Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

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by Anthony Bourdain

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Overview

Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain

An updated and revised edition of Anthony Bourdain's mega-bestselling Kitchen Confidential, with new material from the original edition

Almost two decades ago, the New Yorker published a now infamous article, “Don’t Eat before You Read This,” by then little-known chef Anthony Bourdain. Bourdain spared no one’s appetite as he revealed what happens behind the kitchen door. The article was a sensation, and the book it spawned, the now classic Kitchen Confidential, became an even bigger sensation, a megabestseller with over one million copies in print. Frankly confessional, addictively acerbic, and utterly unsparing, Bourdain pulls no punches in this memoir of his years in the restaurant business.

Fans will love to return to this deliciously funny, delectably shocking banquet of wild-but-true tales of life in the culinary trade from Chef Anthony Bourdain, laying out his more than a quarter-century of drugs, sex, and haute cuisine—this time with never-before-published material.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780060899226
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 01/09/2007
Series: P.S. Series
Edition description: Updated Edition
Pages: 352
Sales rank: 1,870
Product dimensions: 5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

Anthony Bourdain was the author of the novels Bone in the Throat and Gone Bamboo, the memoir A Cook’s Tour, and the New York Times bestsellers Kitchen Confidential, Medium Raw, and Appetites. His work appeared in the New York Times and The New Yorker. He was the host of the popular television shows No Reservations and Parts Unknown. Bourdain died in June 2018.

Hometown:

New York, New York

Date of Birth:

June 25, 1956

Date of Death:

June 8, 2018

Place of Birth:

New York, New York

Place of Death:

Kaysersberg-Vignoble, Haut-Rhin, France

Education:

High school diploma, Dwight Englewood School, 1973; A.O.S. degree, The Culinary Institute of America, 1978

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

FOOD IS GOOD

MY FIRST INDICATION THAT food was something other than a substance one stuffed in one's face when hungry — like filling up at a gas station — came after fourth-grade elementary school. It was on a family vacation to Europe, on the Queen Mary, in the cabin-class dining room. There's a picture somewhere: my mother in her Jackie O sunglasses, my younger brother and I in our painfully cute cruisewear, boarding the big Cunard ocean liner, all of us excited about our first transatlantic voyage, our first trip to my father's ancestral homeland, France.

It was the soup.

It was cold.

This was something of a discovery for a curious fourth-grader whose entire experience of soup to this point had consisted of Campbell's cream of tomato and chicken noodle. I'd eaten in restaurants before, sure, but this was the first food I really noticed. It was the first food I enjoyed and, more important, remembered enjoying. I asked our patient British waiter what this delightfully cool, tasty liquid was.

'Vichyssoise,' came the reply, a word that to this day — even though it's now a tired old warhorse of a menu selection and one I've prepared thousands of times — still has a magical ring to it. I remember everything about the experience: the way our waiter ladled it from a silver tureen into my bowl, the crunch of tiny chopped chives he spooned on as garnish, the rich, creamy taste of leek and potato, the pleasurable shock, the surprise that it was cold.

I don't remember much else about the passage across the Atlantic. I saw Boeing Boeing with Jerry Lewis and Tony Curtis in the Queen's movie theater, and a Bardot flick. The old liner shuddered and groaned and vibrated terribly the whole way — barnacles on the hull was the official explanation — and from New York to Cherbourg, it was like riding atop a giant lawnmower. My brother and I quickly became bored, and spent much of our time in the 'Teen Lounge', listening to 'House of the Rising Sun' on the jukebox, or watching the water slosh around like a contained tidal wave in the below-deck salt-water pool.

But that cold soup stayed with me. It resonated, waking me up, making me aware of my tongue, and in some way, preparing me for future events.

My second pre-epiphany in my long climb to chefdom also came during that first trip to France. After docking, my mother, brother and I stayed with cousins in the small seaside town of Cherbourg, a bleak, chilly resort area in Normandy, on the English Channel. The sky was almost always cloudy; the water was inhospitably cold. All the neighborhood kids thought I knew Steve McQueen and John Wayne personally — as an American, it was assumed we were all pals, that we hung out together on the range, riding horses and gunning down miscreants — so I enjoyed a certain celebrity right away. The beaches, while no good for swimming, were studded with old Nazi blockhouses and gun emplacements, many still bearing visible bullet scars and the scorch of flamethrowers, and there were tunnels under the dunes — all very cool for a little kid to explore. My little French friends were, I was astonished to find, allowed to have a cigarette on Sunday, were given watered vin ordinaire at the dinner table, and best of all, they owned Velo Solex motorbikes. This was the way to raise kids, I recall thinking, unhappy that my mother did not agree.

