Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany
  • Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany
  • Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany

Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany

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by Bill Buford

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A highly acclaimed writer and editor, Bill Buford left his job at The New Yorker for a most unlikely destination: the kitchen at Babbo, the revolutionary Italian restaurant created and ruled by superstar chef Mario Batali. Finally realizing a long-held desire to learn first-hand the experience of restaurant cooking, Buford soon finds himself

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A highly acclaimed writer and editor, Bill Buford left his job at The New Yorker for a most unlikely destination: the kitchen at Babbo, the revolutionary Italian restaurant created and ruled by superstar chef Mario Batali. Finally realizing a long-held desire to learn first-hand the experience of restaurant cooking, Buford soon finds himself drowning in improperly cubed carrots and scalding pasta water on his quest to learn the tricks of the trade. His love of Italian food then propels him on journeys further afield: to Italy, to discover the secrets of pasta-making and, finally, how to properly slaughter a pig. Throughout, Buford stunningly details the complex aspects of Italian cooking and its long history, creating an engrossing and visceral narrative stuffed with insight and humor.

Editorial Reviews

After spending late nights with British soccer hooligans in Among the Thugs, New Yorker writer Bill Buford now turns to the company of famous chefs and Italian butchers. To learn what "kitchen slaves" really experience, he signed up for a total-immersion apprenticeship with gastronomic superstar Mario Batali. In this briskly paced narrative, Buford takes us behind the swinging doors into Babbo's kitchen; then departs on a transatlantic hunt for secrets about pasta; culinary training; fine cuts of meat; and exquisite gradations of ingredients.

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.59(w) x 9.50(h) x 1.28(d)
Age Range:
14 - 18 Years

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The first glimpse I had of what Mario Batali’s friends had described to me as the "myth of Mario" was on a cold Saturday night in January 2002, when I invited him to a birthday dinner. Batali, the chef and co-owner of Babbo, an Italian restaurant in Manhattan, is such a famous and proficient cook that he’s rarely invited to people’s homes for a meal, he told me, and he went out of his way to be a grateful guest. He arrived bearing his own quince-flavored grappa (the rough, distilled end-of-harvest grape juices rendered almost drinkable by the addition of the fruit); a jar of homemade nocino (same principle, but with walnuts); an armful of wine; and a white, dense slab of lardo—literally, the raw "lardy" back of a very fat pig, one he’d cured himself with herbs and salt. I was what might generously be described as an enthusiastic cook, more confident than competent (that is, keen but fundamentally clueless), and to this day I am astonished that I had the nerve to ask over someone of Batali’s reputation, along with six guests who thought they’d have an amusing evening witnessing my humiliation. (Mario was a friend of the birthday friend, so I’d thought --why not invite him, too? -- but when, wonder of wonders, he then accepted and I told my wife, Jessica, she was apoplectic with wonder: "What in the world were you thinking of, inviting a famous chef to our apartment for dinner? Now what are we going to do?")

