Skip to main content

Book 12: The Nasty Bits, Anthony Bourdain.

The death of Tony Bourdain earlier this year came as a nasty shock to the global food community. All those of us who make a living from cooking, running restaurants, writing about food, even from eating it, felt we'd lost one of our own. No writer had ever better expressed the somewhat marginal, slightly out of kilter life of the professional chef with more verve or accuracy, and few have done as much to make us feel as proud of what we do. Bourdain was real, he was a proper cook who came up banging out covers in restaurants of varying degrees of quality, a world away from the idealised aspirational plates of the Sunday supplements, or the latest gushing broadsheet review of some high concept place you'll never in a million years be able to afford. He was emphatically not a celebrity chef. He was a cook. Who along the way acquired a degree of celebrity.

He understood in his bones that sometimes it's just about getting it done, and this book collection of his journalism and random articles opens with perhaps the strongest piece here: "System D" the expose of the moves chefs make when under a bit too much pressure, a few too many covers, the pressing need to just get the fucking food out, leaning on steaks, slightly over-liberal use of the microwave or deep fat fryer (the "wet oven" to those in the know), the alternatives rustled up when that pea shoot garnish has just disappeared (anything green!), as well as even more dubious practices . It's a funny piece which manages to encapsulate a broad sweep of culinary history in a just a few pages, and will have any seasoned pro nodding and smiling wryly in recognition (though no such practices ever occur in my kitchen, I assure you. Ahem.)


Eslewhere it is, as you'd expect from a collection of journalism, a bit patchy. Some pieces are clearly written for a market (which Bourdain makes clear in an illuminating appendix detailing the reasoning behind each piece). It's interesting to see him developing his writing chops over time, gradually losing some of the more obnoxious edges which made Kitchen Confidential, such a compelling read in my twenties, something more of an eyebrow raiser once I'd grown up a bit. I could live without his overly street celebration of the grimier side of New York (and so could he, he eviscerates it in the appendix) and some pieces read as a bit dashed off. The short story at the end is trite and sentimental (though worth reading for the list of dishes concocted by its chef protagonist if, like me, you like that sort of thing).

Elsewhere there are interesting musings on schisms within chefdom ("Are you a Crip or a Blood?") which are food for thought for pros, and probably slightly mystifying to everyone else, and plenty of travelogue type pieces which are clear pointers to his later television career. There's also a slightly troubling piece from the set of one of those TV programmes, in which he jumps from a huge rock into the sea, not caring whether he lives or dies. It's unsettling to read in the aftermath of his suicide.


What you have here, ultimately, is something of a gumbo. Some delicious bits, some less interesting bits, and some bits that are downright confusing. Me? I like gumbo.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Inedible

"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed.  Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...

Chop chop

I was completely ignorant of the fuss over the edited Trump speech in an edition of Panorama until, one moment later, I wasn't. And the reasons for my ignorance are instructive. I had no idea that the story was even brewing until the surprise Sunday night news of the resignations of Tom Davie and Deborah Turness. As I'm sure you are by now aware, this was occasioned by a clumsy edit in an old edition of Panorama, which has already been on the iplayer for a year. It's a non-story. Except people decided to make it a story. The reason I'd heard nothing of it until the resignations was that I'm not on X, where, apparently, it was all the media classes had been talking about for a week. It was an obsession of the unholy right-wing trifecta of the Mail, Telegraph and Times (who, given that they sent a bloke just last week to interview the wrong Bill di Blasio, you'd think would wind their necks in over factual inacccuracy). It was big news on GB news, all self-contain...

Creepy old men

I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer.  That deserves prison.  No , I'm referring to the hinterla...