Lunch with the FT: Top of the food chain
Bill Buford, editor, author and newly trained cook, sits in Casa Mono, a restaurant in downtown Manhattan, looking pleased with himself. And rightly so.
He has a new job writing on The New Yorker, the acme of serious US magazine journalism, and his just-out book, Heat, about his adventures as a trainee chef, is right now, on this sweaty summer afternoon, hovering in the top 20 of The New York Times bestseller list.
“It is pretty hard to complain,” he says, nodding, as he settles at our tiny two-person wooden table beside one of Casa Mono’s bright windows. “If you want to be a writer, to be the author of a book on the bestseller list and be working with The New Yorker, that sounds about right.”
This is as close as Buford gets to boasting. He seems an unobtrusive, dressed-down sort of man - an observer who fits in the background rather than a player like the big-name authors he has spent years editing or the ego-crazed chefs he writes about in Heat, even though as fiction editor of The New Yorker for eight years he was one of the most influential literary players on the globe. True to this relaxed ethos, today he wears frayed, well-worn jeans, brown shoes (that to my eyes look like clogs), a white-and-green-striped shirt, and grey stubble. He sets his mouth in a pursed “here I am, who’d have thought it, nothing I could do about it” sort of expression, one that he adopts a lot throughout our lunch.
Buford has chosen Casa Mono for our meal because it features in the pages of Heat. Another reason, he admits, is that his apartment is just around the corner. In his book he tells how he leaves his editing job at The New Yorker to reinvent himself as a cook, descending into the hellish kitchen at Babbo, one of New York’s best-known Italian restaurants, which is run by US celebrity chef and extrovert Mario Batali. Now that his book is finished, he is back at The New Yorker writing a monthly feature on food.
One of the conceits of Heat is that truly good cooking requires an understanding of the soulful connections between land, animals and the communities they nurture. This lore has mostly been forgotten, the connections cut, in modern mass-market America. To rediscover it, you must return to food’s ethnic roots abroad. Buford, as Batali did before him, travels to Italy to learn the secrets of the culinary trade.
Today, our cuisine is Spanish. Casa Mono, another restaurant part-owned by Batali, with just 13 tables, is run by Andy Nusser, the once much put-upon head chef Buford met at Babbo, who draws his inspiration from the street restaurants of Barcelona. Nusser is present today, a hyperactive, eager-to-please man who buzzes around us and sends over unbidden our first dish: lamb’s tongue salad with summer truffles. “Andy is 45 or 46, and he had been cooking for almost 20 years before finally he got his own place,” Buford says to me, drawing comparisons between great writers and the great chefs he has known. “I think about the similarities all the time. It takes a long time to become a writer. It involves a very, very long time in the wilderness in the business of learning your chops.”
Bill Buford loves his food. He leans over our dishes, studying, commenting, pointing, licking his fingers. He looks at home in front of a plate, almost beatific. It is intimidating to eat with such an obvious foodie. “This is the lamb’s tongue, right?” I say hopefully. “No, that’s the truffle,” says Buford, pushing away a spear of asparagus. “The lamb’s tongue I think will be underneath here. It is mounted in architectural fashion.”
When the waitress hands us the menus, Buford glances at me and orders for both of us. For him, rabbit with spring peas. For me, pumpkin and salt-cod croquetas with orange alioli. “This is going to kick ass,” he says.
Buford was born in Louisiana and grew up in California. His family owns land in Florida, he tells me, where he goes to hunt wild boar. After studying at Berkeley, he did a second degree in English at Cambridge, where he started to edit Granta. During the next decade and a half he transformed the failing university literary magazine into a national institution. The success, he says, tucking into his rabbit with gusto, was down to being in the right place at the right time.
“It captured a narrative renaissance in Britain,” he says. “At the beginning of the 80s, there was Angus Wilson and Margaret Drabble. By the end of the 80s, it was Salman Rushdie, Graham Swift, Kazuo Ishiguro, Jeanette Winterson. What happened in Britain in the 1980s was quite radical.” I ask him what was the high point of his time at Granta. “Publishing Rushdie,” he says.
