By Tobin Barnes
“Heat.” That’s the name of a book I’m reading. Title sounds like some big-city detective thriller, doesn’t it?
I wish.
Instead, it’s about the literal and metaphorical “heat” in the kitchen of a big city three-star Italian restaurant. Uh huh, not exactly the stuff of a white knuckle page-turner.
Tell you the truth, other than getting a good review, I don’t know why I’m reading this book, or even more pertinently, why I’m continuing to read it. But I am.
The author, a New Yorker who enjoys entertaining friends at his dinner parties, one night shockingly realized that the friend of a friend he’d invited turned out to be a famous chef.
Barely able to control himself from worshipping at the chef’s feet and totally humbled by his own relatively meagre abilities, the author turned the night’s cooking responsibilities over to His Largeness, none other than THE Mario Batali.
That’s right, that Mario Batali. Ring a bell?
Yeah...didn’t think it would. So let me tell you more. He’s the Mario of the famous New York restaurant Babbo and of the hit cooking show “Molto Mario” on the Food Network.
Still doesn’t do it for you?
Don’t sweat it. I’d never heard of the guy either. Once I get beyond good-grub-type cuisine, I can’t tell the difference between gourmet eateries and those chain style hash-and-dashes.
Nevertheless, according to the book, Mario is bigger than life, and not only in girth. Expressive and irrepressible, the guy can down vast quantities of whatever-is-served at a sitting while sloshing through half a case of wine.
Wondering where you can get this book?
No? I understand.
Actually, big Mario, despite his bohemian bonhomie, is the book’s sidelight. After striking up a friendship, which seems easy with Mario, the author asks if he can learn the trade at his chic restaurant. And that apprenticeship in Mario’s kitchen makes for the best parts, despite the fact that Mario’s ample shadow seldom darkens the tiles.
The poor writer, Bill Buford, endures contempt from his fellow workers for his lack of skills, demoralizing scoldings from his superiors for his mistakes, arm-hair loss and painful burns during his stint at the volcanic grill, and the pressure of the President amidst a missile crisis when he works the pasta station.
Unbeknownst to us diners, it can oftentimes get downright back-bitingly ugly in a steamingly hot restaurant kitchen while we’re dining out front, maybe getting a little shirty and thinking about sending the whole meal back because the snow peas are a tad rubbery.
Some nights the author comes off a 12-hour shift, his once-white jacket darkened with sweat and ironed onto his chest by the grill heat, feeling beat up like he’s been in a title fight with Muhammad Ali. All he can manage to do is crawl home and stare zombie-like out the window until daylight breaks across the Manhattan skyline, get a few hours sleep, then head in for another twelve.
If the book has value to the average reader, it’s in an appreciation of how tough restaurant work can be and in amazement that people not only want to do it but even somehow love it. Many of the “characters” in the book worked in Italy for little or no pay and much abuse, including Mario, to better learn their craft.
But it’s not for me. I spent one summer and one summer only working in a restaurant. It was the worst employment experience of my life, and I hardly scratched the surface because I was merely a lowly busboy. But even from that vantage point I could see there was no part of that existence I wanted. I saw how hard everybody worked and how thankless it oftentimes seemed to be.
And to put an exclamation point on it, the manager used me like a cheap dish tub. He somehow convinced me--as a teenager, I could have made Charlie Brown seem sophisticated--to punch in only for the peak serving times during breakfast and lunch and to punch out and go home during the slack times. I spent more time commuting back and forth from that cheapskate’s restaurant than I did working at it.
Anyway, I’ll continue to read “Heat,” even though it’s not a big-city detective story, appreciating the devotion and ungodly hours restaurant people put into their work.
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