Talking coffee and careers with Jonathan Adams

First we knew him as "Johnny Mac" McDonald, the rising star chef at Snackbar tricked-out with molecular gastro powders and gels. Then we knew him as Jonathan Adams, the more mature, back-to-basics fish-and-chips master at Pub & Kitchen. Then he became a coffee roaster with a food truck - and ultimately quit restaurants altogether. These days, you'll find the father of three boys grilling toast and serving pour-overs at Rival Bros., the sleek corner cafe he recently opened with partner Damien Pileggi at 25th and Lombard.

At 36, and still with that roguish charm, Adams had plenty to say about a life full of successful transitions, growing as a chef, and embracing his new world as a coffee entrepreneur.

 Q. Your culinary career was a whirlwind. Who were your mentors?

A. I was waiting tables at Davio's and there was a guy in the kitchen that I really related to, John Marinelli, who showed me how to dice an onion, make a marinara . . . simple stuff. That's when I met Shola Olunloyo, who took me to Fritz Blank at Deux Cheminées. And the only thing I was allowed to do was make staff meal, which was a huge responsibility. But he was really tough on me. Very dramatic. He'd say, "Pick the leaves of this parsley," and then flip out they weren't all stacked in piles of 10. All the other guys on the line would be snickering, but I learned things I still carry with me. Fritz's number-one rule: Flavor trumps everything.

Did you lose sight of that in your first chef gig at Snackbar, where avant-garde techniques were the star?

 Did I rush in to [molecular gastronomy]? Definitely. It was jazzy, man. We'd sit around talking about caviars and spherifications for hours. In my mind, parsley-gelled cubes with vanilla salt and truffle oil really tasted good. But my skill wasn't fully developed enough yet. When I went to Pub & Kitchen, I questioned why I started cooking: because it satisfies people. The look on their face when you put real food in front of them is a high. I wasn't getting that reaction at Snackbar, and I wanted to get back.

You had so many fans at P&K. Why did you leave?

It was a family decision. Rival Bros. was already open. We were roasting, had a truck, and I didn't have a lot of time to give to it. There I was on my second child, and I made a conscious decision to be a father first. Other chefs can do it, but I couldn't make it work. I was beat up and I wanted to shift gears. Plus, coffee's food in a sense, and having the cafe open now fills that void. It's kind of like bartending or cooking in an open kitchen. You're making it, and it's got to taste right, and it has to look beautiful. That's a great feeling.

Where is the truck?

I loved having the truck, but we're in the process of selling it. The truck life was hustle, a ton of work. There's always something to replace - the transmission, the axle, the exhaust, the oil . . . If we'd had a small 18-inch griddle for food it might have been different. But we saw the writing on the wall.

There are suddenly a lot of local roasters. How is Rival Bros. distinct?

We wanted our coffees to be approachable. The West Coast coffees, to us, were too light and sour . . . but then we also didn't want to be as dark as Starbucks or even La Colombe. I think we've found a sweet spot. La Colombe is still the hometown hero. It's great to see them pushing forward [with their big new Fishtown cafe]. But I'm so proud of our smaller roasters, too, especially ReAnimator . . . Elixr, too. They're like the young George Clooney of the coffee scene now, that cafe is so sexy and put-together. Us? I'd like to think we're the Clint Eastwood of the scene: tried and true, making something you like and having dry comments to go with it.

What about the future?

We just want to make great coffee. I hope I'm in coffee for the rest of my life . . . But I still never opened the restaurant I've always wanted to open. That itch is there, and at some point it's coming.