That's what counts.
I can break down line cooks into three subgroups.
You've got your Artists: the annoying, high-maintenance minority. This
group includes specialists like pâtissiers (the neurologists of cooking),
sous-chefs, butchers, garde-manger psychos, the occasional saucier
whose sauces are so ethereal and perfect that delusions of grandeur are
tolerated.
Then there are the Exiles: people who just can't make it any other
business, could never survive a nine-to-five job, wear a tie or blend in
with civilized society—and their comrades, the Refugees, usually
emigres and immigrants for whom cooking is preferable to death squads,
poverty or working in a sneaker factory for 2 dollars a week.
Finally, there are the Mercenaries: people who do it for cash and do it
well. Cooks who, though they have little love or natural proclivity for
cuisine, do it at a high level because they are paid well to do it—and
because they are professionals. Cooking is a craft, I like to think, and a
good cook is a craftsman—not an artist. There's nothing wrong with that:
the great cathedrals of Europe were built by craftsmen—though not
designed by them. Practicing your craft in expert fashion is noble,
honorable and satisfying. And I'll generally take a stand-up mercenary
who takes pride in his professionalism over an artist any day. When I
hear "artist", I think of someone who doesn't think it necessary to show
up at work on time. More often than not their efforts, convinced as they
are of their own genius, are geared more to giving themselves a hard-on
than satisfying the great majority of dinner customers. Personally, I'd
prefer to eat food that tastes good and is an honest reflection of its
ingredients, than a 3-foot-tall caprice constructed from lemon grass,
lawn trimmings, coconuts and red curry. You could lose an eye trying to
eat that. When a job applicant starts telling me how Pacific Rim-job
cuisine turns him on and inspires him, I see trouble coming. Send me