Bobby Trigg leads a tour of The Ferry House and Peacock Inn
By: Kristin Boyd
I’m sitting in the vestibule of The Ferry House, my purse pinched between my feet and my wandering eyes scanning the restaurant.
I peek behind the velvet curtains to get an eyeful of the lunchtime crowd. The sight makes my heart sink and my forehead sweat.
I think I might be underdressed.
I’m wearing a nice pair of plaid slacks, an off-the-shoulder black shirt and silver hoop earrings. But the other women here are decked out in fur coasts, silk scarves, brooches and pearls. They remind me of Queen Elizabeth; I probably remind them of Queen Latifah.
I decide to bolt. Doh! It’s too late.
He’s here: A smiling Bobby Trigg, who in response to my newbie plea for help, invited me to tour his Princeton restaurants, The Ferry House and The Peacock Inn.
We exchange hellos and handshakes as he escorts me to a corner table. He sips on Pellegrino, his favorite drink. "It’s water with bubbles," he explains. I don’t dare tell him my taste buds prefer tap-water Kool Aid.
Maybe it’s the bubbles, but he buzzes past the small talk and launches into the Life Story of Chef Bobby. His recipe for success goes like this:
Step 1: Burn-and-learn. As a boy, start dinner before mom gets home from work. Remember those recipes for later use.
Step 2: Work from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. five days a week for six-and-a-half years at the boring-but-busy government trading desk at Salomon Brothers on Wall Street.
Step 3: Learn to appreciate food by eating free lunches at ritzy Manhattan restaurants and almost marrying an Italian girl whose family relished Sunday dinners.
Step 4: Take a voluntary retirement at age 26, enroll in culinary school and rise through the chef ranks at The Peacock Inn.
Step 5: Experiment with French and Latin flavors. Find human guinea pigs. Perfect meals. Open restaurant by age 30.
Bake at 350, and voilà, you’ve got The Chef Bobby Special, complete with dimples deep enough to double as serving dishes.
Chef Bobby and I, his very important newbie, go back and forth like ping-pongs for nearly an hour, bouncing off each other, divulging personal factoids and funny anecdotes.
I learn he used to impress his dates by making veal or shrimp because cooking is cheaper than eating out. I’m good at making sandwiches, cereal and microwaveable soups.
He says his garage is packed with seven years’ worth of hand-written meal tickets. My computer room is stacked with yellowing newspapers dating back to the mid-1990s.
Back in the day when it was legal, he wouldn’t allow smoking because it kills dessert sales. I’d probably stick around for dessert during a two-alarm fire.
And he believes butter should always be served at room temperature. I concur.
With that, we cut through the kitchen, hop in his Ford 1-50 truck, which is twice my height, and head to The Peacock Inn. The restaurant is gutted to its wooden bones. There is no plumbing or electricity. The plaster, paint and wallpaper all are peeling.
Still, with every piece of debris falling from the third floor to the basement, Chef Bobby sees the miracle through the mess. "This is too amazing," he says. I agree. There’s nothing like watching your dreams come to life.
Long overdue to return to our real jobs, we smile at each other, walk through the muddy driveway and climb back into his truck.
"Guess that’s it," he says as we turn onto Hulfish Street. "You should come for dinner so you can savor the full Ferry House experience."
"Sure," I respond. I’ll be back as soon as I find something to wear.
If you’ve got suggestions on any sites the new girl in town should check out or any cool people she should definitely meet, please e-mail [email protected] or call (609) 924-3244, ext. 126.

