Artie Bucco, Tony Soprano's trusted chef
Really, there is no other intention in this letter than to build . Provide a wisp of light in this food and so many pleasures (on a table). Actually they are nothing more than a handful of complaints and footnotes after thousands of kilometers, interviews with chefs and lunches in restaurants large and small, taverns and bistros, bars and eating houses; from the most sumptuous casino to the lightest beach bar. They are all a bit of our home.
It states Ungaretti that “Life, friend, is the art of incontro” And that's exactly what we think. Life (and gastronomy) is also about sharing, reasoning and contradicting. Put things on the table (pun intended) and say things loud and clear . Also the ones we don't like.
"YOU DID NOT UNDERSTAND THE PLATE"
I understand (and I share, eye) the creative side of cooking . How not to do it, if I have pursued the avant-garde like a man possessed during the last decade, almost to the point of exhaustion (and to the point of boredom, too). But what I can't deal with is the defensive discourse of —some— cooks: “You haven't understood my work”.
Empty tables? It is the public's fault, that it does not arrive, that it does not understand it. Not very positive reviews from chubby food writers? They are a bunch of tight and petty, because my work is perfect. The world is not prepared for so much misunderstood genius. And such.
Was necessary
THE CONSTANT INTERRUPTION
One goes to a restaurant (I apologize) to be served. And usually accompanied; and what things, what I feel like on a Thursday night is enjoy the conversation of my companion , not the battles of the chef on duty. It's my time, friend; what if, I have chosen to spend it at your house because you cook well , what I have not chosen is the constant interruption before each course of a menu of ten or twenty courses. You don't need to whisper to me in what dream of your childhood it was conceived, or tell me about celebrities who adore you or the plot of the book you're thinking of publishing.
I, I, I, AND I
This was not the case not so long ago. The cook's was (and is, from my humble point of view) the profession of a craftsman dedicated to the most beautiful service in the world: making others happy. With your kitchen, which was the protagonist. And the cook? Simply the hands (and the heart) behind the plate, it was not necessary to know more.
There are already more star chefs than normal chefs, headlines The Today World, in one of his wonderful jokes disguised as news. Impossible to explain it better: this situation has turned normal restaurants in a luxury reserved for the elites . "Places run by a family, with a chef who does not appear on TV, who offers things without deconstructing and at a reasonable price... we are talking about something very exclusive and only for connaisseurs".
THAT PIGGY APRON
One of the great good things about this gastronomic revolution is the obsession with hygiene of many of the chefs who star in it. The kitchens of (what do I know) Mugaritz or Echaurren they look like pharmacies of the cleanliness they breathe ; and that makes our spirit happy and disposes us for pleasure without measure.
Woody Allen says that "sex is only good when it's dirty" —and I couldn't agree more; but this, cook friends, is not applicable to your honorable profession: it is not pleasant to see infected kitchens , corroded and dirty aprons, centuries-old nails, greasy hair or that suspicious fragrance of French cheese beyond the border of your ankles, and that I do not see any cheese cart nearby. And I'm not worth the excuse that “I live in the kitchen” , look (if not) how clean his Dabiz crest always wears.
Friends, it is not pleasant to see infected kitchens
A CHEF RUNNER?
Serve this last point as an apology and discharge: I love you very much . And it is that this last kick has (much) more to do with insane envy than with any complaint: we want fat cooks! Cooks with huge bellies, always ready to reach out for that last croquette... I don't know, a little boozy, a little boisterous and a little Gérard Depardieu ; what is not fair (it is not!) is that he notices that he spends the day surrounded by truffles and Comté runs a marathon in less than three hours, like an anorexic greyhound. It's not nice to see that chef you admire get up at 6 a.m. to run fifteen kilometers in the cool, while you swallow your toast with ham (and maybe a cupcake).
Never trust a skinny Italian cook , titles his essential book Massimo Bottura . And damn, a little right if you have, no or what.
PS: It is true that we already talked, in Mantel & Cuchillo, about the things we hate in a restaurant. Today we wanted to be more direct, with no intention (I insist) to offend, just to open a healthy debate. To all this, What things bother you about customers, cook friends?
You have to be a little more Depardieu
Follow @nothingimporta
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