me to be his manager. And I say

yes without knowing 10 years later I wouldstill be here. [Now] we’re like an old cou-ple. Before he was married, my wife calledhim my mistress.”

I don’t have to ask any questions;Touche is on a roll. “His philosophy wasvery simple: Focus on food. [Use] whiteplates. No flowers on the table. No salt andpepper. Some people were upset: ‘Where’sthe salt?’ They complained about portionsizes. They wanted mashed potatoes andweren’t happy if they didn’t leave withdoggie bags… But back then I said, ‘Wow,it would be great if you really broughtsomething new to Boston.’ And it hap-pened. When [Ken] has something in hishead and he knows it is right, he doesn’tchange a thing. And usually he is right.”

2 PM Clio kitchen

I know what to expect by now: a crew ofsix or seven well-groomed young menworking quietly and intently on a giventask. One shells a heap of lobster tails, onegingerly separates sheets of bean curd, onechops chives at warp speed. What I don’texpect: They’re doing it all in a kitchenno bigger than the one in my own dinkyapartment.

Nor do I anticipate the hugeness of thetreasure trove that is the downstairspantry, and the excitement with whichKen still raids it. Jars and bottles and bagsand bins cram the shelves, their labels inSpanish, Korean, Arabic. A prep table ispiled high with produce Ken virtually fon-dles—long beans, ramps, green garlic. Hethrusts baggies of fresh chocolate mint andlemon verbena under my nose for a sniff,

has me taste cherry-blossom petals fromthe walk-in freezer that’s lined with con-tainers of mushroom oil and lamb tongues.

Back upstairs, sous chef Andres JulianGrundya presents him with a foie gras spe-cial-in-progress, garnished with a brightpink rhubarb-lavender foam. Ken tastes it,ponders, responds unhurriedly: “Therhubarb is delicious. The lavender comesout nicely—perfumey, but not like grand-ma’s closet. The color is crazy. Can we usea different plate?” Next he tries some bur-rata soup—spoonful, pause, spoonful,pause—and directs a line cook to add a lit-tle chorizo juice to the batch. And thenhe suggests we head to La Verdad “beforeit gets too crazy”—the Sox are in townthat evening, and the sun has come out.It’s a warm spring afternoon. He’s stillwearing his apron.

3:45 PM Walking to La Verdad

Granted, he admits, his whole life hasbeen an apron-clad journey.

“I couldn’t wait to get my first job. Thefirst day I was allowed to work legitimately,I was at a department store restaurant. Iremember cracking 12 dozen eggs, and Iwas so excited just to do that. I’d neverseen so many eggs at one time. Then Iwent to business school….”

Does that mean becoming a restaurateuras well as a chef was always part of theplan? “Yes. I like to be my own boss. I neverwanted people telling me what to do. Buteven then I’d cook whenever I could. I’d gointo people’s dorm rooms and look in theirfridges and say, ‘Oh, I’ll cook you dinner.’ Itwas a good way to meet girls.”

3:55 PM La Verdad

Ken makes the rounds, greeting the linecooks in Spanish, shaking hands; he smilesat the matronly tortilla lady, impassivelyworking handfuls of dough from an enor-mous bowl of masa. It’s obvious he gets acharge out of the month-old taqueria, co-owned by the locally ubiquitous LyonsGroup. “We really wanted to create some-thing very funky, Mexico City street-style.We wanted a takeout window. We’ve got60 tequilas, all 100 percent agave. In themargaritas, there’s no triple sec, noCointreau, none of that stuff. That’s whywe call it La Verdad—it’s the truth ofMexican street cooking.”

As the bar fills up with pre-game revel-ers, we rejoin the Improper photographerout on the curb, where an electric-bluelow-rider truck sits, emblazoned with Dayof the Dead–style decals. Ken merrilyboasts, “It’s our only form of advertising.The horn plays the La Cucaracha song,the Mexican Jumping Bean song.… I justwant to drive it up and down NewburyStreet.” He gets behind the wheel andmugs for the camera. But his eye neverstrays for long; as we leave, he spies a bar-tender going the wrong way with a tray ofmargaritas and confers with her briefly tofind out why. (Too strong, the customerscomplained. Apparently the truth hurts.)

4:45 PM Walking back to Clio

I ask a man who doesn’t seem to have amoment to spare what his ideal day offwould look like. “Probably just chillingout,” he decides. “I’d go do yoga in themorning with Celine, go to some reallyfunky place for brunch. Then maybe go toa movie, grab some cocktails, have somepeople over for dinner. There’d be a lot oflaughter…” I interrupt. “You’d cook onyour day off?” He laughs. “Yeah. But wedon’t have a kitchen in our apartmentright now. It’s under construction.”

FRIDAY, MAY 11, 11 AM Toro, South End

The first thing I’m hit with when I arrivefor Toro’s weekly staff meeting is the lastthing I’d expect from a restaurant with anopen kitchen: calm and quiet. No rock onthe airwaves, no raucous laughter in theair—just three or four clean-cut youngmen in pristine chef’s whites movingdeliberately around the spotless workspace,methodically separating eggs, trimmingbrussels sprouts. Others soon appear out ofnowhere: managers Alyssa Shepherd andAdam St. Jean, who’s chatting with a wil-lowy, dark-haired beauty. She turns to me,smiling, and introduces herself as Celine,Oringer’s wife of nearly a year and co-owner of Toro. Before I can pry into theircourtship, Oringer arrives—shaggy-haired,denim-clad, a backpack over one shoulder.At 41 years old, he’s a ringer for a collegesenior. Her eyes light up. He heads straightfor her. They literally nuzzle. I stare at thewine specials on the blackboard, ponder-ing my romance-writing credentials.

