I’ve been really into cookbooks lately, by which I mean I spend a lot of time flipping through cookbooks with brightly colored pictures looking to see if anything delicious and nutritious can be made in 10 minutes from a box of Kraft Dinner and a can of black beans. I mostly do this when I’m starving, and Joel calls it my food-porn (I’ve just upped my search-word value by including the word ‘porn’ [twice!] in a post. I’ll let you know how much my hits spike today).
In keeping with that vein, I read Letters to a Young Chef exclusively on the stationary bike at the gym where I am always, of necessity, starving (working out on a full stomach makes me want to hork). I thought I would be fine, because I figured it would be all, Here’s what it takes to be a Top Chef, young padawan, but it was so much more And then I made a braised pork with sauteed onions and a red wine sauce, and so much talk about meat juices and crisp vegetables and creamy soups and bacon. How much do I love bacon.
H’anyvays, the book may as well be called How I Became a Chef because the whole ‘letters’ schtick is almost entirely ignored, except for the occasional ‘you should…’ and ‘make sure you…’, which is fine. It was mostly just interesting to see how one becomes a chef. It’s like when people tell you about their bizarro jobs and you’re all, Hmm, fascinating, and then you go away and never think about it again. That is this book.