Well, now… Just when I thought I
was feeling better, pregnancy nausea returned to strike with a vengeance the
other day. I was perfectly fine, I’d had breakfast and everything, when BAM –
my stomach lurched, and I had to lie down for 30 minutes before it felt safe to
move again. During those really bad bouts, the only thing that really helps me
is Petit Écolier cookies, those buttery French cookies with a slab of dark
chocolate superposed on top. I’ve tried substituting them with fruit, cereal
bars, sweet yogurt – nothing else does the trick. Pity they don’t travel well,
or I’d take them with me everywhere. As things stand, they have a permanent
spot on my countertop. I’m beginning to think there’s more to my love of
chocolate than simple gustative pleasure: it’s like I’m wired to turn to it in
times of distress, both physical and psychological. Wait, that sounds
unhealthy… Oh well, frankly, I don’t care, especially not these days!
Anyways, let’s get back to books, shall we? I read
today’s book quite a long time ago. Actually, I devoured it in under two days,
if I recall. It’s a classic of its kind, a book I remember my mother reading
when it came out (although I can’t be certain she actually liked it – in fact,
with all the swear words, I’m pretty sure she didn’t). Its author is one of the
most outspoken personalities in the food world, and apparently a fan of our
fair city of
Montreal (the episode of The Layover he filmed in Montreal last summer coincidentally airs tonight on the Travel+Escape channel –
or you can do what everyone else in town did months ago and see it online.
I’m talking, of course, about
Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential.
The book chronicles Bourdain’s
discovery of the pleasures of food, his entry into the professional culinary
world, and the inner workings and dirty little secrets of the restaurant
industry. Through anecdotes, revelations, and advice (both for the home cook
and the wannabe pro), he paints a picture which I would sum up in one
expression: larger-than-life. From a chef who has sex with a customer (a new
bride, no less!) behind his restaurant to “Adam the psychotic bread baker”
whose magic dough makes chefs overlook his frightening behaviour, Kitchen Confidential is full of
outrageous characters and situations, giving an almost circus-like atmosphere
to the whole restaurant universe. Add to that Bourdain’s own, shall we say,
strong personality, and you’ve got one hell of a ride. Say what you will, it’s
an entertaining read on just about every level.
As I mentioned briefly
in
a previous book post,
Bourdain’s bravado sometimes comes dangerously close to being a
turn-off. His credo, he makes clear from the start, is to call it the way he
sees it, others’ opinions be damned. Most of the time, it pays off, especially
when he balances it out with self-deprecation. But sometimes, it almost comes
off as posing, or worse, as self-importance and accompanying disdain for
others, for the very people whom he believes look down on him:
“My naked contempt for
vegetarians, sauce-on-the-siders, the ‘lactose intolerant’ and the cooking of
the Ewok-like Emeril Lagasse is not going to get me my own show on the Food
Network. I don’t think I’ll be going on ski weekends with André Soltner anytime
soon or getting a back rub from that hunky Bobby Flay. Eric Ripert won’t be
calling me for ideas on tomorrow’s fish special. But I’m simply not going to deceive anybody about the
life as I’ve seen it.”
As I’ve said before, there are ways of telling it like
it is without drawing attention to the fact that you’re telling it like it is,
and this isn’t one of them. It’s rather evocative that Bourdain began his love
affair with food through sheer spite and provocation: when, on a family trip to
France, his parents, tired of hearing him whine about the weird food and order
steak haché with ketchup in the land of haute cuisine, left him in the car
while they enjoy a luxury meal, he decided to become an even more daring foodie
than they are, just to “show them.” Then again, he’s not the only one to have
made a life-altering decision out of temporary spite. It’s no worse than having
it happen by accident, or through emulation. Any catalyst for what turns out to
be true passion is okay by me.
Overall, though, Bourdain still
comes off as genuine most of the time, and some of his grouchy rants had me
laughing out loud, even when he was being overly harsh – especially when he was
being overly harsh, in fact. He is at his best when his political incorrectness
is delivered in stride, with neither apologies nor exaggerated “look at me”
stylistic acrobatics.
No, scratch that. Bourdain is at
his true best when he lets his love of food shine through – and there is
absolutely no doubt that this love is real and strong. For all his irascibility
and apparent self-destructive tendencies (I caught him on The Colbert Report a
while after having read the book and was surprised by how healthy he looked,
given his description of his lifestyle – perhaps he’s made some changes in the
past decade), the man also clearly loves life, and he devours it every chance
he gets – sometimes to great excess, as he unreservedly admits. And his
exhilaration is contagious. Ultimately, isn’t that one of the things we look
for in a chef memoir or any chef’s book: a renewal of our appetite not just for
food, but for life?
There’s description of a lot of
different kinds of food in Kitchen
Confidential, and not all of it is good – the food, not the description.
The infamous, oft-quoted chapter where Bourdain explains how food is managed
and recycled in restaurants might make you a little queasy, not to mention
afraid (as if my pregnant self didn’t have enough to worry about regarding food
safety). Overall, though, most of the food passages are about the experience of
enjoying food, rather than the food itself: see for example Bourdain’s epic
supper in a Tokyo
sushi bar. There is decadence in every line, but the focus is more on the
ecstasy of the experience, rather than the texture and flavour or the fish.
The same focus is evident in the opening description
of the soup that started it all: a vichyssoise. “I remember everything about
the experience: the way our waiter ladled it from a silver tureen into my bowl,
the crunch of tiny chopped chives he spooned on as garnish, the rich, creamy
taste of leek and potato, the pleasurable shock, the surprise that it was
cold.”
For a long time, the only cold
soup I was even aware of was the gazpacho – and if I recall, I had my first
taste in Barcelona,
and it was indeed a mini-revelation. Then I discovered cold squash soup.
Vichyssoise came later. I personally find it a bit heavy for regular fare, but
it’s worth making it with real cream, as the richness is part of the
experience. And yes, the crunchy chive garnish is an absolute must.
This is a very bare-bones recipe.
I’ve seen versions with celery and parsley, but I like to keep the flavours
clean in this soup – of course, it helps that I love leeks.
Vichyssoise
Serves 4-6
2 tbsp butter
1 onion, sliced
4 leeks, white part only, halved
lengthwise and sliced crosswise
2 medium potatoes, peeled and
chopped
500 ml (2 cups) chicken stock
250 to 375 ml (1 to 1 1/2 cup)
heavy cream, cold
Chopped fresh chives, for garnish
Salt and pepper, to taste
Melt the butter in a large
saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the onion and the leeks, season with salt,
and sweat until soft, stirring often and making sure not to brown the
vegetables. Add the potatoes and stock, bring to a boil, then reduce heat, cover
and simmer for 20 minutes, until everything is tender. Adjust seasoning and let
cool to room temperature.
Purée with a mixer or in a blender until perfectly
smooth, and transfer to a tureen or large bowl. Stir in the cold cream, adding
the amount necessary to obtain the texture you seek. Adjust seasoning again.
Chill in the refrigerator until very cold, at least two hours. Ladle into bowls,
sprinkle with chives, and serve immediately.
