Memoirs of a kitchen slave. This book gives new definition to cooking. It combines the insanity of a kitchen during a rush and the story of a single olive picked at the exact right moment from the hills of Tuscany. I have always been a fan of the idea of organic and natural food, but haven't really understood the story behind it until Buford so eloquently describes the seasons of food in Italy. It is so interesting to understand where it all comes from. We all go out to eat on a regular basis, but how often have we contemplated the hours of labor and passion that has gone into our food? (Or maybe in the case of most chain restaurants, has not gone into our food?) We have strayed so far from the path of good food that we don't even understand what it means anymore. It is not about the end product, but about the peoples lives that go into harvesting. There are still a few people in this world who spend their life's work making a single kind of cheese. There are a few people that raise cows for their milk and meat, let them wander freely and happily, and feed them the foods that cows are naturally supposed to eat. Shouldn't we support these people?
Another thing about this book that impressed me in a weird way: Apparently Mario Batali can drink a case of wine in one sitting, and get up to talk about it the next day. This book was not entirely about Batali, not even close, but his image does litter the pages, and it is a wonderfully human description. I don't even know if I liked the person that was painted, but I found him interesting and definitely someone with a creative mind.
Buford surprised me with this book. It was enjoyable, political, heartfelt, and mouth watering. It made me think about dinner in a new way. It has inspired thought in an average grocery shopping adventure, and I think that is what a great book is all about.
Nick: WOW. This book sounds like the gnostic gospel of cooking. I'll have to put down this vomitous tract on sounds in some language that may or may not exist and pass the rest of the morning in holy quiet, astonished at the rural splendor of an olive or dry white wine. Or maybe just marvel at a man who can imbibe vast quantities of wine and still act like a litterateur.
2 comments:
There's a couple more things I want to say on this subject. I think that food is the symbol of life in this book. I think that some cultures treat their vegetables with the passion and love that they treat each other. They take time to tend to their gardens and the bounties they produce. They nurture them and think about every bite that comes from the ground. It is a symbol for a rich and simple life, one that takes time and patience. One that I feel too fast for. Why are we getting so far away from the simplicity of life when it is obvious that it brings us the most pleasure?
Simplicity is God, so says Plotinus. And I ain't fool enough to argue with a dead North African mystic. You're right. There's something delicate and tender about dignified vegetables.
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