A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [98]
The big dogs in England, the good guys, the people actually cooking in restaurants (which is what chefs are supposed to do, isn’t it?), the folks actually fighting the good fight are what’s really interesting about the English food scene. Swaggering, eccentric, aggressive, competitive, often brilliant, they’re a refreshing change from their US counterparts in the celebrity chef racket.
In our country, when a blue-collar goof scores any kind of commercial success, he immediately strives to stop dropping his g’s, to begin enunciating consonants, to stop using the word fuck as a comma. He may, as in the case of one much-praised colleague, immediately hire the services of a personal hairstylist and voice coach. In the UK, it’s different. There, once a measure of success has been attained, the chef feels free to become the badly behaved, borderline-violent hooligan he always wanted to be, freely displaying the inner rude boy. Which is one of the reasons I feel very much at home in London.
It’s competitive over there. When I casually mentioned to an English pal that I had lent a case of mesclun to the chef at the restaurant across the street from me in New York, he was outraged.
‘What? Bloody hell! We’d never do that here.’
What happens if he runs out of mesclun? Would he borrow?
‘Wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.’
Camaraderie is somewhat rarer. To associate too freely with other chefs is to trade with the enemy. When a sous-chef leaves a position to start his own operation, it’s like he defected. He becomes the Person Never to Be Mentioned Again. In New York, if the chef across the street steals your saucier, you don’t harbor too much of a grudge. Everybody knows you’ll be stealing his grillardin if you get the chance. And everybody involved is probably going to end up working together some day anyway – so get over it. Stealing of cooks and recipes is part of the game – even part of the fun for some of us. In England, feuding with food critics, commentators, and other chefs is encouraged – and may even be a good career move. In New York, the idea of throwing the New York Times food critic (if you are lucky enough to recognize him) rudely out into the street with his guests would seem suicidally foolish. In England it’s good public relations.
I threw a late-night party awhile back at a place in London’s meat district to launch my book. I invited a lot of chefs, a good number of the press, and booksellers. The hope was that the chefs would swing by after work and have some fun. They did.
A terrifying mob of blood- and sauce-spattered culinarians lurched in the doors, many still reeking of sweat and fish, made straight for the bar, and began baiting and bullying the vastly outnumbered civilians. On at least two occasions, I had to step in between some white-clad chef and about-to-be-ass-whupped journo or bookstore manager to avert senseless butchery. As the chefs’ numbers swelled to a mob of alcohol-swilling madmen, their accents growing thicker and their tone more belligerent, the representatives of the press appeared to contract slowly into a defensive perimeter by the bathrooms. A good time was had by all.
On to the good guys.
‘This was a happy pig,’ says Fergus Henderson, looking down with pleasure at the head of a carefully roasted medium-sized pig. He emphasizes his pride and respect for what he knows is damned delicious (perfectly crispy skin, buttery sweet – nearly ethereal fat, tender, ropy cheeks) by moving his arms up and down robotically. Behind clear glass lenses, his face is a little flushed, the corner