CLASSIFIED: The Remarkable Life of Chef Karen Hubrich, Owner, Gruel Britania

Lloyd Allen June 14, 2022

CLASSIFIED: For your eyes only.

Beef Bourguignon. She was not supposed to be able to do that. Prepare it. Cook it. Cook anything, much less make lunch for a few aristocratic types, members of Parliament, the diplomatic corps. The Royal Family.

London, England. 1976. The British Press Association. High noon. The chef had just resigned. More to the point, retired. “My daughter can jolly well do it,” her father exclaimed. The report is that Karen countered with a startled, “Me?”

Nineteen years old, she had just returned from a 2 year stint in the United States, bouncing between New York and Los Angeles. Before that, she spent eight years in an English Catholic convent school, Sisters of the Immaculate Conception.

Though brought up ever so polite and proper, Karen showed little to no interest in finer British manners, and well, “off you go!” Perhaps the nuns could shape the morals of this wild young thing, set her right, mold her— or so her parents hoped, but that’s a another story. Unclassified, but still a story.

But executive chef for royalty? She had no culinary training, no experience in a kitchen, although she has admitted her parents were, “quite the cooks,” but right there and then, she decides to, for lack of better words, just “wing it!”

“My god, the roast beef looked tired and had freezer burn all over. I proceeded to thaw it and then overcook it. I steamed the beans until they were a gross gray, the meat and vegetables were sloshing in a pool of grease on fine china plates. It was simply awful and they loved it! And I thought to myself, ‘What on earth have you been eating?’”

Wing it: To do or try to do something without much practice or preparation.
Elegant: Graceful and stylish in appearance or manner. Polished, cultured, grand, luxurious, opulent, plush, high-class, exquisite.

So here she found herself. Found herself in more ways than one. Coq au Vin, caviar and chocolate soufflés say a lot yet very little about this winged marvel of a woman. For here, at a very early age and at a very exclusive club, she learned to fly. Fearlessly developing menus, analyzing costs, directing staff in a, (pun coming)— royal manner. No better charm school than under the watchful eyes of no less, the Queen of England. Breakfast & luncheons to boot!

And better yet, she leverages the whole experience into a catering business. Her clients? Need you ask? English aristocracy, those that she met and wowed. “To hell with the press club darling, bring that talent into our homes!” Private parties, intimate dinners, weddings and other celebrations, big and small, kept her schedule full for nearly 2 years, when all of a sudden it seems that a north wind began to howl and her free spirit answered its call, and before you could say Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, she’s back in New York. Perhaps England was a bit too stuffy. Who knows, but 21 and in the big city? Stick around. This story is front page, the material that makes headlines, but it ironically begins in the back pages of the paper, all the way back, in the classifieds.

Classifieds, remember them? Karen does. She’s answered a few. Where shall I begin? Polytechnic Institute of New York, Ritz Tower, Williams Club, Hunt Club, New York Times, Pequot Yacht club and somewhere in between two of these esteemed institutions she held a private chef gig for a certain singer songwriter Michael Bolton, but that, a mere side note to this drama. I’ll proceed.

So first off, it appears that she rode her bike out and over the Williamsburg Bridge to the Poly Tech interview. Yes, and in a dress for goodness sake! That day, dressing, I imagine for success, but let’s face it, when you’ve cooked for a queen— it should be no sweat, right? Like, so what Poly Tech: five kitchens, faculty and executive dining rooms, 100’s of people, some of them VIP’s, 8 servings daily, and the staffing, menus, purchasing, cost control & income analysis— whoo-whee! Thank you! Job well done! But— that’s all folks, that’s the end of it. One down, one to go. She always has her nose buried in those classifieds. Always! So…

Next stop, The Ritz Tower. Yes indeed. And let me start with this fact. There is Room Service in this luxury residential hotel; we’re talking early mornings, breakfast in bed— Eggs Benedict or over easy? How do you take your coffee? The private parties, the daily specials, the VIP guests… The individual requests, personal profiles, detail upon minute detail. Bringing order to chaos, she fine tuned, fixed, finessed. But, as sure as the sun rises in the East, another classified appears on the horizon and like someone from Britain’s MI6, Karen is off on her next assignment.

The well known Williams Club in Midtown Manhattan maintained a roster of some 4000 alumni, not counting family members and guests. Boasting 3 a la carte dining rooms and 4 banquet halls, this menagerie of mealtime mediocrity, this dark wood, cobwebbed cavernous collegiate calamity could no longer pretend that it was surely long past the time for a makeover; little did they know they had just hired Mary Poppins on steroids.