In the event, there was little comedy, mainly because Mario didn’t give me a chance. Shortly after my being instructed that only a moron would let his meat rest by wrapping it in foil after cooking it, I cheerfully gave up and let Batali tell me what to do. By then he’d taken over the evening, anyway. Not long into it, he’d cut the lardo into thin slices and, with a startling flourish of intimacy, laid them individually on our tongues, whispering that we needed to let the fat melt in our mouths to appreciate its intensity. The lardo was from a pig that, in the last months of its seven-hundred-and-fifty-pound life, had lived on apples, walnuts, and cream ("The best song sung in the key of pig"), and Mario convinced us that, as the fat dissolved, we’d detect the flavors of the animal’s happy diet—there, in the back of the mouth. No one that evening had knowingly eaten pure fat before ("At the restaurant, I tell the waiters to call it prosciutto bianco"), and by the time Mario had persuaded us to a third helping everyone’s heart was racing. Batali was an impressively dedicated drinker—he mentioned in passing that, on trips to Italy made with his Babbo co-owner, Joe Bastianich, the two of them had been known to put away a case of wine during an evening meal -- and while I don’t think that any of us drank anything like that, we were, by now, very thirsty (the lardo, the salt, the human heat of so much jollity) and, cheered on, found ourselves knocking back more and more. I don’t know. I don’t really remember. There were also the grappa and the nocino, and one of my last images is of Batali at three in the morning -- a stoutly round man with his back dangerously arched, his eyes closed, a long red ponytail swinging rhythmically behind him, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, his red Converse high-tops pounding the floor -- playing air guitar to Neil Young’s "Southern Man." Batali was forty-one, and I remember thinking it had been a long time since I’d seen a grown man play air guitar. He then found the soundtrack for Buena Vista Social Club, tried to salsa with one of the women guests (who promptly fell over a sofa), moved on to her boyfriend, who was unresponsive, put on a Tom Waits CD instead, and sang along as he washed the dishes and swept the floor. He reminded me of an arrangement we’d made for the next day -- when I’d invited Batali to dinner, he’d reciprocated by asking me to join him at a New York Giants football game, tickets courtesy of the commissioner of the NFL, who had just eaten at Babbo—and then disappeared with three of my friends, assuring them that, with his back-of-the-hand knowledge of downtown establishments open until five, he’d find a place to continue the evening. They ended up at Marylou’s in the Village -- in Batali’s description, "A wise guy joint where you can get anything at any time of night, and none of it good."

It was daylight when Batali got home. I learned this from his building superintendent the next morning, as the two of us tried to get Batali to wake up -- the commissioner’s driver was waiting outside. When Batali finally appeared, forty-five minutes later, he was momentarily perplexed, standing in the doorway of his apartment in his underwear and wondering why I was there, too. (Batali has a remarkable girth, and it was startling to see him clad so.) Then, in minutes, he transformed himself into what I would come to know as the Batali look: the shorts, the clogs, the wraparound sunglasses, the red hair pulled back into its ponytail. One moment, a rotund Clark Kent in his underpants; the next, "Molto Mario"—the clever, many-layered name of his cooking television program, which, in one of its senses, literally means Very Mario (that is, an intensified Mario, an exaggerated Mario)—and a figure whose renown I didn’t appreciate until, as guests of the commissioner, we were allowed onto the field before the game. Fans of the New York Giants are so famously brutish as to be cartoons (bare-chested on a wintry morning or wearing hard hats; in any case, not guys putting in their domestic duty in the kitchen), and I was surprised by how many recognized the ponytailed chef, who stood facing them, arms crossed over his chest, beaming. "Hey, Molto!" they shouted. "What’s cooking, Mario?" "Mario, make me a pasta!" At the time, Molto Mario was shown on afternoons on cable television, and I found a complex picture of the working metropolitan male emerging, one rushing home the moment his shift ended to catch lessons in braising his broccoli rabe and getting just the right forked texture on his homemade orecchiette. I stood back with one of the security people, taking in the spectacle (by now members of the crowd were chanting "Molto, Molto, Molto") -- this very round man, whose manner and dress said, "Dude, where’s the party?"

"I love this guy," the security man said. "Just lookin’ at him makes me hungry."

