KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

(Chris Devlin) #1

Now, Brasserie Les Halles is a much-loved New York institution,
serving authentic French workingman's fare to hordes of diners each
night. I'm an American, whatever my lineage, so it threw me off-guard to
be asked if I'd care to go halfway around the world to consult and advise
a French chef—in Japan—on the fine points of cassoulet, navarin
d'agneau, frisée aux lardons and boudin noir at Les Halles Tokyo.


But my masters, Philippe (a Frenchman) and José de Meireilles (a
Portuguese francophile), seemed convinced enough of my mystical
connection to the food they clearly adore to pack me on to a plane and
send me jetting off to Tokyo for a week. It was a daunting and unusual
assignment and I was going alone—my wife would not be joining me.


My biggest concern was the flight: fourteen hours in the air, and no
smoking(!) I scored some Valium before leaving for the airport, thinking
maybe I could knock myself out and sleep through the ordeal.
Unfortunately, as my Israeli-navigated town car swung into the Kennedy
Airport environs, I couldn't find the damn pills. I tore frantically through
my pockets and carry-on luggage, near tears, cursing myself, my wife,
God and everybody else who might be responsible for this hideous
situation.


I checked my knives through, not wanting to carry them on, and was
soon dug in, at 11 A.M., at the bar by the departure gate: last stop for
degenerate smokers. My companions were a very unhappy-looking
bunch of Asia veterans. Like me, they were chain-smoking and drinking
beer with grim, determined expressions on their faces. A Chinese
gentleman next to me, apropos of nothing, shook his head, blew smoke
out of his nose and said, "Sleeping pill. Only thing to do is sleep.
Fourteen hour to Narita. Long time." This did not improve my mood.
Another bar customer, an MP headed to South Korea to pick up a
prisoner, slammed back another draft and described the horror of
business class to the other side of the world. He too shook his head, lips
pursed, resigned to his fate. A red-faced Aussie with a five-hour layover

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