The Drive Behind Duets | Off Menu

LONGMONT, Colo. — “I was born into it,” says Chef Jeremy McGrath, calm and unassuming, without a hint of bravado. It’s not a line rehearsed for effect—just a simple truth shaped by heat, repetition, and time. His father was a chef. McGrath grew up not so much in a home as in a kitchen, raised by timing and trial, honed by mistakes and discipline. From the beginning, it was clear: nothing would be handed to him. “He bought me a cookbook and said, ‘Read it. I’ll help, but do it on your own—see what you get.’” 

So he did. But he wasn’t memorizing recipes—he was following instinct. Learning by doing, failing, tasting. Listening more to silence than to instruction. “A lot of it was on me,” explains McGrath. At first, he was just trying to follow his father’s path. But over time, imitation gave way to ambition. 

“Life was always a competition. I wanted to beat it—but I kept moving forward.” Eventually, the torch passed—not ceremonially, but with a quiet nod. Explains McGrath, “When I was in my 20s, he said, ‘Yeah, you got me there.’” 

McGrath didn’t arrive here by climbing a single ladder. He took the long way—through the hard brunch shifts and deep fryer burns of Gainesville, Florida, deep in college football country. “The place I worked was packed on Saturdays—everyone getting brunch before the game.”He learned speed. Survival. The unglamorous kind of hustle that makes or breaks cooks. But New York changed everything. 

He states, “when I got to New York and worked for David Chang, it shifted my whole focus. Suddenly I thought—‘Oh, I can actually do something here.’” New York demanded more than effort—it demanded obsession. “In Florida, you do your eight hours and you’re done. In New York? You come early. You prep. You don’t clock in. You just get it done.” 

Even after service, the work kept going. McGrath recounts, “Clean. Prep for the next day. Write your list on the train home. It was nonstop.” Not glamorous. But formative. Today, McGrath is executive chef at Duets in Longmont. And the question he’s asking isn’t what can I make?—but what does this place need from me? 

His answer is deliberate, grounded. “We lean into French technique when it makes sense… but I don’t believe food has to fit in a box.” His style is rooted in structure but open in spirit. One night it’s delicate ravioli. Another, wings braised in Coca-Cola. The only rule: make it cohesive, and make it good. “It’s about finding combinations that feel right—for everyone.” There’s no ego here. Just curiosity, and momentum. He says, “we’re always trying to do something.” 

McGrath has worn every hat in a kitchen—line cook, sous, chef de cuisine, and executive. Now, he balances vision with logistics. Art with operations. “One side is: does this feel right, creatively? The other side is: does it make sense?” It’s a constant tension. But he’s not alone. “The team manages itself well. That gives me space to look ahead—to plan specials, build things,” he says with here’s gratitude in his voice, and trust. 

The irony of being a chef is that you cook for people you rarely meet. McGrath has spent years in the back, anonymous. But that hasn’t dulled his need for connection. “The hardest part is connecting with guests. I’m not naturally forward-facing. I let the food speak.” Still, he’s reaching for something deeper—connection from farm to kitchen to table. “How do I connect my farmers to the people eating this food?”

That seed was planted at River and Woods in Boulder, where he met the growers behind his ingredients. But the system isn’t easy. “It’s backwards. I pay the same prices at the farmers market that I’d pay wholesale. It should be cheaper to buy direct.” He’s not moralizing—just naming a broken system. And he’s not done asking hard questions. 

“My end goal? Get good, local food to people at prices they can afford—and make sure farmers get paid.” McGrath isn’t just chasing flavor—he’s chasing what food used to mean. “I want to get back to when eating was something we did to connect with each other.” He’s seen it done differently—in Taiwan, at his wife’s family table.  He dreams, “there’s a lazy Susan in the middle. We’re all passing dishes around. Talking. It’s an experience.” 

That’s the spirit he wants to bring to Duets. Not just food, but presence. “I haven’t done it yet… but I want to create family-style dinners. Meals that bring people back together.” It’s not just a culinary goal—it’s an emotional one. Some dishes stick. For McGrath, it’s the tuna tataki—a plate he ate every day for two years at a now-closed New York restaurant. “Never get tired of it. That dish became part of me.” 

It’s on the menu at Duets now. Not as a flex—but as a memory. A marker. “I wanted people to see what I loved.”  Jeremy McGrath isn’t chasing attention. He’s not selling spectacle. His fire burns quieter than that. He cooks with purpose, with questions, with the hope that someone out there is listening. “I let the food speak for itself.” And if you’re paying attention—it does.