Mario Batali is the most recognized chef in a city with more chefs than any other city in the world. In addition to Batali’s television show -- and his appearances promoting, say, the NASCAR race track in Delaware -- he was simply and energetically omnipresent. It would be safe to say that no New York chef ate more, drank more, and was out and about as much. If you live in New York City, you will see him eventually (sooner, if your evenings get going around two in the morning). With his partner, Joe, Batali also owned two other restaurants, Esca and Lupa, and a shop selling Italian wine, and, when we met, they were talking about opening a pizzeria and buying a vineyard in Tuscany. But Babbo was the heart of their enterprise, crushed into what was originally a nineteenth-century coach house, just off Washington Square, in Greenwich Village. The building was narrow; the space was crowded, jostly, and loud; and the food, studiously Italian, rather than Italian-American, was characterized by an over-the-top flourish that seemed to be expressly Batali’s. People went there in the expectation of excess. Sometimes I wondered if Batali was less a conventional cook than an advocate of a murkier enterprise of stimulating outrageous appetites (whatever they might be) and satisfying them intensely (by whatever means). A friend of mine, who’d once dropped by the bar for a drink and was then fed personally by Batali for the next six hours, went on a diet of soft fruit and water for three days. "This guy knows no middle ground. It’s just excess on a level I’ve never known before -- it’s food and drink, food and drink, food and drink, until you feel you’re on drugs." Chefs who were regular visitors were subjected to extreme versions of what was already an extreme experience. "We’re going to kill him," Batali said to me with maniacal glee as he prepared a meal for a rival who had innocently ordered a seven-course tasting menu, to which Batali added a lethal number of extra courses. The starters (all variations in pig) included lonza (the cured backstrap from the cream-apple-and-walnut herd), coppa (from the shoulder), a fried foot, a porcini mushroom roasted with Batali’s own pancetta (the belly), plus ("for the hell of it") a pasta topped with guanciale (the jowls). This year, Mario was trying out a new motto: "Wretched excess is just barely enough."

Batali was born in 1960 and grew up outside Seattle: a suburban kid with a solid Leave It to Beaver upbringing. His mother, Marilyn, is En-glish and French Canadian -- from her comes her son’s flaming red hair and a fair, un-Italian complexion. The Italian is from his father, Armandino, the grandson of immigrants who arrived in the 1890s. When Mario was growing up, his father was a well-paid Boeing executive in charge of procuring airplane parts made overseas, and in 1975, after being posted to Europe, to supervise the manufacturing close-up, he moved his family to Spain. That, according to Gina, Mario’s youngest sibling, was when Mario changed. ("He was already pushing the limits.") Madrid, in the post-Franco years (bars with no minimum age, hash hangouts, the world’s oldest profession suddenly legalized), was a place of exhilarating license, and Mario seems to have experienced a little bit of everything on offer. He was caught growing marijuana on the roof of his father’s apartment building (the first incident of what would become a theme—Batali was later expelled from his dorm in college, suspected of dealing, and, later still, there was some trouble in Tijuana that actually landed him in jail). The marijuana association also evokes a memory of the first meals Batali remembers preparing, late-night panini with caramelized locally grown onions, a local cow’s-milk Spanish cheese, and paper-thin slices of chorizo: "The best stoner munch you can imagine; me and my younger brother Dana were just classic stoner kids -- we were so happy."

By the time Batali returned to the United States in 1978 to attend Rutgers University, in New Jersey, he was determined to get back to Europe ("I wanted to be a Spanish banker—I loved the idea of making a lot of money and living a luxurious life in Madrid"), and his unlikely double major was in business management and Spanish theatre. But after being thrown out of his dorm, Batali got work as a dishwasher at a pizzeria called Stuff Yer Face (in its name alone, destiny was calling), and his life changed. He was promoted to cook, then line cook (working at one "station" in a "line" of stations, making one thing), and then asked to be manager, an offer he turned down. He didn’t want the responsibility; he was having too good a time. The life at Stuff Yer Face was fast (twenty-five years later, he still claims he has the record for the most pizzas made in an hour), sexy ("The most booooootiful waitresses in town"), and very buzzy ("I don’t want to come off as a big druggy, but when a guy comes into the kitchen with a pizza pan turned upside down, covered with lines of crack, how can you say no?"). When, in his junior year, he attended a career conference hosted by representatives from major corporations, Batali realized he had been wrong; he was never going to be a banker. He was going to be a chef.

"My mother and grandmother had always told me that I should be a cook. In fact, when I was preparing my applications for college, my mother had suggested cooking school. But I said, ‘Ma, that’s too gay. I don’t want to go to cooking school -- that’s for fags.’ " Five years later, Batali was back in Europe, attending the Cordon Bleu in London.