So for my first few weeks in France, I explored underground passageways, looking for dead Nazis, played miniature golf, sneaked cigarettes, read a lot of Tintin and Asterix comics, scooted around on my friends' motorbikes and absorbed little life-lessons from observations that, for instance, the family friend Monsieur Dupont brought his mistress to some meals and his wife to others, his extended brood of children apparently indifferent to the switch.

I was largely unimpressed by the food.

The butter tasted strangely 'cheesy' to my undeveloped palate. The milk — a staple, no, a mandatory ritual in '60s American kiddie life — was undrinkable here. Lunch seemed always to consist of sandwich au jambon or croque-monsieur. Centuries of French cuisine had yet to make an impression. What I noticed about food, French style, was what they didn't have.

After a few weeks of this, we took a night train to Paris, where we met up with my father, and a spanking new Rover Sedan Mark III, our touring car. In Paris, we stayed at the Hôtel Lutétia, then a large, slightly shabby old pile on Boulevard Haussmann. The menu selections for my brother and me expanded somewhat, to include steak-frites and steak haché (hamburger). We did all the predictable touristy things: climbed the Tour Eiffel, picnicked in the Bois de Boulogne, marched past the Great Works at the Louvre, pushed toy sailboats around the fountain in the Jardin de Luxembourg — none of it much fun for a nine-year-old with an already developing criminal bent. My principal interest at this time was adding to my collection of English translations of Tintin adventures. Hergé's crisply drafted tales of drug-smuggling, ancient temples, and strange and faraway places and cultures were real exotica for me. I prevailed on my poor parents to buy hundreds of dollars-worth of these stories at W. H. Smith, the English bookstore, just to keep me from whining about the deprivations of France. With my little short-shorts a permanent affront, I was quickly becoming a sullen, moody, difficult little bastard. I fought constantly with my brother, carped about everything, and was in every possible way a drag on my mother's Glorious Expedition.

My parents did their best. They took us everywhere, from restaurant to restaurant, cringing, no doubt, every time we insisted on steak haché (with ketchup, no less) and a 'Coca.' They endured silently my gripes about cheesy butter, the seemingly endless amusement I took in advertisements for a popular soft drink of the time, Pschitt. 'I want shit! I want shit!' They managed to ignore the eye-rolling and fidgeting when they spoke French, tried to encourage me to find something, anything, to enjoy.

And there came a time when, finally, they didn't take the kids along.

I remember it well, because it was such a slap in the face. It was a wake-up call that food could be important, a challenge to my natural belligerence. By being denied, a door opened.

The town's name was Vienne. We'd driven miles and miles of road to get there. My brother and I were fresh out of Tintins and cranky as hell. The French countryside, with its graceful, tree-lined roads, hedgerows, tilled fields and picture-book villages provided little distraction. My folks had by now endured weeks of relentless complaining through many tense and increasingly unpleasant meals. They'd dutifully ordered our steak haché, crudités variées, sandwich au jambon and the like long enough. They'd put up with our grousing that the beds were too hard, the pillows too soft, the neck-rolls and toilets and plumbing too weird. They'd even allowed us a little watered wine, as it was clearly the French thing to do — but also, I think, to shut us up. They'd taken my brother and me, the two Ugliest Little Americans, everywhere.

Vienne was different.

They pulled the gleaming new Rover into the parking lot of a restaurant called, rather promisingly, La Pyramide, handed us what was apparently a hoarded stash of Tintins ... and then left us in the car!

It was a hard blow. Little brother and I were left in that car for over three hours, an eternity for two miserable kids already bored out of their minds. I had plenty of time to wonder: What could be so great inside those walls? They were eating in there. I knew that. And it was certainly a Big Deal; even at a witless age nine, I could recognize the nervous anticipation, the excitement, the near-reverence with which my beleaguered parents had approached this hour. And I had the Vichyssoise Incident still fresh in my mind. Food, it appeared, could be important. It could be an event. It had secrets.

I know now, of course, that La Pyramide, even in 1966, was the center of the culinary universe. Bocuse, Troisgros, everybody had done their time there, making their bones under the legendarily fearsome proprietor, Ferdinand Point. Point was the Grand Master of cuisine at the time, and La Pyramide was Mecca for foodies. This was a pilgrimage for my earnestly francophile parents. In some small way, I got that through my tiny, empty skull in the back of the sweltering parked car, even then.

