Dirt by Bill Buford

Dirt by Bill Buford

Author:Bill Buford [Buford, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2020-05-05T00:00:00+00:00


* * *

But I didn’t. I was late.

I woke up thinking, Whatever you do, arrive on time—and then didn’t. Viannay was right: I did have a problem with tardiness or focus or a vaguely ADHD organizational dysfunction. All week long, I was late. To be fair, the lunches themselves were never very late; they were just always a little late, and everyone, except Christophe, was only a little bit unhappy. Circa 10:55 a.m., Christophe was apoplectic.

Friday, I was really late. Fridays, it turns out, are leftover days. Before, when I was mere eater rather than the lunch maker, I hadn’t noticed. Christophe must have assumed that no member of his kitchen could be so clueless as not to recognize a leftover. Or maybe (likely) he was just perverse. I hung around, waiting for him to tell me what the day’s ingredient was going to be, the morning getting later and later, until, finally, I asked and was informed that there wasn’t one. Go to the walk-in, Christophe said. “There you’ll figure out what we’re eating.”

I stared at the shelves, trying to determine what was a leftover, and then wondering what I was going to do with it that would feed thirty people. This is Hell, I thought. It was the first day when, after I prepared the lunch (I don’t know how late, I’ve repressed the time, just as I have no idea what I made), I didn’t eat it. I ran upstairs to the bathroom, took off my chef’s jacket, and wrung it out. The sweat filled the sink. I stood there, half undressed, trying to cool.

On Monday, however, there was a remarkable turn of events: Christophe ate with us. Lunch was served at 11:00 a.m. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, it was also served at 11:00 a.m. (Friday was late again—it was now fully established as the worst day of my week—and Christophe resumed dining on his own.)

The modest achievement was effected by my taking what would turn out to be an unacceptable shortcut. I didn’t do a sauce. I’d intended to, at least on the Monday. The principal ingredient was skirt steak. Christophe presented it to me like a clue in a quiz, followed by what I now recognized to be the usual catechism. How will I cook it? (In sauté pans, several at once.) With what? (Une purée de pommes de terre—buttery mashed potatoes.) And? (Asparagus.) How? (In the oven, roasted.) And? (A salad with anchovies.) And the sauce? “Beurre rouge,” I said, thinking, steak + red wine = eternal combo, etc. It wasn’t a complicated meal.

I got to work. I cut up shallots, sweated them and added the wine. I set the meat out to bring it to room temperature, and seasoned it. It was the potatoes that subverted my schedule. Despite Ansel’s whiz-kid potato tutorial, and the fact that I had been practicing at home, when it came to my going live with forty kilos of tubers, I lost my nerve; I didn’t think I would yet be fast enough with a knife, and resorted to the old practice of the peeler.



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