THENASTYBITS (22 page)

"Every evening, our group would sit down to a fantastic feast of Thai vegetarian curries, noodles, and rice dishes. Woody, however, would always order a bowl of fruit or a green papaya salad. We
tried to get him to sample the wonderful cooked dishes we were eating, but be always declined
[italics mine]. After more prodding, he explained the reasons why he maintained a diet of raw fruits and vegetables. Michael [Klein's husband] and I found the philosophy interesting and decided to delve more deeply into it."

This story is horrifying on so many levels that my enzyme-starved, toxin-laden, mucus-clogged body shook when I read it.

First of all,
why
would anyone listen to Woody Harrelson about
anything
more important than how to be a working Hollywood actor or how to make a bong out of a toilet-paper roll and tinfoil?

And who would listen to anyone who can visit
Thailand
—a country with one of the most vibrant, varied, exciting culinary cultures on the planet (including a rich tradition of tasty vegetarian fare)—and
refuse
to sample its proudly served and absolutely incredible bounty? What kind of cramped, narrow, and arrogant worldview could excuse shutting oneself off totally from the greater part of an ancient and beautiful culture?

To my mind, there's no difference between Woody, the New Age gourmet, ensuring a clean colon by eating the same thing every day, and the classic worst-case, xenophobic tourist—the one who whether in Singapore, Rome, Hanoi, or Mexico City insists on eating every meal in the hotel restaurant. One fears "dirty" water, "unsafe" vegetables, "ooky," "weird," and unrecognizable local specialties. The other fears "toxins" and "impurities."

It's bad enough when you bump into a curmudgeonly fellow countryman while on vacation in a foreign land. But to bring his tao home with you is another thing. Especially when the curmudgeon's worldview has been shaped in that crossroads of enlightenment, Hollywood.

In striking contrast, Trotter's curiosity is a saving grace. And Trotter and Klein's creativity with a self-imposed restrictive form is something to be celebrated—I guess.
Raw
struggles mightily to convince the reader that "cheese" made from cashew can be a satisfactory substitute, and that "lasagne" made from zucchini "noodles" wouldn't be a hell of a lot better with the inclusion of some real pasta, but even the book's full-color food porn photos seem painfully lacking in some vital aspect. (Pork, perhaps.)

Raw
is a quantum leap in the realm of what's possible with fruits and vegetables. But by offering comfort, sustenance, and encouragement to Woody Harrelson and would-be Woodys everywhere, Trotter and Klein have opened a Pandora's box of fissionable material. At a time in history when Americans, to an ever greater extent, have reasons to turn inward, away from this fabulously diverse and marvelous planet and the millions of proud cooks who live on it; at a time when people are afraid of just about everything, the authors have made willful avoidance and abstinence an ever-more attractive option.

I admire their skills. I really do.

But I fear for the planet.

IS
ANYBODY
HOME?

it was late at
night in New Orleans. The liquor was flowing and the large and unruly group of chefs, managers, and cooks, freshly released from their restaurants, was in a truth-telling mode. Among them, a contingent of professionals from one of Emeril Lagasse's better restaurants was particularly disgruntled. Not with Chef Lagasse, about whom they had nothing but nice things to say; and not with the general state of affairs in their restaurant, of which they were quite proud. It was those damn customers again.

"They come in in their ugly shorts, with their cameras. And they ask, 'Is Emeril in the kitchen? Can you get him to come out and say
"Bam!"?
" moaned one of them. "Dude! We're a fine dining restaurant!"

It's an inevitable effect of the celebrity chef phenomenon that people are as interested now in "who" is making their food as "what" they're eating. While on one hand, the advent of the celebrity chef has been good for America in that it has raised the level of pride and prestige in the profession and inspired people to eat better, cook better, and expect more of their restaurants, it has also created a cult of personality completely divorced from the realities of the business.

