Free Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook by Anthony Bourdain

ten minutes in one of those—a bunch of bitter, snowy-haired, bilious fucks with gin-blossomed noses and ballooning guts talking too loud and laughing too hard and secretly hating each other—you’ll reconsider ever putting another word to paper. As much as I admire the work of good writers, I’ve found that hanging out with more than one of them at a time is about as much fun as being thrown into a cage full of hungry but toothless civet cats.
    “You’re not a chef,” says the kid at the bar—another bar, a “chefs’ bar,” this time, late at night. I’m probably on a book tour and out for drinks with the kitchen crew from my hotel. Is it Portland? Seattle? Vancouver? Who remembers?
    “You’re not a chef!” he repeats, giving me the stink-eye, unsteady on his feet. “You don’t even cook!”
    The others with me, fresh off a long shift in the kitchen, shrink back a little, uncomfortable with the situation. They like me fine. I did write Kitchen Confidential , after all, but let’s face it, the kid is right.
    He’s drunk and he’s angry and, like a lot of people who own well-thumbed, food-splattered, water-damaged copies of that book—or who’ve borrowed a copy from the guy who works next to them—he feels betrayed. I’m a heretic now, having abandoned him and everyone like him, repudiated the One True Church of the Working Cook.
    Look at me and my nice fucking jacket, standing there all famous and shit.
    “Fuck you,” he says. “You don’t even cook. You’re not one of us anymore.” Far from being offended (though I am hurt), I want to give him a big hug. Another drink or two and I just might.
    I don’t cook. I’m not a chef. The chefs and cooks who are better than I used to be—better than I ever was—they know this and don’t need to say it. They certainly don’t need to say it to my face, like this kid, pressing me up against the bar now with the force of his rage and hurt. He will channel these feelings, appropriately, into a demand that I do a shot of tequila with him. Or two.
    Which is a relatively friendly and diplomatic solution to an awkward situation.
    It’s the guys who are most like me who feel most disappointed in me. The hackers, the wake-up-every-fucking-day-and-drag-your-ass-into-pretty-much-one-place-same-as-the-other-to-make-food-youdon’t-particularly-like-for-people-you-like-even-less. The ones who smell of fryer grease and burned salmon fat.
    When I decline the offer of a third shot, he will at least have had the satisfaction of proving me a pussy. Which will be a victory of sorts.
    And when, eventually, he sags to the side in his booth, his comrades in arms looking on tolerantly, and slips into unconsciousness, I will still be thinking about what he said, that he was right.

So You Wanna Be a Chef

    I am frequently asked by aspiring chefs, dreamers young and old, attracted by the lure of slowly melting shallots and caramelizing pork belly, or delusions of Food Network stardom, if they should go to culinary school. I usually give a long, thoughtful, and qualified answer.
    But the short answer is “no.”
    Let me save you some money. I was in the restaurant business for twenty-eight years—much of that time as an employer. I am myself a graduate of the finest and most expensive culinary school in the country, the CIA, and am as well a frequent visitor and speaker at other culinary schools. Over the last nine years, I have met and heard from many culinary students on my travels, have watched them encounter triumphs and disappointments. I have seen the dream realized, and—more frequently—I have seen the dream die.
    Don’t get me wrong. I’m not telling you that culinary school is a bad thing. It surely is not. I’m saying that you , reading this, right now, would probably be ill-advised to attend—and are, in all likelihood, unsuited for The Life in any case. Particularly if you’re any kind of normal.
    But let’s say you’re determined. You’re planning on