THENASTYBITS (36 page)

who now hosts a local radio show in New York where he answers telephone calls from old ladies who want to know where to buy the best kosher chicken. Remembering how talented a cook Rocco once was, and no small amount of self-loathing, infused this piece with a little too much bitterness—and bullshit. Looking at Rocco's painful progress, I have to admit that I see—if not for the grace of God and all that— myself . . . minus the cooking talent.

Let's face it. I'm pushing fifty. If I had to go back to the kitchen now? It would break me. This
vida loca
better last—or I'm fucked.

WHAT
YOU
DIDN'T
WANT
TO
KNOW
ABOUT MAKING
FOOD
TELEVISION

This was a much more honest piece than previous ones, when I was still representing myself as some kind of outraged working class hero. It's far more descriptive of what my life was really like (and still is) most of the time. Since the piece was written, I've left New York Times Television and ended relations with the Food Network. But I'm still together with Chris and Lydia, and many of the same shooters and editors who produced and made the first TV show. Only now, it's the Travel and Discovery Channels that are enabling my swinging new lifestyle.

These days, we've got a bigger budget, more freedom, and more indulgent masters, but the day-to-day is the same. It's like traveling with a band, on constant international tour. I sold my soul to the television gods so that I might see the world and live out my childhood fantasies of faraway places. This is the way things are. I've become a character in
Spinal Tap.

WARNING
SIGNS

Anyone who's ever spent any amount of time in London knows exactly which chain I'm talking about here. Incredibly, they're still in business.

MADNESS
IN
CRESCENT
CITY

I have no idea which of these places still exists after New Orleans was nearly wiped out by hurricane and flooding. I suspect many of the places mentioned are still trying to get back on their feet— if they can. I dearly hope that Snake and Jake's in particular returns, as there are few nobler establishments. This piece is a classic example of the kind of "triple dipping" I do these days. Here's how it works:

First: Visit city on book tour. Inevitably, end up eating, bar-hopping, and getting trashed with all the local chefs.

Second: Using all the valuable "insider" information accumulated during earlier book tour debauch, return to the same location to make a television show.

Third: Using one's experiences during filming—and the handy production notes and videotape—write an article about the place for a magazine and get paid TWICE!

A
VIEW
FROM
THE
FRIDGE

Something of an apology here, to all the waiters I've been curt with or abusive to over the years. There really is nothing more loathsome or shameful than some miserable prick who walks into a restaurant determined to have a bad time, ready to lord over a relatively powerless server. Behaving like a mean, sarcastic, superior, and dismissive "boss" to your waiter should be a flayable offense. It really is in your interest—most of the time— to be nice to your waiter. It's also the decent thing to do. It's pretty much a relationship ender for me when a new friend behaves imperiously with a server, or makes ludicrous and unreasonable demands. I find it mortifying—and never repeat the experience. If you can't behave in a restaurant you can't be my friend. It's that simple. Bad behavior is for bars. They're used to assholes—and know how to deal with them.

NOTES FROM THE ROAD

God, I hated Singapore the first time I visited it (the experience described here). The heat, and the transition to the freezing cold bars, then back out into the heat again—it nearly killed me. As did the sheer volume of food and my general state of exhaustion. After many return trips, Fve since come to love the place with a passion. (See "Die, Die Must Try," page 231). But back then, I was having a real problem adjusting. I've since become better at airplanes, airports, book tours, hotels, and so on, and whine about it a lot less. It's always amusing to me to see some twerp musician on
Behind the Music
complaining about "life on the road," or to hear some first-time novelist griping about the rigors of a book tour. Two years ago they were sitting in Mom's cellar noodling away on a guitar, or clacking away on a word processor, and now they're griping about the agony of fine hotel rooms and world travel and a fat publicity budget? That barely qualifies as work. I know what work is—or once knew. I still remember it, however faintly at times. Standing in a busy kitchen twelve hours a day is work. The rest is a privilege. I read this piece now and want to say, "Shut the fuck up, you spoiled, whining bitch! You're lucky anybody gives a shit about you at all in Singapore! Now sit down and eat the turtle fat, you lazy, bloated gasbag."

THE DIVE

Ahhh, yes. This piece.

Written originally as an e-mail (never sent). At the time, I was heartbroken, in love, and feeling really sorry for myself. As self-serving as the piece may be, I was being truthful about one thing: When I jumped from that rock? I really didn't give a fuck.

A DRINKING PROBLEM

Another piece for the Brits. And who was I kidding? What's wrong with good food in a pub? There's a reverse snobbery to my position that's hard to defend. After an initial frenzy of overenthusiasm, many of the so-called "gastro-pubs" seem to have settled down to serve pretty simple, honest, and decent food—most of the time not incompatible at all with a good pint. I think I had my head up my ass when I wrote this thing. Had the ass-kicking actually occurred, I would have richly deserved it.