The restaurant is beginning to fill up. Nusser has sent over two glasses of cava. As Buford explains to me what I am eating, he reaches over and scoops a large gob of my orange alioli on the end of his finger.
Whereas at Granta - at least early on - Buford had to cajole people to write for his cash-strapped magazine, he had plenty of willing contributors at the glamorous and wealthy New Yorker, where he was lured in 1995 by the then editor, Tina Brown. Yet for all the magazine’s wealth, he says, he was not always blessed with as rich a generation of talent to draw upon for his pages as he had been in Britain. “By the end of the year, if you published 50 stories and you had five great stories, you had a good year,” he says. “Sometimes we had one great story.” The first truly good piece of fiction came in his second year, he says, and was Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain. “We had to persuade her to let us publish it. She had been turned down by The New Yorker so many times she was ready for it to be rejected.”
He has sent copies of Heat, he says, to some of his old contacts. “I sent it to Don DeLillo, Annie Proulx and Stephen King. Don said his wife, Barbara, grabbed it and read it, and he was going to read it next. Annie said she loved it. Stephen King was too busy promoting himself. He sent regrets via his agent.”
Buford stopped editing after he told David Remnick, editor of The New Yorker, that somebody should write a profile of Batali, whom he had met at a dinner party he threw at his home for the writer Jay McInerney. Remnick knew that Buford wanted to be writing instead of editing and said he should be the one to do it. Buford agreed on the condition that he could actually work in Batali’s kitchen for research. “I did not want to write a profile about some fat chef guy if I could not also in some way make it about myself,” says Buford.
He wrote the profile and then left the magazine as the article grew into a book and he realised he wanted to learn much more about the art of the food. It became a personal journey, funded by the book advance and the sale of his house in Cambridge, and involved a stint making pasta near Bologna and an apprenticeship to a Dante-spouting butcher in Chianti. His wife, Jessica, quit her magazine editing job and trailed after him around Europe. She gave birth to twins, Frederick and George, just as he was finishing Heat.
Our next serving arrives: guinea hen with plum mustard for Buford; pork loin with bitter Seville oranges for me. As we both tuck in, I ask him if he can explain the current fascination with food. It is a question that nagged me while I was reading Heat. It seemed absurd that anyone could be obsessed with such questions as finding the perfect polenta or discovering the historical moment when egg was first used in pasta.
Buford acknowledges the wobbly carapace of deeper meaning that is sometimes constructed around cooking. “Food does have a kind of charisma,” he says. “It is seen as an expression of national culture. It is a way of talking to the dead. It is an expression of family and family inheritance. In Italy they are obsessed with how food is an expression of exactly where you are. It is so many different things at once and at the same time it is none of these things. It is finally also just dinner. You eat it, and it is gone. It is not art, and it is not culture, and it is not identity, and it is not your mother.”
But he also gives good reasons for the rising interest in cooking in the US, where, he says, people are “unbelievably ignorant” about what they eat - it is a sort of catch-up with the rest of the world - and why there should be more interest. “There is almost just an ethical responsibility to know your food,” he says. “I am glad that I know what good meat is and what bad meat is and know that it was raised well.”
Another important reason for taking food seriously, he says, is what we are doing right now - interacting socially over a good meal, coming together as friends. Me, friends with Bill Buford?
Buford declines dessert, but orders a watermelon sorbet for me. Nusser, waving from the counter, also dispatches a chocolate tart.
I ask Buford what he is going to do next. Surely follow the success of Heat with a novel of his own. But he insists that he won’t, not yet. “My wife thinks I will end up writing fiction,” he says.
He considered setting up a restaurant with Batali, or even starting a Manhattan outpost of the Chianti butchery. But he decided he was a writer, not a cook, and, for the time being, a writer of fact. His next book on food will stay with the international angle. It will be about French cuisine. He also plans a memoir about his father, who was a physicist, and the California aerospace industry
I pay the bill - $96. “They are being generous,” says Buford, peering over at it. I have enjoyed our lunch and want it to continue, but he has to leave. The spell of conviviality created by our shared meal lasts for a few steps then, out in the sunshine, fades. As we shake hands, Buford once again gives me that “nothing I could do about it” smile, and I watch him walk away up Park Avenue. It was, I realise, just lunch after all.
