“Out of all the cooks that have come through the show, Michael is the most talented—both from a sensibility and technical standpoint. He has the chops to pull off what he’s trying to do.”

When Top Chef judge Tom Colicchio says that about you, it can really go to your head. But arrogance is not what got Michael Voltaggio—the mastermind behind L.A.'s modernist temple, ink.—to where he is today. The Top Chef Season 6 winner is the poster child for how far the time-tested combination of talent, humility, and grueling work can get you. 

This may come as a surprise to those who dismiss reality TV competition winners as celebrity-chef wannabes eyeing the shortest path to fame. “I looked at going on Top Chef as an opportunity to bring credit to that type of television so that there could be more opportunities for chefs outside of their kitchens,” says Voltaggio, who put a chef-de-cuisine gig with José Andrés at The Bazaar on hold to go on the show. 

“I thought maybe I could bridge the gap,” he says. “If you look back at people like Emeril and Julia Child, they were cooking on TV, and that was acceptable because they were as passionate about television as they were about cooking. For me, that’s what I wanted to do on Top Chef.”

It's definitely a departure from the “I just want my own line of cookware” school of reality TV intentions. But Voltaggio is a serious guy who earned his stripes the long, hard way. His culinary education is the American equivalent of an old-school French apprenticeship, where you’re sent away as a young teen to learn the trade, and come back a hardened professional. Except in Voltaggio’s case, he chose that path for himself.

“If you look back at people like Emeril and Julia Child, they were cooking on TV, and that was acceptable because they were as passionate about television as they were about cooking. That’s what I wanted to do on Top Chef.”

His journey took him from carving mice out of radishes for the poached salmon brunch platter at the Holiday Inn in Fredericksburg, Maryland to an apprenticeship at the Greenbrier resort in West Virginia, where he underwent an intensive, European-style culinary education that would prepare him for the rigors of chefdom.

“That’s where shit got real,” says Voltaggio. “That’s where I was like, wow, I want the uniform, the neckerchief, the toque, the brigade."

He went on to rise through the ranks, working impressive gigs that won him recognition and even a Michelin star. But, in the words of Bjork, Voltaggio suspected there was more to life than this. “Somebody said they didn’t start learning until they got out of the kitchen—I think it was Jean Louis Palladin,” says Voltaggio. “It’s so true. Chefs are the back of the house, and people automatically associate that with the kids who get in trouble like I did. But what’s funny is people rely on the back of the house to drive the restaurant, [and] you’re putting all the punks in the back. There was a sense of leadership coming from the kitchen that needed to have some intelligence to back it up. I think there was an opportunity for chefs to say, ‘Hey, wait, we’re smart too! We’re not just weird and creative.’” 

Whatever entails being a chef, Voltaggio is all in. “What else would I do?” he asks with a snicker. “The only other thing I started really enjoying—which is funny to say given the conversation we’ve had—[is] doing television. It’s something else I feel like I could be good at. When I’m outside of the kitchen, but talking about food.”

Here, Voltaggio pauses from kitchen life to talk Tortilla Espanola mishaps with NBA all-star Pau Gasol, as well as the life-changing experience of working at The French Laundry.

It sounds pedestrian, but it’s the first recipe that I memorized and could make continuously from memory. I was 15 or 16 years old, and I remember being told to make it. I did my research and thought to myself, that’s it? It taught me the importance of remembering basic recipes, but also the endless opportunities that would present themselves if the foundation was built well. In this case, onions, celery, rice, butter, stock and whatever other flavors your imagination could come up with.

I was 19 years old and working for Larry Forgione, the Godfather of American cuisine, at An American Place in New York City. During training, I was told to soak some cedar planks in a bucket of water, and I remember thinking to myself, what the fuck? However, my answer was “Yes chef.” Service starts. “FIRE ONE SALMON.” Chef said grab a plank, put the fish on it, and put it under the fire. I do it, but the fish is in flames under the fire. I’m thinking well that doesn’t seem right. Then chef notices and I realize very quickly it’s definitely not right. “New guy, what the fuck are you doing?” “Uh, I’m cooking the salmon chef?” “It’s on fire! Did you rotate the planks in the water so both sides were damp?” “Oh, no chef.” That moment was one of the most embarrassing of my career. My debut on the line was literally up in flames. I realized that a recipe is just a road map to a destination, but technique is what gets you there.  