Reports are she jumped right in, magically managing 300 covers a day, while turning a stodgy old-fashioned “club” menu into a respectable world class ensemble of eclectic dishes. There were banquets and weddings too. Mind you, this is just the tip of the ironic iceberg, the fired flambé, the “too many cooks in the kitchen” predicament. For it was not just here, but before too, and other kitchens to come, where Karen’s formidable powers would be put to the test, engaged & challenged.

By what? By whom? A man, make that plural. Men, genuinely jealous creatures, loathsomely lazy, busy biding time, collecting a cowardly check. Passionless, pointless and pathetic— always there, literally the Gollum under the bridge, but no match for her magic. Not no one, not no how!

But hold on, wait a minute… All this said, all this done, she decides to take a break from Corporate Kitchen Culture. Talking to herself she asks, “Why not take the proverbial break?” Well, why not? So yes, she drops out. Goes underground, off the grid. Goes private.

It was around this time that I met Karen. My first farm stand stood at the bottom of King’s Highway in Westport. She lived at the top of the hill at the time, cooking out of her home and playing private chef for her neighbor down the hill, Michael Bolton. He lived up behind my farm stand on Nash’s pond. The stand was at the foot of the pond, beneath the waterfall. E. C. Nash had damned up the creek 100 years before to harvest ice and peddle it to anyone with an icebox. There were three ice barns. One still remains. Don’t get me started on that history lesson.

The above is a brief encounter, even by Karen’s employment timeframe, and she soon has another newspaper in hand, draws another classified wild card and takes up residency across town at The Fairfield County Hunt Club. It is now the year 2000. She finds the familiar, once again revamping an abysmally antiquated menu that had been tended to by a man, of course.

But there’s a twist to this, and again, brought about by the classifieds. Seems that the venerable New York Times is in dire need of an executive chef. The cafeteria and private dining room are on life support and hemorrhaging losses of a million and a half a year. Not a problem. Karen talks the Hunt Club into an early release from her contract so that she can go and perform triage over at The Times.

And well… Again! What have we here? Another slacker? Yes, you guessed it. And on the take, no less. Karen, pointing out to Arthur, the owner, that “swordfish is $15 a pound and you’re paying $25 a pound,” goes on to uncover other mysteries and irregularities, all the while doing her ‘super-cali-fragi thing,’” she not only brings the Times food enterprise back from the brink, but in doing so, proves it has profitability potential, thank you!

She stayed for six years before returning to The Hunt Club to mop up the mess left while she was away. I’m not going into this. We already know the story. She swabbed the deck. Sly as a fox, calculating culinary creations and brilliantly executing various visions of vitality, she forged on.

Then, Pequot Yacht Club in Southport, same scenario, same sad situation. With an unmentionable man made menu, the members rarely rendezvoused in the club’s dining room. Taking back Sunday with a brilliant brunch, she soon moved on to holidays, filling the club house each and every time. Before you could say ahoy there, lunches are being prepared for departing yachts; picnic lunches, private get togethers, then major and minor parties.

But at this point in her life, she had grown increasingly tired of it all, and taking prisoners was not an option. She shared with me that this was the one place she said, “f__k it” and walked away. The battle was not worth it. Retreating, a viable option. War has its outcomes, both good and bad. The spoils go the victor, even in retreat. Behind enemy lines, a classy club member asks her to make lunch for 100 employees. He needed a meal with verve, one nuanced with healthy flavors, every day, five days a week. With a sigh of relief, Karen obliged.

And suffice it to say, she continued with and expanded on her catering business which continues to this very day. But more than that, she’s journeyed very much beyond.

And this my fair friends is where we now find ourselves. Not at a private club or institution, college campus or corporate cafeteria, no VIP room. But here, at Gruel Britannia, Karen’s very own creation. With her unmistakable magical merriment, she has pulled together a small and rather uncannily intimate restaurant. Quaint and quirky, relaxed and approachable. Breakfast, lunch, high tea and dinner. British comfort food done with her style and mood.

The place caught on like wildfire almost immediately. It’s packed, inside and out most of the time. Some days, people cue up outside. Her holiday menus are fit for a queen. You only need ask the women dropping off their platters to be filled. Portions are heavy handed abundance. And “Takeout” is easy and plenty popular. Inside, up against walls, cabinets and shelves containing snacks and assorted oddities from England, give off a familiar “grab & go” roadside allure.

But here’s the rub. The intense popularity of the place has brought to bear a chaos unfamiliar to Karen, somehow very different. Ego investment? That goes without saying. A monster of her own making? For sure! And one that she is married to, tied to, for better or worse.

With a well rehearsed cast, understudies too, the show goes on, day after day, night after night. Spectacular! Spectacular! But if this is the encore, where does she go from here? What could possibly be next? Only Karen knows the answer, and I’m fairly sure, it’s CLASSIFIED.

Gruel Britannia

2217 Post Road

Fairfield, CT

203.292.6466