PROLOGUE

When it was first suggested that I’d reached a point in my career where I might consider having a go at writing a collection of essays, I replied that I didn’t think I had anything to say. When asked about writing something more memoir-esque, my answer was that nothing had ever really happened to me, at least nothing worth writing about. My wife, Elizabeth, not buying this for a moment, pointed out, ever so gently, that if I didn’t have anything to talk about, and if nothing had ever happened to me, why couldn’t I stop talking about all the stuff on my mind and regaling her with tales of my glorious past?

This was, of course, a trap, albeit a loving one.

By tempting, nay, daring me to create a collection of essays, she was, in effect, subtly asking me to maybe shut up for a while. Resigned to my fate, I loaded a clean piece of blue paper into my 1965 Hermes 3000 portable typewriter (not that Hermes) and started typing… and kept typing for four months solid, pausing only for a bout of COVID and to change ribbons. I stopped shaving because it took up too much time, and now I look a little like Rick Rubin, only without the red glasses. (I’ve come to believe that a beard is critical to the writing process, as it gives one something to stroke while pondering that next bon mot.)

So, Elizabeth was right (there, it’s in print), as it turns out I do have a few things I’d like to share, and a few experiences to relay, which I sincerely hope collectively merit investigation by you, dear reader, especially if you are in any way a fan of my work in the culinary field. This is not to say that this is a book just about food, it isn’t, despite the fact that food seems to always be lurking about. That’s simply the way my life has turned out, whether I meant for it to or not.

A few of these essays may wander into tender territory. This isn’t because I’m trying to be provocative, but rather because I’m a grown-up, and grown-ups sometimes have to think, share, and discuss things that may not be all cozy and “chill.” Many of the stories I’ve included here were not comfortable for me when they took place, but time grants perspective and I guess I’m at the age where a long view is finally possible, if I stand on a hill, with a telescope.

I’d like to note that all the words here are mine, the ideas mine, the silly doodles mine, and the memories likewise, though as Harold Pinter noted in Old Times, “There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.” I have, when appropriate, changed names to shield the innocent, and protect myself from lawyers. I may have folded time a bit here and there, misremembered a fact or two, and lord knows I am no stranger to exaggeration. But all in all, it all happened, and honestly, whatever didn’t, should have.