some more bars and, finding myself incongruously hungry again, and
wanting to soak up some of the sea of alcohol in my stomach, committed
the ultimate in Tokyo faux pas—I ate a McDonald's hamburger while I
walked. The trains shut down at eleven-thirty, and most of Tokyo, it
seemed, preferred to stay out all night to taking a taxi. One could,
Philippe had explained before leaving me off at Roppongi Crossing,
borrow money to get home from almost any policeman if drunk and
unexpectedly short of funds. The idea of not returning the next day to
repay the debt was, in typically Japanese thinking, unthinkable.
I walked, unsteadily, for hours, stopped off for a final drink, managed,
somehow, to get back to my apartment and call Nancy.
She'd laid on some fresh bialys from Columbia Bagels, and some Krispy
Kreme donuts for my return. I began packing.
SO YOU WANT TO BE A CHEF? A COMMENCEMENT
ADDRESS
FOR CULINARY STUDENTS, LINE cooks looking to move up in the
world, newcomers to the business—and the otherwise unemployables
who make up so much of our workforce—I have a few nuggets of advice,
the boiled-down wisdom of twenty-five years of doing right and doing
wrong in the restaurant industry.
For the growing number of people who are considering becoming a
professional chef as a second career I have some advice, too. In fact, let's
dispose of you first:
So you want to be a chef? You really, really, really want to be a chef? If
you've been working in another line of business, have been accustomed
to working eight-to-nine-hour days, weekends and evenings off, holidays
with the family, regular sex with your significant other; if you are used
to being treated with some modicum of dignity, spoken to and interacted