Chinatown!"
Someone would mention his name in passing, and other chefs would get
this curious expression on their faces, like the runner of Satchel Paige's
admonition: "Don't look back—someone might be gaining on you."
They'd look worried, as if, examining their own hearts and souls and
abilities, they were aware that not only couldn't they do what Scott does,
but they wouldn't.
He was a cult figure, it seemed, among cooks of my acquaintance. Over
time, I developed an idea of him as some sort of hair-shirt ascetic, a mad
monk, a publicity-shy perfectionist who'd rather do no business at all—
die in obscurity—than ever serve a bad meal.
The whole world of cooking is not my world, contrary to what
impression I might have given you in the preceding pages. Truth be told,
I bring a lot of it with me. Hang out in the Veritas kitchen, take a hard
look at Scott Bryan's operation, and you will find that everything I've
told you so far is wrong, that all my sweeping generalities, rules of
thumb, preconceptions and general principles are utter bullshit.
In my kitchens, I'm in charge, it's always my ship, and the tenor, tone and
hierarchy—even the background music—are largely my doing. A chef
who plays old Sex Pistols songs while he breaks down chickens for coq
au vin is sending a message to his crew, regardless of his adherence to
any Escoffier era merit system.
A guy who employs, year after year, a sous-chef like Steven Tempel is
clearly not Robuchon—or likely to emulate his successes. It is no
coincidence that all my kitchens over time come to resemble one another
and are reminiscent of the kitchens I grew up in: noisy, debauched and
overloaded with faux testosterone—an effective kitchen, but a family
affair, and a dysfunctional one, at that. I coddle my hooligans when I'm
not bullying them. I'm visibly charmed by their extra-curricular excesses