Inside a burger joint known as Mr. Juicy, a distant memory crystalizes. The details take Andrew Weissman, owner and chef, back 31 years to an NBC News bureau in Mexico City. Back to a kitchenette where he was preparing dinner. Back to a handful of tomatoes and a question that perplexed him.
“How do I blanch and peel them?”
Weissman called home. His mother in San Antonio told him what to do, and voilà, the skin came off. “I was green,” recalled Weissman, an acclaimed culinarian. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
In 1994, Weissman was a freelance journalist, reporting on Mexico’s presidential election for Rio Grande Valley television stations. He was also, by default, the NBC bureau’s cook.
One evening, he prepared a meal for Emmy Award-winning correspondent George Lewis and a network crew. Weissman does not remember what he served, but the response led to a pivot.
As he recalls, Lewis said: “My camera crew and I travel all over the world, and this is some of the best food we’ve ever had.” As wine flowed, heads nodded and conversation resumed, the words of a news legend sinking deep.
Weissman called home again. This time, he told his mother he wanted to attend culinary school.
Thirty-one years later, Weissman occupies a prominent, if unusual, place in culinary America. He is a celebrated French chef who derives pleasure in creating the most succulent burger in town. He is a four-time James Beard nominee who showed no interest in cooking until his late 20s.
“I never saw him make anything,” said his mother, Stevie Weissman. “I don’t think the boy ever boiled water.”
Struggling journalist, budding cook
The path to culinary stardom began in Polanco, an upscale neighborhood in the Miguel Hidalgo borough of Mexico City. Weissman arrived without a job and not much to support himself. What he had was a little cash and a serendipitous connection.
After earning a degree in radio, television and film from the University of North Texas, a friend introduced Weissman to Robert Rivard, then the editor of the San Antonio Express-News. Rivard put Weissman in touch with the paper’s correspondent in Mexico, who connected him with the bureau in Polanco.
Weissman rented a room for the equivalent of $150 a month and used bureau money to buy groceries. From the mercado, he brought back greens and vegetables and a little meat. He’d toss a salad for himself and the staff and add protein.
He was more productive in the kitchen than in the field. In two and a half months, he prepared numerous meals but sold three stories. “They were bad,” Weissman said. “I wasn’t really comfortable in front of a camera.”
The camera loved George Lewis. So did viewers and critics. Accolades fell on him like confetti. Three Emmy Awards. A Peabody Award. An Edward R. Murrow Award. When Lewis arrived in Polanco, Weissman knew in his gut: He’d never reach the top in broadcast journalism.
Lewis showed up with a cameraman, a sound technician and a driver. They joined the bureau staff one evening for dinner prepared by Weissman. “I remember fresh ingredients he came up with to enhance the meal, like tomatillo and cilantro,” recalled Lewis, “but I don’t remember what was served.”
Time has shrouded other details but one remains clear. Lewis, 82, remembers a budding culinarian. “This is a guy,” Lewis said, “who had potential.”
A cameraman — and a connoisseur of gourmet fare — echoed Lewis, offering encouragement. “But did they mean it?” Weissman wondered. “Is their kindness coming from a place of pity?”
From French cuisine to juicy burgers
On the advice of his then girlfriend, Weissman applied to the Culinary School of America in Hyde Park, New York. To his surprise, he was offered a $2,000 incentive to enroll early. Arriving in the summer of 1994, he became a quick study and graduated at the top of his class.
“I was totally flabbergasted,” Stevie Weissman said.
From the CIA, her son took flight, training under master chef Jacques Thiebeult in France and working at Michelin-starred restaurants in Europe. “He found his calling in pleasing people,” she said. “Everyone loves his food.”
Her son sits on a metal stool at Mr. Juicy, surrounded by customers, not an empty table on the floor. Servers move past, carrying trays of burgers, fries, shakes and chicken sandwiches. At this location on Northwest Military Drive, outdoor picnic tables accommodate the overflow. The place pulses with energy.
Weissman did not make his mark with ground chuck. He made it with French cuisine. His first local venture, Le Rěv, put San Antonio on the culinary map. Texas Monthly named it the best restaurant in the state. Gourmet magazine ranked it the sixth best in the U.S. The New York Times heralded Weissman with the headline, “Back From France, Winning the Heart of Texas.” The Times gushed over his poached oyster on a half shell, the caramelized onion tart, the sautéed duck liver and striped bass with trumpet mushrooms.
Stevie Weissman marveled at her son’s work ethic and attention to detail. He touched every plate served and logged 11 hours or more a day. “He had to be there all the time,” she said. “He actually had — and this is crazy — an appendicitis attack. He had to have his appendix removed one morning and he was back at work that night.”
James Beard nominations followed. Successful Weissman restaurants sprang up after the closing of Le Rěv. Unlike so many peers, he does not revel in acclaim or self-promote. His social media pages contain no mention of awards. His X account bio reads, “Love my wife, kids n work. Love my life!”
It shows. Seated at Mr. Juicy, not far from Churchill High School, his alma mater, Weissman reflects, a smile lighting a face of salt and pepper stubble. Eyes gleam through blue-framed glasses. What a journey it’s been.
Lewis had no idea. Reached at his home in Norwood, Colorado, Lewis said he had not seen or spoken with Weissman since Mexico City. Curious, Lewis did an online search in response to a query from the San Antonio Report. “I didn’t realize I had that kind of positive influence on him,” he said. “That kind of floors me.”
Memories flicker. The old bureau is a blur. It was small, approximately half the size of Mr. Juicy’s 3,000 square feet. The kitchenette, even smaller. Lewis can see the cilantro. Weissman can hear the chatter and feel the warmth, the ebb and flow of one long ago meal that turned a life.
