Sometimes I like a book because I find a bit of myself in the author's words. During the last ten years or so, I have begun to appreciate the flavor of food. I continually tell friends that I run because I like to eat. I may not always remember the name of the restaurant, but I can usually recall the menu item and the experience around the meal. I remember the first curry I had in Soho, the smoked salmon in Tampere, the unlikely discovery of a French restaurant in Inverness, and a most amazing dinner at Picasso. I can laugh about ordering a rare-cooked lamb on a first date with a vegetarian and recall the surprise I felt during a business dinner to have the fish that I would soon eat be presented for my approval. (It was the whole fish. The menu was fish or bear-claw; I still think I chose wisely.) My shared experience with the author which we both acknowledge to be wrong: ordering a triple latte from Starbucks the first morning in Toyko.
Differing from the author, Anthony Bourdain, I will never be a chef. During these last few months however, I have developed a fascination with the kitchen and with technique. I watched yesterday with awe the speed and precision of two chefs taking control of a kitchen with fifteen minutes to spare and with no chicken to serve. Mastering cooking is a beautiful art. My opinion of Kitchen Confidential? It is anecdotal, irreverent (true to the jacket review), and funny. It is the story of how things mostly/sometimes work which appeals to my mind (and my stomach).
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