He and I palled around a bit back then. We hung out after hours sometimes, we had beers at Siberia Bar, and once, when we stepped outside to hail cabs home, the sun was rising. Over the years we had many drinks, and many conversations about our shared distrust of the newly emerging category of “celebrity chef,” about our shared respect and adoration for Fergus Henderson of St. John’s in London and his distilled poetic straightforwardness with food. We waxed on about the perfect bowl of plain buttered peas, and also the tripe, and the sweetbreads—the “nasty bits” as Tony called them—and we talked a lot about writing.
I used to find him so maddening because he would just shrug and say this same useless thing over and over through the decades that I would go on to know him: “I get up in the morning and write until I’ve backed myself into a corner; the next day, I get up and write myself out of that corner.” I, meanwhile, would’ve killed for this kind of confidence, this kind of shrugging nonchalance with which he got the work done. I still labored over every. Single. Punctuation. Mark.
Sometimes I gave him shit about his bulky leather jacket and his juvenile silver thumb ring. “Dude, it’s time for a well-made, well-fitting suit jacket for you. And grown men can’t wear silver thumb rings—that’s only for us lesbians!” I teased. He gave me shit about… nothing. He never gave me any shit about anything. He was like an older brother who only exists in fantasy, in fiction, one who never dunks you in the pool or gives you a wedgie, one who is only forever on your side and always looking out for you.
I needn’t have worried. This book, the writing, the instructions, the language, the recipes, the tone—even the nude pin-up calendar in the butcher’s station—the work is still, twenty years later, funny, lean and agile and vital and relevant. What is still exceptional about this book is the urgent advice, his instructions for success, his reprimands and cautionings—it’s like having the chef standing on the back of your clogs while you cook, keeping you organized, focused, and out of the weeds. This is evergreen: his drill-sergeant-like insistence that you get your shit together, early in the process. Making lists, mis-ing your ingredients in advance, breaking down your chores into logical tasks. Being on time, prepared, flexible, gentle on your own mistakes, and ready to pivot when needed.
I was relieved to feel so fondly for the food itself. It turns out my reunion with my people, my foods, my bistro-brasserie style is hardly a bust. There’s a reason we all love what we love. The straightforwardness of these dishes—quenelles de brochet, poule au pot, moules marinieres—the eternal deliciousness of them, the ongoing pleasures of cooking them, of spending time at the stove with them—it’s down-to-the-marrow satisfying. It’s been a long era recently of cookbooks, tasting menus, chef’s specials, restaurant dishes, and Instagram posts that swirl smoked yogurt and carrot top pesto into every dish and scatter toasted pumpkin seeds across it. I did not mind at all running into beurre rouge again!
