Kitchen Confidential_ Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly - Anthony Bourdain [108]
Just recently, after many years, I stopped by to see Jimmy Sears at his new place, a swank nightclub/supper club in the Gramercy area. I sat down at a table, ordered some food (Jimmy's food is always excellent) and when the bread basket arrived, I looked up from the table at Jimmy with a horrible sense of recognition.
'You didn't?' I rasped, scarcely able to believe it.
'I did,' said Jimmy, sighing. 'I have Adam making my bread and my pizza.'
The last I'd heard, Adam was bragging about getting the marshals to yank out Sears's stoves and equipment to pay off his claim of non-payment, claiming he was going to bash Jimmy's skull into red paste this time, make him cry like a little girl, destroy his life. The previous year, Adam had had to be delivered to the Westhampton train station under police escort after one of the famous Quogue incidents: the Hampton's first forced deportation. Jimmy was Adam's favorite obsession, a ready-to-go revenge scenario, his number one topic of conversation. Now? Like so many relationships in the restaurant business, everything old was new again.
To endure Adam as an employee was to become a full-time cop, psychiatrist, moneylender, friend and antagonist, though he does have his sweet side.
Steven, Nancy and I went skiing with him one time. Adam was thrilled to be doing something normal. Dr Herbert Kleckley, in his groundbreaking work on serial killers, The Mask of Sanity, discusses this phenomonon, where the career sociopath, vestigially aware of his character, emulates normalcy by overcompensating - becoming a scoutmaster, a crisis-line counselor, a Republican fund-raiser. In this case, Adam, excited by the prospect of a wholesome activity like 'going skiing with the guys', prepared a bacchanalian picnic lunch for his fellow skiers: two chest coolers filled with homemade caponata, antipasto, sliced cold cuts, freshly baked Italian bread, cheese, marinated artichokes, roasted peppers . . . he must have been up all night getting it ready. And he skied like a hero, though he's the last person in the world who should be allowed. He had his ski boots on the wrong feet for the first hour. He had neglected to bring gloves or mittens. He lost a ski pole. But he soldiered on without complaint. I vividly recall looking down from the ski lift, seeing him fall on his face, then clamber up again, and thinking, 'You know, there is something to love about this guy . . . beyond the bread.' He's an extraordinary survivor, a man who has attained some nice highs and endured some truly low lows and always managed to bounce back. Maybe he's calling himself something else this time around. Maybe his paychecks are made out to some fictional company, a third party, his latest alias, but he's still on his feet at the end of the day . . . and still making that incredible bread.
Adam is not a stupid guy, though I sometimes think he aspires to be. His anecdotes are wildly exaggerated, unspeakably crude and graphic adventures - usually involving his penis - but without the earnest and self-deprecating charm of his friend Steven's accounts. Adam's comedy material runs along pretty predictable lines: referring to his dill bread starter, for instance, as 'dildo', accompanied by a maniacal laugh. He has an unusual and frankly terrifying tic; when he eats, one eye rolls up into its socket. I'm told he makes funny faces when he has sex, too, but I try very hard not to picture that. He's a sentimental guy who can take real pride in his work: I've seen him weep when his tiramisu didn't come out as planned, and when a cassata cake he'd made began to slide in the heat. He sulks, wheedles, whines, and bullies when he wants something - which is always - and you can