Iliana Regan - Burn the Place : A Memoir

Advance Praise for Burn the Place and Iliana Regan

Perhaps the definitive Midwest drunken-lesbian food memoir.

Kim Severson, The New York Times

A remarkable exploration of the [memoir] form Burn the Place is a chef memoir only in the sense that the author turned out to be a chef. More rightly, it belongs on a shelf with the great memoirs of addiction, of gender ambivalence and queer coming-of-age, of the grand disillusionment that comes from revisiting, as a clear-eyed adult, the deceptive perfection of childhood.

The New Yorker

This raw and emotional memoir testifies to the power of persistence and grit. With vivid description, we explore Regans almost inborn connection to food and the earth, her rise as a queer woman in a male-dominated industry, and her journey to sobriety.

Real Simple

With this deeply personal work, Iliana reminds us that there is great strength in vulnerability. Her story is one of resilience, determination, and vision.

Ren Redzepi, chef and co-owner of Noma

Iliana Regans story is a memorable tale, with prose that deeply conveys the resilience and intensity she needed to find her undeniable success. Burn the Place will serve as inspiration for those in and outside of the kitchen.

Eric Ripert, chef and co-owner of Le Bernardin

Ilianas perspective is honest and unprocessed and speaks true to her own experiences. Burn the Place takes us through the incredible events that shaped her identity as a person and a chef. Iliana is one of the best chefs Ive ever known.

David Chang, chef and founder of Momofuku

[A] blistering yet tender story of a woman transforming Midwestern cooking, in a fresh voice all her own.

Publishers Weekly

It turns out that Iliana Regan writes the way she cooks: with a voice thats bold and soulful, tender and tough, impossible to ignore, and utterly her own. Burn the Place is much more than an account of hustling in the kitchen. Its a story about identity and addiction. Its about getting creative and becoming a boss. And its full of scenes of gothic drama that still give me goosebumps when I think of them.

Jeff Gordinier, author of Hungry

The dynamic story of a dynamic life.

Ms.

What bold new voice is this? Iliana Regan is out to shake up the literary world in the same way shes shaken the culinary world. Unexpected, flavorful, and distinctive, Burn the Place is a debut to savor.

Beth Ann Fennelly, author of Heating & Cooling: 52 Micro-Memoirs

Renowned chef Iliana Regan turns stuffy patriarchal stereotypes upside down. She is self-taught, charismatic, delightfully foul-mouthed, and utterly devoid of pretension as she parallels her ascent in the culinary world with a past strewn with AA chips, jail cell stints, and brutal family losses. This groundbreaking memoir reinvents the well-worn trope of the bad boy superstar chef, presenting us instead with a palpably vulnerable, complicatedly feminist, and sexy-queer-girl genius who takes no prisoners, including herself. Regans wild rags-to-Michelin story has appeal far beyond the foodie market, particularly among those hungry for tales of unapologetic women who have made it entirely on their own terms.

Gina Frangello, author of A Life in Men and Every Kind of Wanting

Scribner

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Copyright 2019 by Iliana Regan

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Scribner trade paperback edition August 2020

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Cover design by Jaya Miceli

Hand lettering by Tristan Offit

Cover photograph by Kendra Stanley-Mills

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-1-9821-5777-7

ISBN 978-1-9821-5916-0 (ebook)

To my beautiful wife, family, and dogs, who love me for all of my contrasts, both external and internal.

And to my sister Elizabeth, aka Bunny, and her daughters. They all shaped me.

This book is written to the best of my recollection. Some names have been changed, and some events have been pushed together or rearranged for narrative flow. Many important people and events in my life do not appear on these pages, because the story as written didnt call for their inclusion. Maybe there will be another memoir in the future that will include them.

Its Saturday night. The last night of our workweek. Weve shut down and a few of my employees are gone. A few are still inside. I pull the gate shut and lock it. Im too tired to care. Im completely over all of it. Its late now; the moon is bright and casts my shadow against the door. They realize Im finally doing it. I hear them screaming like in some postapocalyptic movie where Im only allowed to save myself, maybe one other, but the rest we have to let die.

I listen. Its pathetic, really. The red tank of gas gurgles as I pour its contents over everythingthe doors, the walls, the garbage container where the gas line runs up the side of the building. My hands shake, my gut drops, and my head, oh dear, my head. My fucking head. Obsessively I recall every time Ive had to repeat myself, every time they dont listen, every time they fuck something up, every time I just have to do everything MY. GOD. DAMN. SELF.

Fuck you! I scream.

I want to take out the whole fucking block. I light a cigarette and get in my truck. I sit there for a minute and suck hard. The smoke enters my lungs and it hurts, but I like it. Its a good hurt, like I know Im doing something bad, something that could kill me or will.

The smoke blurs my vision as I slowly let it seep from my mouth. I step out of myself, objective for a moment, and think, Do I want this? Do I want to change my mind? But I dont.

I pull away and with a flick of the butt, its all gone.

In the summer of 1983, I turned four and learned a whole lot. For starters, I found out I wasnt a boy.

I sat at the top of the creaky stairs of our old farmhouse. I traced my finger along the wall, outlining invisible unicorns. Id already gotten in trouble twice for using crayons. My sister ran up the stairs, naked beneath her robe. Nina was seventeen. I pointed at her boobs.

Am I going to get those when I get big?

Yes.

She sat next to me at the top of the stairs.

But why? I dont want them.

Because you are a girl. It hurt my ears. I felt ashamed. Why was I a girl?