Hi there—my name’s Curtis James, and if you’ve ever found yourself elbow-deep in demi-glace at 2 a.m., wondering whether you should’ve reduced that jus just a bit longer… well, we’re probably going to get along just fine.
I’m 38 years old, originally from Asheville, North Carolina, and now based in Portland, Oregon—a city that pulses with creativity, especially when it comes to the plate.
My journey into the culinary world didn’t begin with a lineage of French-trained mentors or a grandmother’s handwritten recipe book passed down through generations. It started with a cast-iron skillet, a busted apartment stove, and a stubborn desire to make dinner better than the night before.
My first official kitchen gig was as a dishwasher at a bistro that didn’t take itself too seriously—but the food? That was a different story. I was the guy peeking around the corner, watching every move the line cooks made, scribbling notes on napkins, tasting sauces when no one was looking. I eventually worked my way up the ranks, bouncing from grill to sauté to pastry, chasing a hunger that wasn’t about food so much as it was about excellence.
After attending the New England Culinary Institute, I staged in kitchens across the U.S. and Europe. I’ve cooked in wood-fired pizzerias in Florence, mastered precision plating in a Michelin-starred spot in Chicago, and even ran a remote pop-up in Montana where we plated smoked elk tartare for fly-fishers in waders. That’s kind of my thing—pushing boundaries without losing the soul of a dish.
What drives me is the craft. I believe food is one of the few universal languages that speaks equally through detail and spontaneity. As a chef, I see my role not only as a technician and artist, but as a mentor. That’s why I’m here—to share, teach, and learn from fellow professionals who, like me, know that perfecting a dish is never a destination—it’s a rhythm. A discipline. Sometimes, it’s a well-earned bruise from a sharp corner of the lowboy.
Do I mess up? Oh yeah. I once tried to reinvent a clam chowder using liquid nitrogen for effect—served it to twelve guests before I realized I’d completely over-salted the base stock. But hey, humility is as essential as salt. Maybe more.
These days, I’m the executive chef at a progressive, plant-forward restaurant downtown. We’re blending Southern roots with Pacific Northwest ingredients—think sorghum-glazed carrots over smoked beet purée, with fried collard stem chips. It’s weird. And it works.
I’m constantly experimenting, refining, and reimagining—because cooking, to me, is never static. It’s a living craft shaped by hustle, heartbreak, and the small triumphs that happen between prep and plating. If you’re someone who thrives on midnight brainstorms, thrives on brutal honesty over beautiful technique, and lives for those deep kitchen conversations long after the burners are off, reach out. Let’s swap stories, share scars, and keep pushing the craft forward—together.