Firehouse chefs come to the rescue Firehouse chefs come to the rescue (May 21, 2004)

Novice cook learns from city's A squad

By Julie O'Shea

In a scene that could have easily come from an episode of "Sex and the City," I recently found myself dining with nine of Mountain View's finest firefighters.

Truly, I lead a charmed life.

When "A" Shift is on call, dinnertime at the Shoreline Boulevard fire station guarantees a few things -- witty banter, incessant laughter, and some of the best darn grub this side of the Peninsula.

I arrived for my dinner date to find John Raumann, a 16-year fire department veteran and former city police officer, peeling avocados. It was Cinco de Mayo, and Raumann informed me the menu was chicken flautas a la Spanish-style Rice-A-Roni.

Looking around the station's spotless kitchen, I coyly asked if our beverage selection would also be reflecting the Mexican holiday but was flatly informed that we would not be sipping margaritas, even non-alcoholic ones, that night.

Raumann poured me a glass of ice water before turning to pull six pounds of crisply baked chicken parts out of the oven. I couldn't help but gape. Starving, I found the massive tray filled with sweet-smelling, golden-brown fowl oddly mesmerizing. It looked textbook perfect.

I asked the firefighter what his secret was. "Salt and pepper," he answered with a wink.

John Raumann, as I would soon find out, is excessively modest.

A month earlier, I had gotten a call asking if I'd like to learn a few new tricks from the god of firehouse cooking. Why would anyone pass up such an offer? I booked an appointment immediately.

Preparing fresh guacamole below a little yellow sign that read, "Danger: Men Cooking," Raumann -- a tall man who looks, dare I say, a little like Clint Eastwood -- stopped to greet me with a warm handshake when I strolled into the station kitchen on May 5.

Shortly after taking a seat on a counter barstool, I found myself walking Raumann through a detailed history of my cooking neurosis. Although I did catch him smirking several times, Raumann, for the most part, was encouraging and sympathetic, telling me how he'd endured months of meatloaf dinners during the early years of his marriage. But considering I don't know a thing about making meatloaf, Raumann's tale of woe didn't do much to boost my ego.

For the next half hour, we had the kitchen to ourselves. The rest of the crew was at a meeting, giving me a perfect opportunity to ask some stupid questions. Pointing to the freshly baked chicken on the counter, I sheepishly asked Raumann if he was sure the bird parts had been cooked thoroughly enough.

He assured me they were done.

But because some of the chicken wings still looked raw, I pressed on, my salmonella/E. coli/mad cow disease phobia beginning to rear its ugly head.

"If you just follow some simple rules, you will avoid these things," he said calmly, poking a chicken piece with a fork, and watching as a clear juice dripped onto the cooking tray. Yes, Raumann repeated, our meat was definitely done. The clear liquid, he told me, was a good indicator that the oven had done its job.

By the time we had moved onto the secrets of the flauta stuffing, the rest of the "A" Shift crew began trickling through the backdoor. All of a sudden the firehouse turned into a Raumann love fest. Everyone made sure to let me know they worship him.

"We are very lucky at this station because we have him. He makes good food night after night after night," said Patty Juergens, who became a Mountain View firefighter four years ago.

The fuss, however, didn't seem to faze Raumann.

"These guys flatter me all the time," he said, brushing off the kudos. "They just want me to keep on cooking."

The real chef, Raumann insisted, is Juergens whose specialty is desserts. That night, we would be having Juergens' much-loved Apple Danish, a dish I am certain I will never be able to cook without burning. It comes from one of those start-from-scratch recipes that never seem to hold my interest past the initial visit to the grocery store. Juergens, on the other hand, is a natural which is not unnoticed by her colleagues.

Raumann bragged: "Patty has the confidence to make these things."

Soon it is just Juergens and Raumann left in the kitchen. At the ends of the long counters, the two work in silence. I watched in awe for a few seconds before asking Raumann if he was always suckered into cooking at work. He confessed that this side gig is part hobby, part self-preservation.

"Some fellas you don't want near perfectly good groceries," he said, not naming any names. A small part of me still thinks he was inadvertently referring to me -- after all I was allowed nowhere near the cooking utensils that day.

Mountain View firefighters are accustomed to eating and cooking together since they work 24-hour shifts. Each morning, the members of "A" Shift fork over some cash for a hot, home-cooked meal. Later, they make a point to sit down for dinner as a family. There is merciless teasing and funny stories retold around the long dining room table during these evening hours.

And I found myself getting into the middle of these good-natured dinnertime chats. While I ranted about a recent traffic ticket, the guy sitting next me moaned about his busted truck tire and someone else complained about his bulging waistline.

This was exactly the kind of shop talk that could keep me entertained for hours. If truth be told, I didn't want to leave. But, alas, all good things must come to an end.

Before I left, Raumann gave me a hug, promising that I, too, would one day become a cooking goddess.

"It's simple," he said. "Call me if you've got a problem."

E-mail Julie O'Shea at joshea@mv-voice.com

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