who should be allowed. He had his ski boots on the wrong feet for the
first hour. He had neglected to bring gloves or mittens. He lost a ski
pole. But he soldiered on without complaint. I vividly recall looking
down from the ski lift, seeing him fall on his face, then clamber up
again, and thinking, "You know, there is something to love about this
guy . . . beyond the bread." He's an extraordinary survivor, a man who
has attained some nice highs and endured some truly low lows and
always managed to bounce back. Maybe he's calling himself something
else this time around. Maybe his paychecks are made out to some
fictional company, a third party, his latest alias, but he's still on his feet
at the end of the day . . . and still making that incredible bread.
Adam is not a stupid guy, though I sometimes think he aspires to be. His
anecdotes are wildly exaggerated, unspeakably crude and graphic
adventures—usually involving his penis—but without the earnest and
self-deprecating charm of his friend Steven's accounts. Adam's comedy
material runs along pretty predictable lines: referring to his dill bread
starter, for instance, as "dildo", accompanied by a maniacal laugh. He
has an unusual and frankly terrifying tic; when he eats, one eye rolls up
into its socket. I'm told he makes funny faces when he has sex, too, but I
try very hard not to picture that. He's a sentimental guy who can take real
pride in his work: I've seen him weep when his tiramisu didn't come out
as planned, and when a cassata cake he'd made began to slide in the heat.
He sulks, wheedles, whines, and bullies when he wants something—
which is always—and you can pretty much tell what frame of mind he's
in from his appearance. If he hasn't shaved, it's not a good time to be
around him.
At Sullivan's I'd schedule his baking shifts at night, after the kitchen
closed. I did not want him interacting with the other cooks. His faux-
macho banter with the Ecuadorian and Mexican line cooks invariably
caused offense, and he was an incurable slob.
"You will arrive in my kitchen promptly at one A.M. You will bake my