Casa Mono, New York
1 x pumpkin and salt-cod croquetas
1 x rabbit with spring peas
1 x pork loin with Seville oranges
1 x guinea hen with plum mustard
1 x watermelon sorbet
1 x chocolate torta
2 x glass of Cava
2 x glass of rose
1 x bottle of mineral water
2 x double espresso
Total: $96.45
“深入”厨房的作家
比
尔?布福德(Bill Buford)有三个身份：编辑、作家以及刚刚受过培训的厨师。此刻他坐在曼哈顿下城区的Casa Mono餐厅里，看起来洋洋自得。他有理由自得。
他有了一份新工作，为美国严肃新闻类顶级杂志《纽约客》(The New Yorker)撰稿。而在这个令人汗流浃背的夏日午后，他的新书《热度》(Heat)正雄踞《纽约时报》(The New York Times)畅销书排行榜前20名。这本刚刚出版的书讲述了他充当厨师学徒的奇妙经历。
生活“热度”高
我们坐在Casa Mono餐厅一扇明亮窗户边的双人小木桌旁。“我真没什么可抱怨的，”他一边点头一边说，“如果你想当作家，想出版一本畅销书，又想在《纽约客》工作的话。我的情况似乎蛮不错了。”
听起来好像是布福德开始自吹自擂了。尽管在《纽约客》做了8年小说编辑，已是全球最有影响的文字玩家之一，但他看上去却是那种为人低调、穿着随意的人，像是一个呆在幕后的观察家，而不像他花费多年时间编辑他们作品的那些著名作家，也不像他在《热度》里描写的那个内心狂热的厨师。今天，他穿着一条磨破的旧牛仔裤，脚踏一双（在我看来像是木屐的）棕色鞋，上身是一件绿白条纹的衬衫，留着一头灰色的短发，一派轻松气质。他噘着嘴，嘟哝着“我就这样了，谁知道呢，我也无能为力”之类的话――在我们整个午餐过程中，他不时摆出这个表情。
布福德将我们这顿饭定在Casa Mono餐厅，是因为它在《热度》书里有醒目的照片。另外，他承认，还有一个原因是他就住在附近。他在《热度》一书里讲述了自己的故事：放弃在《纽约客》的编辑工作，改头换面成为一个厨师，委身于Babbo餐厅地狱般的厨房――Babbo是纽约最著名的意大利餐厅之一，由美国名厨、性格外向的马里奥?巴塔利(Mario Batali)经营。现在，书已完成，他又回到了《纽约客》，每月写一篇有关食品的特写。
《热度》包含的观点之一是，真正好的烹饪需要理解土地、动物和它们养育的生物群落之间的情感联系。在美国的现代大众市场，这种学问几乎被遗忘一空，这些联系也被切断。要重新发现这种学问，你必须回到食品在美国之外的民族根源那里。正如巴塔利之前所做的那样，布福德也踏上意大利之旅，去学习烹饪的秘密。
美食、厨师与作家
今天我们吃的是西班牙菜。而我们就餐的Casa Mono餐厅只有13张桌子，由安迪?努瑟(Andy Nusser)经营(巴塔利在这里也拥有部分股份)。努瑟就是布福德当初在Babbo餐厅遇到的那位总是上当的厨师长，他开设Casa Mono的灵感来自巴塞罗那街头的餐馆。极度活跃的努瑟今天也在场，他殷勤地围着我们转，还送来了我们并没有点的头道菜：配有夏松露的羊舌沙拉。“安迪四十五六岁，做了将近20年厨师，最后才有现在的地位，”布福德说，他将自己认识的伟大作家与伟大厨师进行了对比，“我总是在想其中的相似点。要想成为作家，需要花很长时间。要学好刀功，也需要很长、很长时间的探索。”