Things changed. I changed after that.

First of all, I was furious. Spite, always a great motivating force in my life, caused me to become suddenly adventurous where food was concerned. I decided then and there to outdo my foodie parents. At the same time, I could gross out my still uninitiated little brother. I'd show them who the gourmet was!

Brains? Stinky, runny cheeses that smelled like dead man's feet? Horsemeat? Sweetbreads? Bring it on!! Whatever had the most shock value became my meal of choice. For the rest of that summer, and in the summers that followed, I ate everything. I scooped gooey Vacherin, learned to love the cheesy, rich Normandy butter, especially slathered on baguettes and dipped in bitter hot chocolate. I sneaked red wine whenever possible, tried fritures — tiny whole fish, fried and eaten with persillade — loving that I was eating heads, eyes, bones and all. I ate ray in beurre noisette, saucisson à l'ail, tripes, rognons de veau (kidneys), boudin noir that squirted blood down my chin.

And I had my first oyster.

Now, this was a truly significant event. I remember it like I remember losing my virginity — and in many ways, more fondly.

August of that first summer was spent in La Teste sur Mer, a tiny oyster village on the Bassin d'Arcachon in the Gironde (Southwest France). We stayed with my aunt, Tante Jeanne, and my uncle, Oncle Gustav, in the same red tile-roofed, white stuccoed house where my father had summered as a boy. My Tante Jeanne was a frumpy, bespectacled, slightly smelly old woman, my Oncle Gustav, a geezer in coveralls and beret who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes until they disappeared onto the tip of his tongue. Little had changed about La Teste in the years since my father had vacationed there. The neighbors were still all oyster fishermen. Their families still raised rabbits and grew tomatoes in their backyards. Houses had two kitchens, an inside one and an outdoor 'fish kitchen'. There was a hand pump for drinking water from a well, and an outhouse by the rear of the garden. Lizards and snails were everywhere. The main tourist attractions were the nearby Dune of Pyla (Europe's Largest Sand Dune!) and the nearby resort town of Arcachon, where the French flocked in unison for Les Grandes Vacances. Television was a Big Event. At seven o'clock, when the two national stations would come on the air, my Oncle Gustav would solemnly emerge from his room with a key chained to his hip and ceremoniously unlock the cabinet doors that covered the screen.

My brother and I were happier here. There was more to do. The beaches were warm, and closer in climate to what we knew back home, with the added attraction of the ubiquitous Nazi blockhouses. There were lizards to hunt down and exterminate with readily available pétards, firecrackers which one could buy legally (!) over-the-counter. There was a forest within walking distance where an actual hermit lived, and my brother and I spent hours there, spying on him from the underbrush. By now I could read and enjoy comic books in French and of course I was eating — really eating. Murky brown soupe de poisson, tomato salad, moules marinières, poulet basquaise (we were only a few miles from the Basque country). We made day trips to Cap Ferret, a wild, deserted and breathtakingly magnificent Atlantic beach with big rolling waves, taking along baguettes and saucissons and wheels of cheese, wine and Evian (bottled water was at that time unheard of back home). A few miles west was Lac Cazeaux, a fresh-water lake where my brother and I could rent pédalo watercraft and pedal our way around the deep. We ate gaufres, delicious hot waffles, covered in whipped cream and powdered sugar. The two hot songs of that summer on the Cazeaux jukebox were 'Whiter Shade of Pale' by Procol Harum, and 'These Boots Were Made for Walkin' by Nancy Sinatra. The French played those two songs over and over again, the music punctuated by the sonic booms from French air force jets which would swoop over the lake on their way to a nearby bombing range. With all the rock and roll, good stuff to eat and high-explosives at hand, I was reasonably happy.

So, when our neighbor, Monsieur Saint-Jour, the oyster fisherman, invited my family out on his penas (oyster boat), I was enthusiastic.

At six in the morning, we boarded Monsieur Saint-Jour's small wooden vessel with our picnic baskets and our sensible footwear. He was a crusty old bastard, dressed like my uncle in ancient denim coveralls, espadrilles and beret. He had a leathery, tanned and windblown face, hollow cheeks, and the tiny broken blood vessels on nose and cheeks that everyone seemed to have from drinking so much of the local Bordeaux. He hadn't fully briefed his guests on what was involved in these daily travails. We put-putted out to a buoy marking his underwater oyster parc, a fenced-off section of bay bottom, and we sat ... and sat ... and sat, in the roaring August sun, waiting for the tide to go out. The idea was to float the boat over the stockaded fence walls, then sit there until the boat slowly sank with the water level, until it rested on the bassin floor. At this point, Monsieur Saint-Jour, and his guests presumably, would rake the oysters, collect a few good specimens for sale in port, and remove any parasites that might be endangering his crop.