There should be little expectation that Emeril himself will be hunched over the stove when you eat at NOLA or Emeril's in New Orleans. The man has an empire to run. He's got restaurants all over the country, a product line, television shows, endorsements to make, books to write. Do you really think he's cooking your chicken? He's put in his time. After all those years on the hot line, all that time building a "brand" and a business, doesn't he deserve to kick back in an office, have a cocktail, spend a little quality time with friends and family, and let others do the heavy lifting? Of course he does.

And while it's completely understandable that some nitwits who know him only as loveable TV Emeril—and who have no understanding or appreciation of what it took for him to get there—might expect him to come by their table for a photo op in between dunking their squid into the fryer, it's inexcusable that professional food writers knowingly continue to perpetuate the myth that The Famous Chef Is In The Kitchen. They know it not to be true. Yet they continue. It makes, one can only assume, better copy.

An Important Food Writer who knows better recently penne a column in which he snarkily suggested that if he were payin one hundred thirty dollars for a meal at a Famous Chef restaurant, he had every right to expect the Famous Chef t be in attendance, at least to swing by the table (presumably t pay homage to The Important Writer). Ridiculous! Most time when you see a legitimate restaurant review in which sentenc appear like "Chef Flay has a delicate hand with the chipotle . . ." or "Ducasse's feeling for the flavors of Provence infor every course . . ." and you find yourself conjuring an image o the Famous Chef leaning over each of the reviewer's plate nervously correcting seasoning or adjusting the garnish, you a complicit in a myth. If the chef is famous enough for you t know his or her name, chances are, he or she is currently Not Ir

Important Food Writer, of course, knows full well that Ch Ducasse has reportedly barely
touched
a plate of food in nearl twenty years. Chef Ducasse is likely sitting in the first-class cab" of a flight to Hong Kong, or Paris, or Las Vegas. Chef Ducas personally tossing your salad is about as likely to happen Wolfang Puck popping up to serve you pizza at the airpo

Important Food Writer knows that Mario Batali is opening his twelfth restaurant in the last six months, and can hardly be expected to be personally making their gnocchi. Yet he persists. Worse, he gets angry. As responsible as anyone for building the legend and career of the Famous Chef, Important Food Writer now feels . . . strangely . . . jilted. Where
is
the Famous Chef he's written so adoringly about all these years, about whose "light touch" and "instinctive way with
oursirC
he's dedicated so many column inches? Why isn't he here,
now,
to kiss the ring of his creator?

"If you're not in your kitchen because you're doing a dinner for one of their charities, then it's okay," says one Famous Chef—who still actually works in his four-star kitchen as much as he can. "If it's not for them [the food writers], though, then it's not okay . . . They're either shaking you down for free meals for events, panel discussions, or symposiums—or crying you are not in your kitchen.

"There are blue-collar chefs—and white-collar chefs. This business is all about mentoring," Famous Chef goes on to say. "Tom Colicchio, Joel Robuchon, the guys who run their kitchens . . . they've been with them twenty
yearsl"

"The menus?" he laughs, imitating one Michelin-starred icon. "Show eet to me when eet's done."

"Look at it this way," suggests Another Famous Chef. "You can't be a great chef if the food is not consistent. You need a day off—and the food must,
must
be exactly the same when you are not there as it is when you are there. This is fundamental to the business. Even if you have only one restaurant. You are a leader. You create a team who executes your style. Your vision. It's the same when you start opening more places."

"What about Wylie Dufresne [of New York City's WD-50] and Scott-Bryan [of Veritas]?" I ask, referring to two excellent and celebrated chefs who still seem chained to their kitchens.

"Blue-collar chefs," say both Famous and Another Famous Chef. "And they are terrible on television."

