that for a compliment—which it kind of was—if a backhanded one.
I do have heart, you see. I've got plenty of heart. I'm a fucking
sentimental guy—once you get to know me. Show me a hurt puppy, or a
long-distance telephone service commercial, or a film retrospective of
Ali fights or Lou Gehrig's last speech and I'll weep real tears. I am a
bastard when crossed, though, no question. I bully my waiters but at least
I comfort myself afterward, when I wonder if maybe I went a little too
far—at least I don't bite them on the nose, as one chef I know did. I don't
throw plates . . . much. I don't blame others for my mistakes. I am
attentive to the weak but willing, if merciless to the strong who are not
so eager to please. Though slothful to a fault in my off-hours, I am not
lazy at work, and I am fiercely protective of my crew, of my chain of
command, of my turf. I have perjured myself on a cook's behalf. I will
cut my nose off to spite my face—if a favored cook's well-being is at
stake—meaning I will quit a job rather than let management, ownership
or anybody else toy with any member of my crew. I will walk out of a
perfectly good situation if someone insists on squeezing my cooks for
unreasonable amounts of extra work at no additional recompense. I'm
not bluffing when I threaten to quit over principle. My loyalty, such as it
is, is to my restaurant—if that loyalty is not to the detriment of
dedicated underlings. The ones who've hung with me, endured what I
think should be reasonably endured, have done the right thing.
Everything else is just noise.
Isn't it?
COFFEE AND A CIGARETTE
THE LIFE OF BRYAN
THERE ARE BETTER CHEFS in the world. One comes reluctantly, yet
undeniably, to that conclusion early in one's career. There's always some