Scorched earth.
In the way of personal relationships, there are few industries like mine that attribute to the term as if it were a trophy. Obsession is one thing, my career- a straight forward illness. No one chooses this path, it is engraved within our soul. Every drop of blood encrypted with the desire and termination to abandon all hope for emotional attachment. I could never be a food writer. I rather leave that to the Bourdains of the world, far more talented individuals whose words elevate experiences in food further then the value of the moment which they immortalize. I have chosen the path of giving you an insight into the wondering, tormented, and most of the time lonely mind of the chef.
This post, this very moment however, not about me. It’s about one of the few men, few people who I will give credit to for the inspiration that has brought me here.
As I ponder on the cover of one of the most controversial cook books written in the past century, I see the face of a man torn. Marco Pierre White took the stage at a time when the world needed something to be hungry about. A renegade tormented by hunger for success and lust for amortization.
“I have done nothing apart from cook for the last ten years. I’ve had no social life to speak of, no real time to myself and there’s been a lot of pain and suffering getting there. One day
I’ll go to France; That’ll be my finishing school. Now it’s time to make money, because no money, no love, no food.”
This, the opening quote to the his first book. A testament not of the food which he prepared but to the life which he gave up to elevate this profession. Without ever speaking a single word of french, he beat the culinary power at their own game. Simplistic style fueled by love and a fire raged by passion. There is comfort in reading this , knowing this thought didn’t transcribe from my brain alone and first off. Social life, commitment, alone time, there is no such thing. I’m never alone in my brain, I wonder to sleep thinking of how to better prepare a dish, I awake with the answer, as if in the sleep I worked through the problem.
“If I came to your house for dinner an hour late, then criticized all your furniture and your wife’s haircut and said all your options were stupid, how would you feel? People still come here and expect a three-course meal in an hour. What do they think I do- pull rabbits out of a fucking hat? I’m not a magician.” Marco understood the importance of pristine ingredients, softly coaching them to that careful balance between perfection and ruined. There is a connection between him and the cooks of today, myself included. Understanding the importance of keeping a full house, while wanting the full house to understand the importance of keeping their mouths shut as they wait for a meal. A meal prepared with the same balance and dedication Marco used to rise to the top.
“When I go out to eat, I’m the ideal costumer. I eat the meal and go home and don’t complain. I’d never make a fuss. But the difference between me and the other customers is that my expectations are realistic.” To be anonymous in this profession has it’s benefit. The wait staff never knows who you are, the kitchen prepares the meal the same way it would for every other customer that night. The advantage is going home knowing that you are better. Learning what not to do, and the satisfaction in the delicate comprehension that your so believed competition is of no contest.
“I am a man of extremes. I can’t stand things that are diluted- only drinks benefit from that. I want a hundred per cent of everything, or everybody, or nothing at all.” This is the downside to loosing yourself in a single focus. Like blinders on a race horse, that horse has no clue it is running against anyone else. It only knows to give the track abandoned attention. Unsatisfied with every performance, no matter of the success. A bit depressing it may be, that no matter how far we come in our search for perfection there is nothing to be happy about. Only thoughts of how different things would have been in the presence of the ‘what if’.
We are not rock stars, us chefs. We are not satisfied or content. We live one morsel at the time, wondering how much more it will take, how much more is left, before we accomplish contentment. Contentment however is only a word, never to be reached. Marco had accomplished every accolade available. Gathered every award created and still nothing satisfied his search. Finally coming to realize that he was being judged by people who knew less about his profession then he did. And with that realization he disappeared from the stage without a bow. Unsatisfied that satisfaction only lived within himself. Unattainable, and diluted.
“At the end of the day, its just food, isn’t it? just food.” It’s not about the food, Marco. It’s about filling the void created by a craft with too many opinions, too many voices to satisfy them all. In his footsteps I find myself wondering- how much will it take to no longer be hungry.
All quotes collected from Marco Pierre White; White Heat.
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