There was, I recall, still about two feet of water left to go before the hull of the boat settled on dry ground and we could walk about the parc. We'd already polished off the Brie and baguettes and downed the Evian, but I was still hungry, and characteristically said so.

Monsieur Saint-Jour, on hearing this — as if challenging his American passengers — inquired in his thick Girondais accent, if any of us would care to try an oyster.

My parents hesitated. I doubt they'd realized they might have actually to eat one of the raw, slimy things we were currently floating over. My little brother recoiled in horror.

But I, in the proudest moment of my young life, stood up smartly, grinning with defiance, and volunteered to be the first.

And in that unforgettably sweet moment in my personal history, that one moment still more alive for me than so many of the other 'firsts' which followed — first pussy, first joint, first day in high school, first published book, or any other thing — I attained glory. Monsieur Saint-Jour beckoned me over to the gunwale, where he leaned over, reached down until his head nearly disappeared underwater, and emerged holding a single silt-encrusted oyster, huge and irregularly shaped, in his rough, clawlike fist. With a snubby, rust-covered oyster knife, he popped the thing open and handed it to me, everyone watching now, my little brother shrinking away from this glistening, vaguely sexual-looking object, still dripping and nearly alive.

I took it in my hand, tilted the shell back into my mouth as instructed by the by now beaming Monsieur Saint-Jour, and with one bite and a slurp, wolfed it down. It tasted of seawater ... of brine and flesh ... and somehow ... of the future.

Everything was different now. Everything.

I'd not only survived — I'd enjoyed.

This, I knew, was the magic I had until now been only dimly and spitefully aware of. I was hooked. My parents' shudders, my little brother's expression of unrestrained revulsion and amazement only reinforced the sense that I had, somehow, become a man. I had had an adventure, tasted forbidden fruit, and everything that followed in my life — the food, the long and often stupid and self-destructive chase for the next thing, whether it was drugs or sex or some other new sensation — would all stem from this moment.

I'd learned something. Viscerally, instinctively, spiritually — even in some small, precursive way, sexually — and there was no turning back. The genie was out of the bottle. My life as a cook, and as a chef, had begun.

Food had power.

It could inspire, astonish, shock, excite, delight and impress. It had the power to please me ... and others. This was valuable information.

For the rest of that summer, and in later summers, I'd often slip off by myself to the little stands by the port, where one could buy brown paper bags of unwashed, black-covered oysters by the dozen. After a few lessons from my new soul-mate, blood brother and bestest buddy, Monsieur Saint-Jour — who was now sharing his after-work bowls of sugared vin ordinaire with me too — I could easily open the oysters by myself, coming in from behind with the knife and popping the hinge like it was Aladdin's cave.

I'd sit in the garden among the tomatoes and the lizards and eat my oysters and drink Kronenbourgs (France was a wonderland for under-age drinkers), happily reading Modesty Blaise and the Katzenjammer Kids and the lovely hard-bound bandes dessinées in French, until the pictures swam in front of my eyes, smoking the occasional pilfered Gitane. And I still associate the taste of oysters with those heady, wonderful days of illicit late-afternoon buzzes. The smell of French cigarettes, the taste of beer, that unforgettable feeling of doing something I shouldn't be doing.

I had, as yet, no plans to cook professionally. But I frequently look back at my life, searching for that fork in the road, trying to figure out where, exactly, I went bad and became a thrill-seeking, pleasure-hungry sensualist, always looking to shock, amuse, terrify and manipulate, seeking to fill that empty spot in my soul with something new.

I like to think it was Monsieur Saint-Jour's fault. But of course, it was me all along.