比尔?布福德非常喜爱他的食物。他探身凑近我们的菜肴，“指指点点”，评头论足，还不时用手指取菜来舔舔。他在盘子面前显得十分自在，几乎可以说有种幸福感。与这样一位显然是美食家的人一起吃饭，有些令人胆怯。“这是羊舌，对吗？”我满怀希望的问道。“不，那是松露。”布福德一边回答，一边拨开一小截芦笋。“我想羊舌会在这下面。这是以建筑的风格摆放的。”
当服务生把菜单递给我们时，布福德瞅了我一眼，然后为我们两个人点菜。他给自己点的是春豌豆烧兔肉，给我要了南瓜和咸鳕鱼饼配橙色蒜蓉蛋黄酱(alioli)。他说：“这肯定非常棒。”
《热度》之前传
布福德出生于路易斯安那，在加利福尼亚长大。他告诉我，他们家在佛罗里达州也有土地，他去那儿猎野猪。在伯克利读完书之后，他又在英国剑桥大学拿到了第二个英文专业的学位，在那里他开始为《Granta》杂志作编辑。在随后的15年里，他将这个日益衰落的大学文学杂志，转变成一家全国性的机构。这一成功是因为占了天时地利，布福德一边兴致勃勃地大口吃着兔肉，一边说道。
“它抓住了英国叙事文学复兴的契机，”他表示，“在80年代初，有安格斯?威尔逊(Angus Wilson)和玛格丽特?德拉布尔(Margaret Drabble)；80年代末则有萨曼?拉什迪(Salman Rushdie)、格雷厄姆?斯威夫特(Graham Swift)、石黑一雄(Kazuo Ishiguro)和珍妮特?温特森(Jeanette Winterson)。20世纪80年代，在英国发生的事情非常激进。”我问他在《Granta》的巅峰是什么。他回答说：“出版拉什迪的作品。”
餐厅里的人开始多了起来。努瑟已经送来了两杯卡瓦酒(cava)。布福德一边向我解释我在吃的是什么，一边俯身过来，用手指头从我的蒜蓉蛋黄酱上挖了一大块。
尽管在《Granta》――至少在初期――布福德不得不哄着别人为他现金匮乏的杂志写稿，但在魅力四射、资金充裕的《纽约客》，却有许多人愿意给他投稿。布福德是在1995年被《纽约客》当时的主编蒂娜?布朗(Tina Brown)挖过来的。然而，他表示，尽管这家杂志财力雄厚，但他并不总是能像在英国那样，吸引到大批优秀人才来投稿。“在年底来临之前，如果你出版了50篇文章，而其中有5篇是优秀作品，那么这一年就算丰收了，”他表示，“有时候，我们只有一篇优秀作品。”他说，第一部真正好的小说，是在他任职的第二年，那是安妮?普罗克斯(Annie Proulx)的《断背山》(Brokeback Mountain)。“我们不得不说服她让我们出版这部小说。她已经被《纽约客》拒绝过太多次了，这次她也做好了被拒绝的准备。”
《热度》之诞生
布福德说，他已经把《热度》的副本给了一些老熟人。“我给了唐?德里罗(Don DeLillo)、安妮?普罗克斯和斯蒂芬?金(Stephen King)。唐说，他的妻子芭芭拉(Barbara)抢过去看了，等她看完他就看。安妮说，她很喜欢这本书。斯蒂芬?金太忙了，正忙着推广自己。他通过自己的代理表示了歉意。”
开始的时候，布福德告诉《纽约客》主编大卫?雷姆尼克(David Remnick)，应该有人写一篇巴塔利(Batali)的传记。巴塔利是布福德在自己家里为作家杰伊?麦克伦尼(Jay McInerney)举办宴会时遇到的。雷姆尼克知道布福德想从事写作，而不是编辑工作，就告诉他，他就是该做这件事情的那个人。布福德同意了，条件是他可以亲身在巴塔利的厨房里工作，搜集素材。布福德说：“如果我不能让作品在某种程度上有自己的亲身体验，我不会想写一篇关于某个胖厨师的传记。” 随后他停止了编辑工作。