At the time, I was working for Master Chef Peter Timmins. The man whose presence once scared the shit out of me would later become one of my best friends, and perhaps the biggest influence in my career. I was an apprentice in his brigade at the Greenbrier Hotel. He used to assign us recipes to cook from the writings of Auguste Escoffier. My favorite recipe was sole Veronique: white fish poached in a rich stock of its bones that would then be reduced, butter added, and the sauce would glaze the fish. Garnishes with peeled grapes? My mind was blown. I want every dish I make to have this much flavor and to surprise the palate the way that those few little peeled grapes did. At ink we do a branzino with roasted cauliflower puree, a sauce of reduced grape juice, and peeled grapes. Peter would later say to me as I left my apprenticeship, “One day you won’t be the student anymore, you will be the teacher. Are you ready for that?” My answer is still: no way! Rest in peace chef, your legacy continues to live strong through the many that you taught. 

This dish is one that I worked on for days—even weeks, maybe. It’s the only dish that was on our opening menu and still remains today. In restaurants, often the dessert hits the table, and regardless of how good it is, you feel like you’ve just sat down in a different place. This point made me think more about how everything in the restaurant should come from a consistent place. If it’s collaboration or one person’s vision, a story is being told, and the last chapter is usually dessert. This dish is a crème caramel made from apple cider, frozen pie dough, apple pate de fruits, and a frozen dome of apple wood sabayon—apple pie, but in a different way. This dessert embodies the original vision that I had for ink. Familiar flavors in unfamiliar packages. 

Every chef probably has a story about how this restaurant or its cookbook had an impact on their career. Well, here is mine. I was working at the Ritz Carlton in Naples Florida, cooking steak in the Grill Room with another friend and mentor chef Sonny Sweetman. He was leaving the hotel to go pursue another opportunity, so I asked for some advice. He said, what type of chef do you want to be? My answer was a great one. He said then I should go work for some of the great ones. I was married at the time, had a child, and did not have the money to just pack up, leave my hotel chef salary, and start over. I knew I needed to do something though. I saved my money and vacation time for another year until I had enough to travel to Napa, rent a room, and stage at the best restaurant in the U.S. under one of the best chefs in the world—Thomas Keller. On the third or fourth day of my stage, the chef de partie that I was working under accidentally poured boiling water on his own feet while blanching lobsters. I did what anyone would do: I showed up every day and tried to complete his prep list the way I watched him complete it for days. Then a couple of weeks went by. I was still doing the prep list, and it was as if the job was mine. I even got to wear the blue apron.

Well, now my stage was ending, my room rental was up, and I had to get back to the reality of my bills, my young child, and my salary at The Ritz Carlton. The last day I was there chef Keller walked up to me. “Michael, right?” "Yes chef." “Thank you for helping us out while the other guy is out. Now take off your apron." I think, oh fuck, what did I do? He walks me into his office, and a glass of champagne and a silverware setting is on his desk facing the line. Am I about to sit down at Thomas Keller’s desk and eat dinner at The French Laundry? The story could’ve ended right there. But then comes The Oysters and Pearls. I had prepped parts of it but never tasted it all together. Tapioca, butter, oysters, chives, caviar, perfection. The best thing I have ever tasted, and a benchmark for the goals I still hope to one day reach.

I'm in Los Angeles, working as head chef of The Bazaar for Chef José Andrés. José announces Pau Gasol and some of the Lakers are coming in for dinner. I think to myself, "Ok, I’m going to make a big Tortilla Espanola and show off a little for the table." I learned from José himself how to make the small one, so I though making a big one wouldn't be a big deal. Boy, was I wrong. José is known for modern cooking, but what I love about José is his knowledge and passion for classic Spanish cuisine. He is like an anthropologist of food. He knows the stories, the recipes, the techniques, the origins, and most of all, the importance of respecting them. I made the tortilla, I knew the onions, eggs and potatoes were perfect, so I sent it out. Probably 12” covering a large dinner plate. I have never seen José so angry with me. I have seen him mad, but this look was different. It was one of a disappointed father or something. “Voltaggio, not even the World Tortilla Champion of Spain would attempt to do that! Don’t mess with the classic tapas of this restaurant. They are the most important dishes on the menu.” In those few minutes, José taught me that often the tradition and story of a dish can be as important as the preparation. Chef, I still think it was a good tortilla, but no one will ever know. 

