A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [123]
‘No,’ admitted the chef. ‘It’s not good. Things are all fucked up.’
‘That alone is enough . . . And he’s talking trash about you when you’re not around? Forget it! You gotta cut this cancer out before it kills you.’
‘I know.’ He sniffled. ‘I know.’
‘Look,’ I said, softening. ‘I know what you’re going through. I fired my own best friend and sous-chef at least . . . what . . . three times. We’re still friends. He’s still my best friend. He’s just not my sous-chef anymore. And you know what? After you kick this guy out, this kid’ll go on and get his own chef’s job. He’ll be calling you up and apologizing for all the stuff he pulled when he was here. He’ll know. He’ll find out what a chef needs and expects in a sous. It’s business. That’s all. But it’s serious business. That’s what you forgot to tell him. Kiss this guy on the mouth and say, “Fredo, you broke my heart.” Then whack him. But don’t wait.’
‘You’re right . . . you’re right . . .’
‘Next time you’re hiring a sous, do like I do. Take him out to a nice bar. Buy him a drink before you close the deal. Then give him the Talk. Let him know right up front. I say, “I’m the nicest, sweetest guy in the world. You call me at four o’clock in the morning needing bail money? I’m there for you. I’m not going to be riding your ass like some other chefs will. I won’t humiliate you in front of your crew or anybody else. You don’t have to address me as ‘Chef’ all the time. I’ve got a sense of humor – and in my off hours I’m a depraved, degenerate animal – just like you. You will like working with me. We’ll have fun . . . But if you ever fuck me, talk shit about me behind my back, drop the ball, show up late, or show disloyalty in any way, I don’t care if you’re my dearest friend, I don’t care if you saved my fucking life, I will fire your sorry ass like I’m blowing my fucking nose. Do we understand each other? Is that clear? And do you want me to write it down?” That’s what’s called “fair warning”. You’ve drawn the lines. He crosses them and it’s bye-bye. You let him know up front what a vicious, cold-blooded motherfucker you can be. That way, there’re no surprises.’
The chef seemed considerably cheered by my inspiring little lecture. ‘Thanks, man,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for dropping all this on you. I knew what I had to do and all . . . It’s just . . . I guess I needed to hear somebody else say it.’ Then he reached into the pocket of his chef coat and offered me a bump from a big bag of white powder.
Maybe his sous-chef wasn’t his only problem.
Reasons Why You Don’t Want to Be on Television: Number Five in a Series
‘C’mon, Tony! You’ve been to Cambodia, for Chrissakes! How bad can it be?’ said the television producer. ‘We can’t do a whole show on one restaurant! This will be funny! They’re looking forward to cooking for you!’ What he’d arranged, what he had in mind, was for me to venture into the real heart of darkness, deep, deep into enemy territory, to Berkeley, and a vegan potluck dinner.
I’ve said some pretty hateful things about vegetarians, I know. In spite of this, many of them have been very nice to me over the past year. Though I think I have at various times referred to them as ‘Hezbollah-like’ and as ‘the enemy of everything good and decent in the human spirit,’ they come to my readings, write me nice letters. My publicist in England, whom I adore, is a veg (though I’ve forced her at gunpoint to eat fish a few times), as are a couple of the shooters I’ve worked with. They’ve shown remarkable good humor, considering how I feel about their predilections. There have been lots of vegheads who’ve been very kind and generous these last few months, in spite of the fact that they know that at the first opportunity, when they’re drunk or vulnerable, I’m getting a bacon cheeseburger down their throats. That doesn’t mean I wanted to sit in some hilltop A-frame eating lentils out of a pot with a bunch of Nader supporters and hairy-legged