His father, still overseeing Boeing’s foreign operations, was now based in England. Gina Batali was there, too, and recalls seeing her eldest brother only when she was getting ready for school and he was returning from his all-night escapades after attending classes during the day and then working at a pub. The pub was the Six Bells, on the King’s Road in Chelsea. Mario had been bartending at the so-called American bar ("No idea what I was doing"), when a high-priced dining room opened in the back and a chef was hired to run it, a Yorkshire man named Marco Pierre White. Batali, bored by the pace of cooking school, was hired to be the new chef’s slave.

Today, Marco Pierre White is regarded as one of the most influential chefs in Britain (as well as the most foul-tempered, most mercurial, and most bullying), and it’s an extraordinary fortuity that these two men, both in their early twenties, found themselves in a tiny pub kitchen together. Batali didn’t understand what he was witnessing: his restaurant experience had been making strombolis in New Brunswick. "I assumed I was seeing what everyone else already knew. I didn’t feel like I was on the cusp of a revolution. And yet, while I had no idea this guy was about to become so famous, I could see he was preparing food from outside the box. He was a genius on the plate. I’d never worked on presentation. I just put shit on the plate." He described White’s making a deep green puree from basil leaves and then a white butter sauce, then swirling the green sauce in one direction, and the white sauce in the other, and drawing a swerving line down the middle of the plate. "I had never seen anyone draw fucking lines with two sauces." White would order Batali to follow him to market ("I was his whipping boy -- ’Yes, master,’ I’d answer, ‘whatever you say, master’ ") and they’d return with game birds or ingredients for some of the most improbable dishes ever to be served in an English pub: écrevisses in a reduced lobster sauce, oysters with caviar, roasted ortolan (a rare, tiny bird served virtually breathing, gulped down, innards and all, like a raw crustacean) -- "the whole menu written out in fucking French."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Excerpted from Heat by Bill Buford Copyright © 2006 by Bill Buford. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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What People are saying about this

James Salter
" Above all, there is the passion of Buford himself who, as a complete amateur, leapt wildly into the life, drenching himself in it for months on end, slaving, working, slowly learning, and this book is his glory."
author of Burning the Days
Mireille Guiliano
"Bill Buford jumps into the Italian kitchen world of New York and Tuscany as a can-do amateur (and crisp writer) and peels off the lid. What a cast of characters he finds! The descriptions of the food and people are rich, but the passionate tale is bittersweet as we view the lives of the circus performers backstage."
author of French Women Don't Get Fat
Peter Mayle
"I have never read a funnier or more authentic account of the making of a serious cook. Give Mr. Buford three stars."
author of A Year in Provence
Frank McCourt
"If it's gusto you're after, you've come to the right book. If, like me, you're a wine and food ignoramus, but love the literature, prepare, then, to drool. There are other behind-the-scene-at-restaurant books but none like this where its author, obsessed, shuttles between New York and Tuscany. Bill Buford isn't content to tell us chef stories. He tells us about the one-day sausage-making course he took at New York University - the best college course he ever took in his life. In Italy he masters the art of pig butchery and how Italians eat every part of the pig but the oink. ..He, Quixote in the kitchen, has written a book that pulses on every page with passion and high spirits. If you know people who have lost their appetite for food or life itself, give them Heat, and watch them rise from the bed, their cheeks flushed, their bellies agrowl with hunger."
author of Angela's Ashes
Anthony Bourdain
"It is no small accomplishment for a "civilian" of Buford's relatively advanced years to survive the rigors of the professional kitchen, much less describe them in such lively and fascinating manner, but the real towering achievement of Heat is that the author, alone among writers, has captured the True Magnificence of Mario Batali-in all his Falstaffian glory-and the mad, driven brilliance of Marco Pierre White. An all-too-rare description of the real business of cooking, its characters and its subculture. I lingered over every sentence like a heavily truffled risotto."
author of Kitchen Confidential

