I picked up this book, hoping it would be filled with juicy, behind the scenes stuff from a restaurant critic’s point of view, do what Bourdain did for restaurant kitchens. But no. Well, some of that stuff does come up, though in the final few chapters of the book. This is after all a memoir of a person and his eating/weight problems. I’ve never heard of him before, his name not activating the mildest case of tinnitus, but a New York Times food critic: this has got to be good, and it is. The “critic” part, though, is something to pine for (particularly the snarky ones, bits of which appear in the link below) upon putting down the book; one would hope a compilation / part II (Born Round… Again?) is in the works. But this is not what this is about; this is a disarming recount of growing up with his Italian grandma’s cooking, for one (turns out Joe didn’t make up this whole “no meat on Xmas Eve” gimmick, or hiding the Baby Jesus statuette in the cupboard until midnight, etc.), and pigging out, feeling guilty for pigging out, working out in anticipation of pigging out, having fat clothes in the back of the closet, avoiding people during the fat years, etc. Heck, I could’ve written this book, if didn’t need to be well-written and witty and engagingly tragic and set partly in Rome. (Shakespearean?) But just like with meals, the best part comes last. Dessert or washing dishes or people leaving… or all of the above.
Oh, and free useful Italian, beyond good morning, where’s the toilet, and go… fly a kite. (Necessary props: plate/food; granny optional)
Di più? (More?)
Di meno? (Less?)
Basta così. (That’ll do.)
Excerpt/spoiler alert: Here’s something from the Guardian about it. I actually did a search for my favourite anecdote in the book (probably the best one out of a handful, so not much more of the same) so came up with this, in case they destroy the link or something. So what follows is just for me. Because I have to return this book now.
Toward the end of my fourth and final meal at Nobu 57 I returned from the bathroom with a dark splotch on the front of my shirt. Embarrassed, I explained to my companions that I had been klutzy with the soap dispenser. A few minutes later, when our eavesdropping waitress brought the bill, she announced that two glasses of white wine weren’t on it. They’d been removed as an apology for the way the bathroom soap dispenser malfunctioned.
“But it didn’t malfunction,” I assured her. “I malfunctioned. I banged way too hard on it and was leaning too close to it.”
I didn’t insist that the wine be added back and instead covered its cost with an extra-large tip. I got up to leave.
As I walked toward the door, a manager intercepted me.
“Sir,” he said, “I want to apologise about our soap dispenser.”
I corrected him. Exonerated him. Told him he really, really needn’t worry.
He handed me his card. “Even so,” he said, “if you have trouble getting the shirt clean, please contact me. We can pay for dry cleaning or for a new shirt.”
At this point I felt the need to draw attention to a crucial detail that suggested that the splotch would come out easily.
“It’s soap,” I said.
To which the manager added, with audible pride: “And it is Kiehl’s.”
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