A celebrity chef who's worked particularly hard to maintain a publicly honest and realistic balance is Mario Batali. From the very inception of each of his new restaurants, he partners with— and gives credit to—a chef who has his own unique (yet similarly heartfelt) vision. Fish guru Dave Pasternack is fundamental to Esca, Mark Ladner to Lupa. Each restaurant was created around the strengths and passions of the chef partner as much as any concept. Yet Batali is the frequent target of embittered snarkol-ogists like the
Los Angeles Times's
Regina Schrambling, whose loathing for Batali seems to increase in direct proportion to his success. That every single one of Batali's restaurants is not only solidly
good
(at least), but even more remarkably—given the fiercely competitive nature of the New York restaurant business—profitable, should, one would think, deserve admiration. Life with Mario for New York foodies is surely better than it was before he arrived on the scene. Each new restaurant concept he's brought us has been, on balance, not only beneficial, but
daring.
Who knew we needed a place specializing in raw Italian seafood (Esca), or Sardinian pizza (Otto), or hoof and snout Italian (Babbo), or offal-centric Spanish tapas (Casa Mono)? Apparently we did. So who cares if you don't like the clogs or the TV show?

Mario, of course, regularly cooks in none of the restaurants. You'll see him hovering by the pass for the first few weeks of operations, as at the recent opening of Bistro du Vent, or swilling wine on the stoop across from Babbo. But cut the guy a break. He's
not
making your pasta.

Even Saint Thomas of Napa, probably America's greatest and most revered chef—Thomas Keller of the French Laundry, that is—now also runs two Bouchons (one in Napa, one in Vegas) and the four-starred Per Se in New York. Hasn't the man done enough? Do you really want him to die behind the range?

The answer to that is probably "yes, Y
^ou
do."

"You create a style," explains Famous Chef. "You work all those years, all those hours. No family life, no free time. All the sacrifice. Around thirty-eight, thirty-nine, you look around and you see the new guys, with their own vision, their own styles— and it doesn't speak to you. You see it. You respect it. But you can't do it. It's not
you.
You've said what you had to say. It's time to get out. To move on. Expand. Create something for your old age."

It's not just about you, he goes on to explain. "When your chef de cuisine has been with you ten years, they want their own thing. They deserve it. You want to keep them in the company, all these people who have been with you. They want to move up. So you open up another place. Then another. You make room for the next generation."

Judging from the strident opinions on this subject in magazines and newspapers and foodie Web sites, it would be easy to conclude that it's a class thing: The dining classes, who have always been different (at least until recently) from the cooking class, simply hate to see the backstairs help coming up in the world. In England, Gordon Ramsay and Marco Pierre White, in particular, were singled out as "climbers," stepping up from their "class" in a way that seemed to offend. The speed with which some hurried to declare them "over" as soon as they opened another restaurant was breathtaking.

The Famous Chef has no obligation to you, or anyone else, to be present in the restaurant. And you should not expect him or her to be.

"You should expect it to be
good,"
says Famous Chef. That's the bottom line.

BOTTOMING OUT

there
is
no one
less sympathetic to the trials, tribulations, and humiliations of the addict than an ex-junkie. No emergency room triage is more immediate and unforgiving than the way an ex-junkie sizes up a still-in-the grip former colleague. I hear that familiar, whiny tone of voice, I see the pinned, cartoon eyes of the smack user, or the jumpy, twitchy, molar-grinding, gibberish-spewing face of the coke-fiend, and I see a dead man. I'm not listening anymore. If I pay attention at all, it's to make sure they're not rifling through my coat. Cold? Yes. But then, junkies are used to stone-cold logic. Life, for someone whose body, brain, nerves, and cell tissue require (rather than desire) their drug of choice in order to get out of bed in the morning, is actually a very simple matter. You have one job: To get drugs. There's only one thing you
have
to do each day: Get drugs. One's priorities are always straight. Simply put: Nothing else matters. Those of us who've been addicted to heroin and/or cocaine (and I've been addicted to both) understand that better than anybody. You
know,
without question, that your best friend in the world
will,
given the opportunity, steal your drugs or your money or snitch you off to the cops. You
know,
without question, exactly how low you would be willing to go to get what you need. Chances are, you've been there already. More than once.

Stories about drugs and rehabilitation are boring, particularly when it's some Hollywood actor, grinning out from the cover of
People
magazine, yammering about Clean and Sober and their