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Heat 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 38 reviews.
Kyle3 More than 1 year ago
this book was a great read! lots of behind the scenes info and hilarious stories. makes me hungry for delicious food! Mario is a fascinating character.
citygirlNYC More than 1 year ago
funny and obsessive about food and how it is prepared. wonderful precise writing. best, probably, for those already interested in food.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
"Heat" is a wonderful book. The author pulls you into his life and you become so interested that you can't wait to turn the page and see what happens next for him. All the while, the book leaves you laughing out loud while providing some intersting food history and commentary on current foodie topics.
Guest More than 1 year ago
When I first heard about this book I knew I had to read it! Recently food has interested me more and I thought this book would be interesting for the new foodies (like me!) or the old timers that have been involved with food for a while. This book Heat by Bill Buford talks about the passion that he has about wanting to find out how to make the foods that he always has eaten but never has made or has ever thought about making. Bill Buford is a retired New Yorker writer and sporadically writes for the magazine. Soon after he left the New Yorker he decided to work his way up the kitchen food chain in Mario Batali¿s restaurant Babbo in New York City. He figures out just how hard you have to work when you are a cook/chef and must work to get to the recognition that most chefs would like to achieve. He makes and participates in many special preparations of different food such as polenta, pasta, making the perfect pasta sauce, and how to butcher meat perfectly. While learning how to make pasta he travels to Italy to learn the authentic was to prepare this dish. Not only does this book have mouth watering food descriptions but is also a book about traveling and finding the roots of old time favorite foods that everyone has eaten but has never known about where it comes from or how to prepare it. If you have any sort of interest in food or even not the slightest interest in food than I still think this book will be worth the read and will also certainly gets your mouth watering!
Guest More than 1 year ago
One of my all time favorites in non-fiction funny, engaging, peopled with wild characters and superb recipes and culinary tips. A must have for any foodie! I think I'll read it again!
Guest More than 1 year ago
While witty it just isn't enough to sustain a book of this length. I expected to love this book and did for the first 50 pages. After that it flipped back and forth between amusing and dreadful.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This books is spectacular. A marvelous achievement. I have made a few of the 'recipes' he describes with great success. The book has one flaw I can find -- no index! I will have to reread and create my own unless that is coming in future editions. [Note to Publisher: You will sell more copies if you include an index ¿ I will definitely buy a second for myself.]
Guest More than 1 year ago
Mario Batali may have achieved ubiquity but the characters Bill Buford recreates for us on the page are more omnipotent than Mario in their own approach to traditional Italian food. Imagine a backroom butcher in Tuscany referred to as the Maestro. Bill Buford beautifully weaves Mario¿s calling to recreate the food of Italian masters with Buford's own calling ¿ initially disguised as research to write about a rock n¿ roll chef and his kitchen. You can¿t help but wonder if Mario, as well as all the characters, read the final draft and, if so, if they would still welcome Buford into their kitchens. We are pulled in to the process of making quality, hand-touched food and anxiously await the next book. By the way, Buford, inadvertently, may have done more for the grass-fed beef movement in his wonderful to read book Heat than even Michael Pollen in The Carnivore¿s Dilemma.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is the best. At times I laughed until I cried. What a talented writer! Do yourself a favor and order your copy of this book today. Be prepared to be entertained!
Erma2 More than 1 year ago
This is one wild ride through a journalists obsession. What becomes clear is that anyone who takes food seriously MUST be obsessed. The skill, energy, information, creativity, and sheer number of hours required to understand anything about good food prep is overwhelming. Buford goes the whole way, and finally trains to handle meat from an old-school butchering family in Italy. The book is a fast paced, interesting trip from obsessed novice to skilled food man. Martha Stewart devotees need not pick it up, the testosterone and adventure would be too much. Have fun!
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Gabrielle LaMonte More than 1 year ago
Would read over and over
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krissirk More than 1 year ago
Thus book prepared me for experiences at babbo and in panzano. It is an enthralling read.
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