Table of Contents

Appetizer
A Note from the Chef3
First Course
Food Is Good9
Food Is Sex19
Food Is Pain25
Inside the CIA36
The Return of Mal Carne45
Second Course
Who Cooks?55
From Our Kitchen to Your Table64
How to Cook Like the Pros75
Owner's Syndrome and Other Medical Anomalies84
Bigfoot91
Third Course
I Make My Bones105
The Happy Time120
Chef of the Future!128
Apocalypse Now134
The Wilderness Years144
What I Know About Meat153
Pino Noir: Tuscan Interlude163
Dessert
A Day in the Life183
Sous-Chef206
The Level of Discourse221
Other Bodies229
Adam Real-Last-Name-Unknown235
Department of Human Resources246
Coffee and a Cigarette
The Life of Bryan255
Mission to Tokyo272
So You Want to Be a Chef? A Commencement Address293
Kitchen's Closed300

Reading Group Guide

"Hysterical…Bourdain gleefully rips through the scenery to reveal private backstage horrors." -- New York Times Book Review
Summary

From appetizer to main course to dessert, bestselling author and world renowned chef Anthony Bourdain takes you behind the swinging doors and into the bustling core of the nation's restaurants, exposing as never before the shocking, hilarious, untold world of cooks and chefs. Bourdain's honest and entertaining account of the many successes and failures he has experienced throughout his career is as engrossing as it is eye-opening. His beautiful "elegy" to his body -- the many scars, aches, and pains, the abused hands he longed for -- in the closing chapter is a true testament to a life well spent in the trenches of cooking.

Topics for Discussion
  • What was your first instinct after finishing Kitchen Confidential? Did you want to run out and eat at Les Halles, never eat at another restaurant again, throw out all of your knives?

  • Throughout Bourdain's memoir, he attempts to impart to the reader his adventurous spirit when it comes to trying different types of food. Did he inspire you to try something new? What is the most daring food you have ever eaten?

  • How do you think Bourdain defines a "foodie"? Do you agree?

  • How have American attitudes toward food changed in the past decade? How are these changes chronicled throughout Kitchen Confidential?

  • Bourdain introduces the reader to many of the more elaborate and extreme characters of the cooking world -- Tyrone, the broilerman; "Bigfoot"; Nando, the Rainbow Room's famous pastry chef.... Which are yourfavorites? Who do you hope never touched your food?

  • Despite his machismo and unstoppable four-letter language, Bourdain becomes an endearing character himself throughout the course of his memoir. How did you feel as you witnessed his growth throughout Kitchen Confidential? In the end, he claims he is an "asshole." What do you think?

  • Bourdain talks about when he first realized "that food was something other than a substance one stuffed in one's face when hungry." What role has food played in your life -- while growing up and today -- beyond simple sustenance? Why are food and psychology so inextricably linked in our lives?

  • Despite the celebrity chefs that abound today, do you think that Bourdain typifies the lifestyle of the normal chef?

  • Are you -- or have you ever been -- in the food industry? If so, how apt are Bourdain's descriptions of the life?

  • What was Bourdain's most helpful piece of advice for you as a home cook? About the Author: Anthony Bourdain is the author of the novels Bone in the Throat and Gone Bamboo. He is currently the executive chef at Brasserie Les Halles in New York and can be seen on the Food Network.

  • Customer Reviews

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    Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 653 reviews.
    DianeLorraine More than 1 year ago
    Not for the faint of heart. A raucous and raw trip inside the restaurant biz. From nuts and bolts to totally obscure characters, and sometimes disturbing andecdotes, Bourdain delights the senses and the mind with his hilarious and detailed tales of the dark side of the industry. with his own brand of smarts and charm he takes you through his childhood adventures in France up to owning his own succcesful restaurant in New York. He touches on Universal truths throughout the business as well as his own sometimes touching and oftentimes unreal personal experiences. For anyone who loves to dine, who works in restaurants or has thought about it, this is a must read. Never a dull moment.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    I am an Anthony Bourdain tv fan. I've watched all his shows esp. No Reservations and Parts Unknown. I love all the places and different foods he tries and the people he meets. It was good to read and find out how he started being a chef. It certainly isn't an easy life but one he loves.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    When I was a kid, I wanted to be a chef. After reading this book, there is no way I could have survived as one.
    Mannadonn More than 1 year ago
    First off I have to say¿I love this man! Bourdain¿s book is arrogant, crude, bullying, and egotistical and I loved every word, every line, every put-down, and every cuss word! Though this book was filled with technical terms and names of chefs that I have never heard of, Bourdain mentions in the preface that the book was originally intended for other chefs¿not for the general layperson. I read it anyway.

    I was introduced to Anthony Bourdain by a friend via his television show ¿No Reservations.¿ I immediately fell in love with his holier-than-thou, better-than-most attitude. Maybe it is the thrill and fascination of the ¿bad boy¿ but I could not stop watching the show. Discovering that he had written a book was the icing on the cake.