他写了那篇传记，接下来，当那篇文章扩成一本书时，他离开了《纽约客》，他意识到自己想学更多有关食品艺术的知识。这成了一次私人旅行，资金来自那本书的预付款，同时他还卖掉了自己在剑桥的房子，他节衣缩食地在博洛尼亚(Bologna)附近学做意大利面食，并在基安蒂(Chianti)跟着一个大谈特谈但丁的屠夫做学徒。他的妻子杰西卡(Jessica)也辞掉了杂志编辑的工作，追随他游历于欧洲各国。在布福德《热度》一书即将完稿之际，杰西卡生了一对双胞胎：弗雷德里克(Frederick)和乔治(George)。
我们下一道菜上桌了：布福德的李子芥末珍珠鸡；我的猪里脊肉配苦酸橘。在我们开怀大吃之时，我问他是否能解释一下当前食物的魅力所在。这是我在读《热度》时一直困扰我的一个问题。有人会痴迷于找到完美的玉米粥，或发现第一次在意大利面食里放鸡蛋的历史时刻等问题，这似乎有些荒唐。
布福德承认，在烹饪方面，有时在较为深奥的内涵之外，会存在一层不稳定的外壳。“食物的确有一种超凡的魅力，”他说道，“它被视为民族文化的一种展现。一种与逝者交流的方式。一种家族及家族传统的体现。在意大利，人们沉迷于食物如何准确地体现你来自哪里的问题。它能代表许许多多不同的东西，但同时又什么也不代表。最终，它也只不过是顿饭而已。你吃完了，它也就没了。它不是艺术，不是文化，不是身份，也不是你的妈妈。”
但对于美国人对烹饪兴趣的不断上升，他还是给出了一些很好的理由。他表示，在美国，人们对于他们所吃的东西“无知得令人难以置信”――这一点与世界其它地区的情况差不多，对于为什么应该对食物更感兴趣也是同样无知。“了解你的食物近乎是一种民族责任感，”他表示：“我很高兴自己知道什么肉好，什么肉不好，也知道那个动物饲养的好坏。”
他说，对待食物要严肃的另一个重要原因，是我们正在做的事情――通过一顿美餐，像朋友那样聚在一起，进行相互间的社会交流。我，比尔?布福德的朋友？
布福德没要甜点，但给我点了一份西瓜汁冰糕。努瑟从柜台招了招手，派人送来了一块巧克力果馅饼。
未来有续篇
我问布福德，他接下来要做什么。在《热度》成功后写一本自己的小说当然不错。但他坚称，他不会这么做，至少目前不会。他表示：“我妻子觉得，我会停笔不再写小说。”
他曾考虑和巴塔利开一家餐厅，甚至准备在曼哈顿给基安蒂肉店开一家分店。但他认为，自己是个作家，不是个厨师，就目前而言，是一位纪实作家。他下一本关于食品的书，将继续以国际视角来写。它将是关于法国烹饪的。他还计划写一本有关他父亲和加利福尼亚航空业的传记，他父亲是一位物理学家。
我付了账――96美元。布福德看着账单说：“他们挺大方的。”我对这顿午饭很满意，希望能再待一会儿，但他必须得走了。我们共享午餐所创造的快乐气氛又持续了一段时间，但等我们走到外面就消退了。我们握手告别，布福德再一次给了我那种“我对此无能为力”式的微笑，我看着他走上派克大街(Park Avenue)。我意识到，这毕竟只是一顿午餐而已。
Casa Mono餐厅，纽约
南瓜和咸鳕鱼饼 一份
春豌豆烧兔肉 一份
猪里脊肉配苦酸橘 一份
李子芥末珍珠鸡 一份
西瓜汁冰糕 一份
巧克力果馅饼 一份
Cava酒 2份
玫瑰红 2份
矿泉水 1瓶
爱斯普利索咖啡 2杯
总价：96.45美元
