old master or new hotshot who's doing things with food you never would
have thought of—if they hadn't done it first. And of course, in the thin
air at the peak of the culinary Mount Olympus, where the three- and
four-star demi-gods dwell—guys like Eric Ripert, Grey Kunz, Bouley,
Palladin, Keller, you know the names, I don't have to tell you—they have
the added advantage of not only being geniuses or near-geniuses, but
they tend to command crews that are larger, better trained, and more
single-minded in their zeal. This didn't just happen, mind you. These
guys don't get hundreds of hungry young culinarians banging on their
kitchen doors, begging for the privilege of mopping their brows and
peeling their shallots just because they have their names stitched on their
jackets. Nobody is building million-dollar kitchen facilities around their
chef, shelling out for combi-steamers, induction burners, fine china, Jade
ranges, crystal snifters and fistfuls of white truffles because the guy can
sling steaks faster than the other guy, or because he has a cute accent.
Cream rises. Excellence does have its rewards. For every schlockmeister
with a catch—phrase and his own line of prepared seasonings who
manages to hold American television audiences enthralled, there are
scores more who manage to show up at work every day in a real kitchen
and produce brilliantly executed, innovatively presented, top-quality
food. I am, naturally, pissed off by the former, and hugely impressed by
the latter.
But for my money, the guy I know who embodies the culinary ideal? A
no-bullshit, no muss, no fuss, old-school ass-kicking cook of the first
order?
That would have to be Scott Bryan, down the street at Veritas.
I'd been hearing about this guy for years—significantly, from other chefs
and cooks.
"Scott says this . . ." and "Scott says that . . ." and "Scott doesn't make
veal stock; he's roasting chicken bones! Buys fresh killed . . . in, like,