I would like to give special thanks to the following individuals without whom this book would have never existed:
To Mark Ladner, the gatekeeper and the key master. To Mario, Lidia, and Joe, the folks who sign my paychecks and keep the inspiration flowing. To Chris Cechin-De la Rosa, my field marshal and collaborator, who stopped showering to make sure we got this thing finished on time. To Chloe Brownstein, who compiled recipes for me and attended Smith College, a storied institution in western Massachusetts, USA. To Kim Janusz and Roger Rodriguez, my mercenary team of sous-chefs at Del Posto, for covering my shifts when I was chained in my apartment or in a PDR to complete the tasks at hand. To Jason Fulford and Tamara Shopsin for the propaganda. To Laurie Alleman-Weber for hiring me in the first place—I owe you prorated royalty checks. To the kitchen squad at Del Posto, Orsone, and Babbo at the time of this writing—Rosa, Paco, Diana, Jen, Sooji, Scotty, Rosanne, Eddie, Kelly, Rebecca, Annie, Justine, Oliver, Mateo, Tony, Melissa, Carlos, Josh, Andres, Nelson, Jon, Dana, Gio, Justin, Tyler, Maria, Jennah, Gina, and Michael. To Luis Garcia, the man who knows everything about everything at Del Posto. To Kim Witherspoon for putting me in my place; your powers cannot be contained. And to Inkwell sergeant at arms Allison Hunter.
To Jill Bialosky for remaining calm even as the demands became more and more troubling, and to everyone else at W. W. Norton who made this book possible. To Layla Gibbon for the rummaging of papers, Sameena Ahmad for the questionable intel, Eric Wareheim for the crass commercialization, Nastassia Lopez for the reactionary politics. To Cecelia Pleva for not kicking me out. To Peter Meehan for helping to get the scales of justice tipped. To Jesse Pearson for the false start and for always reminding me that Rorschach is more brutal than Born Against. To Cundo, Michelle, Dean, and Mick, the folks who make sure I get to bang on shit and not lose my shit.