This is the first bread that I learned how to make. It would later have so many applications for me—one important being the truffle brioche buns that appear in the Volt ink. cookbook that I wrote with my brother, Bryan. This bread or dough can be a Danish, a slice of toast to serve with foie gras, a dessert of pain perdue, a morning sticky bun, a thin crispy tuille, a burger bun, or steamed and served as an interpretation of a steam bun used for dim sum. Chefs that say they aren’t bakers—and therefore don’t make bread—should make brioche and stop making excuses! 

At the Greenbrier, breakfast cookery was important for the hotel. Thousands would gather in the opulent main dining room for the fluffiest scrambled eggs I have ever laid eyes on. The trick: pour whole eggs into a nonstick pan with a little butter, place on heat. DON’T TOUCH! Wait until the whites start to cook, as if you were making sunny side up eggs. Wait. Once they look like a pan of emoji eggs, start scrambling with a rubber spatula, gently folding together the yolks and the whites as if you were making a soufflé. Season, add a little more butter, and serve. “Duh,” the lightest eggs ever. Years later I’m at ink. on the line. We have an egg yolk sauce on the beef dish. I was smearing it on the plate because five years ago, all of us chefs were smearing stuff for some reason. I went to wash it off and the hot water cooked it to the outside of my spatula. Egg “duh” moment number two. “Quick, get me a pastry bag.” I piped the sauce into boiling water, cutting each one with scissors. The egg yolk gnocchi was born. We would proceed to sell 50+ orders of these nightly. 

I was working under a man I would call one of the best technicians in the world—Arnaud Berthelier. He is the most under-recognized talent in the industry. He’s like a great indie film that only screened for a lucky select audience. He does it all out of genuine love and passion for cooking—not for fame, TV, bloggers, or awards. I quickly realized why the world admired the beauty of French cuisine so much: It looked like art but tasted like it too. Arnaud was so good at everything and rightfully so, as he worked under chefs like Laurent Gras and Alain Ducasse.

Back in 2001, I worked in the kitchen next to Arnaud while at the Ritz Carlton. One day I look over and see what appears to be a robot—a clear container full of meat in bags. I ask Arnaud, what is that? He opens the bag, and it was as if it was the first time I tasted meat. I’ve had short ribs, but not like this. He never advertised or bragged about the technique back then, as it was still new in kitchens in the U.S. I ask how he did it. “I cooked it sous vide.” I walked away pretending to know what he meant. I eventually look it up, and the words translate to "under vacuum." He would make trips from Florida back to France each year and bring back all sorts of new ideas. Although this technique was created long before our time, it was only now that it was making its way to the kitchens in the U.S. I knew that when I tasted that short rib, I had to work for him. I asked to be demoted from Chef of the Grill room so I could be sous chef of The Dining Room and work under Arnaud. I spent the next year cooking closely with a brilliant chef. Cooking sous vide would become a staple technique in my repertoire. 

I was given the opportunity to travel, co-host, and cook on a television show on The Travel Channel. This show was different than any reality cooking or travel show, though. Host Marianna Van Zeller and I traveled around the world to conflict zones. We filmed 13 episodes, and the goal was to gather conflicting sides around the dinner table for discussion. I was provided with a global understanding of conflicts, cuisine, and how food can bring people together. I cooked in Israel, Egypt, Lebanon, Sri Lanka, Sarajevo, Cyprus, Cambodia, Cuba, Myanmar, Kashmir, Rwanda, Mexico, and Northern Ireland. I learned so much about people, about struggle, culture and history. I laughed, cried, and had meals that I will never forget, in places that I will never forget, with people that I will never forget. The dinner table is a powerful place of ritual, relationships, nourishment, creativity, love, and sharing. It's a place to give thanks, and as a chef I’m proud and thankful to put food on the dinner tables of many.