But then the room comes into focus forKen (as we’ll now call him; we’re about toget to know him pretty well), and the con-versation turns to lighthearted matters ofbusiness—like whether or not Toro’s newwatermelon-based cocktail is “girlie”—until Ken’s cell rings (as it does, on aver-age, 20 times an hour). When he hangsup, he laughingly tells us, “I just told apurveyor if he could find me a new Unirecruit I’d pay him $1,000. Doing thebackwards headhunter thing.” Finally Ken,Celine, Adam, Alyssa and chef de cuisineJohn Critchley—one of the tidy young

gents from the kitchen—gather aroundone of the tapas bar’s long communaltables to talk turkey. Or, rather, pork belly,octopus and glass eels (“they’re up to $350a pound,” Ken remarks off the top of hishead, “so we’d have to charge, like, $65 fora small order”). They talk equipmentrepairs, from dishwashers to fire alarms.They talk patio maintenance, hiring prac-tices, entertainment licenses. They eventalk Pamplona: Ken wants to do some-thing special for the Running of theBulls—maybe rent a widescreen TV to airit live, or throw a costume party with freechurros for guests who dress up.

For such a casual, leisurely meeting—only John and Alyssa take notes—it’s sur-prisingly orderly, especially given the sheerrange of topics they’re covering. As Kenobserves later, “[People] think, ‘Somebodycooks something, somebody serves it, andsomebody eats it.’ It all seems so simple.But it’s much more complex than that. Ittakes all these people to run a restaurant. Ilove the teamwork.”

12:15 PM Silver Line, en route to

Downtown Crossing

Yes, Ken Oringer takes public transporta-tion. Though he has a license, he isn’t anardent motorist (unless a low-rider pickupis involved; more on that later). Nextstop: spanking-new steakhouse KO Prime.

“When Kimpton [Hotels] approachedme, they said I could do anything I wantedto do. So I said, ‘Why doesn’t someone doa steakhouse that’s a real restaurant? We’llserve beef from all over the world—all dif-

ferent types, from dry-aged to prime tobistro-type cuts to Japanese Wagyu tocorn-fed to grass-fed. Let’s have every partof the animal from oxtail to sweetbreads.Let’s have everything from an organicsalad to raw fish dishes.’”

“A steakhouse everyone can visit,” Iprompt.

“Yeah, and a couple of times a week!Create a modern, sexy feel, bring in a young-er clientele, so it’s not the old boys’ club….”

But just as he’s warming to his subjectwe pass through Chinatown, and he gets awistful look. “I usually like to spend a lotof time in Chinatown, looking for exoticingredients. If I didn’t have so much to dotoday I’d probably get off the bus rightnow, grab a Vietnamese sandwich”—hegestures toward the awning of NewSaigon—“and go to the market.” Andthen? “Some of the stuff I play with Inever can figure out how to use; some endsup on the menu that night. We have kim-chi paste in our cocktail sauce at KOPrime. I really like thinking about thedetails people don’t even detect.”

OK, but what about the big picture? Ishe carving out a vast empire, with LaVerdad and KO Prime just the latest twoventures—as he must know some industry-

watchers suspect—or just living in themoment? Ken shrugs. “I’m far from adreamer. A lot of people have big dreams,but they’re so full of shit they can nevermake things happen. If I had stopped tothink about it, opening a taqueria and asteakhouse within a month of eachother—it’s suicide. But if I have theopportunity to do something I want to do,I’m going to do it; I’ll figure out how tomake it work. In terms of conquering theworld…” He pauses. “I just want to dowhat I can have fun with. Because I’mmarried now. In three years I’m going tohave kids and I’m not going to want to beworking 120 hours a week.”

But right now, it’s obvious he’s loving it.

12:30 PM KO Prime

This kitchen’s much bigger and more clut-tered than Toro’s. Yet here, too, the paceremains methodical, the decibel level low.

Ken’s got his fingers in a dish of potato-roasted garlic gratin; he’s grabbing a sliceof prosciutto and asking, “What are youdoing with this?”; he’s checking out a panfull of duck necks: “Wow, nice, what wasthe price?” And when he has a question,his employees have an answer. Always.Not once in the course of the day do Ihear an “I don’t know” or “I forget.”

The Improper photographer sets up ashoot with Ken and chef de cuisine JamieBissonnette, about whom Ken enthuses, “It’salmost like destiny—his neighbor inConnecticut was my roommate in college.He’s not afraid of bold flavors; I love howhe’s very French-oriented, but he’s a bistrocook at heart. And he’s a fun guy. He’s alunatic.” The photographer keeps urgingKen to smile; he gives Jamie a grotesque leer.

1:30 PM Green Line, en route to Hynes

I mention my surprise at the cool compos-ure his kitchen crews emanate—so far fromthe rowdy, breakneck stereotype. “I like forthings to be very organized,” Ken concedes.“I can’t stand chaos, people scramblingaround. Wait’ll we go to La Verdad—’causethen you’re going to see not orderly.” He

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