WOODY HARRELSON: CULINARY MUSE

I meant every word of this and still do. I shake with rage at the thought of a smug, self-satisfied Woody, sitting in Thailand— with its amazingly old and diverse culinary culture, and its many rightfully proud cooks—insisting on eating only the same raw salad day after day. And the thought that Woody's peculiar worldview might spread, like some destructive virus, fills me with horror. If anything, I've become even more hyperbolic on the subject since I wrote this piece, once even referring to
Raw
as "the most evil document since
Mein Kampf
(which might, admittedly, be a little over-the-top). Poor Charlie Trotter, who's been nothing but kind and generous to me in the past, has unfortunately born the full weight of my sense of betrayal and rage. Roxanne Klein's Larkspur eatery thankfully closed. But the pernicious spread of raw food continues, and its prodigiously farting adherents continue to multiply. They must be stopped.

IS ANYBODY HOME?

The food writing "community" is a swamp. A petri dish of logrolling, cronyism, mendaciousness, greed, envy, collusion, corruption, and willful self-deception, in which nearly all of us are hopelessly compromised. This piece was a reaction to a momentary episode of profound disgust.

It was also my way of acknowledging the growing realization that I'd been beating up on Emeril far too long. Early on, making fun of him had been a cheap, easy laugh—a crowd-pleasing shtick. But in the years since referring to him as an "Ewok" I'd seen so much worse. And I had never really acknowledged that unlike so many of the "celebrity chefs" who'd followed, and will undoubtedly one day replace him in the country's favors, Emeril actually paid his dues. I'd long come to believe the man deserved a lot more respect than I'd been giving him, regardless what I thought of his shows. This was my way of apologizing.

BOTTOMING OUT

This was a pretty harsh, unforgiving editorial I turned in when asked by the
Los Angeles Times
to comment on Robert Downey's most recent arrest. Writing it, I was pretty damn sure that he was a goner. And I was quick—too quick as it turns out—to write him off. Another dead guy, another dead junkie. The predictable, almost inevitable, end to the same old story. Since writing this piece, a very good friend who I had similarly written off, turned my back on, and left for dead—after decades of hard drug use—has managed to turn his life around. And Downey continues to survive and prosper and do good works with considerable charm and self-awareness. I wish them both well, and apologize for thinking the worst. Sometimes it's nice to be wrong.

FOOD TERRORISTS

Things only got worse since I wrote this impassioned defense of an embattled friend. Foie gras is under fire, or soon to be illegal, in California, Chicago, and even New York. A treasured and fundamental ingredient of classical gastronomy since Roman times, it will likely disappear entirely from menus in my lifetime. A tragedy, but a predictable one. The PETA folks have been very clever in picking foie gras as a front. Though they know full well that there are worse, more widespread examples of institutionalized animal cruelty (mass-produced chicken, for instance), they likely saw this as an easy win. What politician can realistically be expected to stand up for chefs, taking the public position that they are
for
the force-feeding of cute ducks and geese so a few rich people who can afford it can sup on their distended livers? Not a vote-getter . . .

We shall surely lose this struggle in the end. I'm resigned to it—just as I'm resigned to the fact that I can no longer smoke in a bar in New York, a pub in Ireland, or a restaurant in Sicily. But in the losing, I'd sure like to see the rotten fucks who terrorized Chef Manrique's family identified, arrested, convicted, sentenced to prison for a very long time, and mistreated terribly there—learning firsthand, one would hope, about the gag reflex. It's no less than they deserve.

SLEAZE GONE BY

Oooh. I'm
so
bad. I'm
so
street . . .

A pretty glib, wildly over-romanticized look at the New York City of my misspent youth, as written for British readers. Like crack was somehow a good thing? What a twat I was when I wrote this.

Not that I don't miss the Forty-second Street grind houses and the Terminal Bar and Hawaii Kai. But feigning nostalgia for getting ripped off at knifepoint? Withdrawal symptoms? Selling my possessions on the street? Dope dealers with clubs and guns? Feral crackheads? Who was I kidding? The bullshit meter is flashing bright red.

PURE AND UNCUT LUXURY

An earnest attempt at food porn, and a pretty good one, I think, as I'm getting a hard-on rereading it. I did not exaggerate. This is exactly how good Masa was that magical evening. Whenever I want to treat myself to something very special, I take myself there and indulge. Beg, borrow, steal, stick up a liquor store— whatever it takes to get the money—but for God's sake, go! Bring plenty of extra, as you'll want additional pieces of tuna.