    The book is not a summary or recollection of his travels through different countries, cultures, and foods with his show. I believe that is contained in another book. Instead this book was more of a memoir; Bourdain¿s journey through the culinary trenches and godforsaken kitchens. Bourdain reminisces over his childhood and the cold soup that awakened his taste buds, the oyster that aroused his ensuing passion for food.

    Bourdain may be a condescending a**hole but he seems humbled by some of his experiences and the people he has admired over the years. I enjoyed the fact that he wrote an afterword that made certain apologies to some individuals he had criticized throughout his book and his time as a chef. However, a friend of mine hated the fact that he made apologies. She feels that if he is going to be a supercilious bastard he should make no apologies for such behavior.

    This book detailed many disgusting habits of the kitchens he worked in. Bourdain provides the reader with thorough descriptions of foods he has cooked and foods he enjoyed eating¿and if you know Anthony Bourdain you know he enjoys some un-American fare. Eating the gelatinous goo from behind the eyeball of the fishhead he was enjoying has remained in my head.

    The reader who picks up this book is in for an intense ride. A love of food, cooking, or Bourdain himself is recommended before delving into this six-course book. I definitely have no complaints about this book. But hey¿who am I? Just a lowly reviewer with an unsettling attraction to Anthony Bourdain that¿s who.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    I like Anthony Bourdains writing style and have always wanted to work in a kitchen. After reading this book I realized I could never cut it a fast paced culinary environment. Down and dirty portrayal of how it is to run a kitchen and the kind of people it attracts. If you like his writing style you like this book.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    A very enjoyable and easy quick read... and I'm glad he went a little easier on Emeril towards the end.
    barbaraRT More than 1 year ago
    I had read this fascinating biography before so I was happy to add it to my Nook library. Mr. Bourdain paints a very real picture of life as a professional chef.
    Anonymous More than 1 year ago
    I read this book after watching a season of his show. This is a good book to read if you want information on the inner workingds of the restaurant business. Beware that the author lives a pretty rowdy lifestyle an uses the language to describe it. Do not purchase if you are easily ofended.
    LosLavolpista More than 1 year ago
    I had read somewhere that you would read quotes from this book out loud to friends. I didnt buy it, i'm not the type of person who would do that. But there i was drinking a beer and reading quotes from Bourdain and his understanding of spanish adj's derived from his kitchen staff to a friend. It was awesome... His interpretation of the language, different cultures, and terms were spot on. I was thinking in my head, "finally a man that gets it"...He understands the struggle of going from nowhere to somewhere, and adapting and surviving. That is Bourdain! a true tale of survival. Great book and goes well with a beer as well.
    risuena More than 1 year ago
    I absolutely love Anthony Bourdain's humor. He's cynical, direct, and witty. I admire his approach on life, food, and people. I watched his "No Reservations" show and was immediately thrilled to find he wrote books as well. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Kitchen Confidential and had a hard time putting it down, probably one of his best works! I think he's a great writer, narrator, and commentator.
    Guest More than 1 year ago
    I have read A Year at the CIA and some other books about professional cooking, but this one offered the most unvarnished insight into what really happens in the kitchen. If you have every wondered how all the food for your table arrives at the same time when the resturant is packed to the rafters, then this book will entertain you. It could also turn you into a Howard Hughes germaphobe as well. The only drawback is sloppy editing. The author uses the same methaphors and analogies throughout the book and they become repititious and distracting. Needed a fresh set of eyes.
    Humbert_Humbert on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    Tony Bourdain takes the gloves off and comes swinging with this great view at the life of a chef. From scrubbing dishes to becoming the head chef at Les Halles he keeps you laughing and cringing all the way to the end.
    maravedi on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    I think KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL takes on a different flavor to the working cook or chef, than it does to the layman. It talks about the things that our professional pride would "never" allow us to let happen, but everyone who's worked in the kitchen for any length of time has in fact seen happen. Not approved of, per se, but seen. It reminds us that we're not alone, that other people have had to deal with the bull and the crashing disappointments. It lets us laugh about the long hours, the weirdness, the pressure... it's a book that tells the world how we see ourselves, how we feel, and more than anything, why we do it.And by the way people, brunch really is okay. But yeah, don't get the fish on Monday.
    kikianika on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    A fun poke into the seedy culinary underbelly, from drugs to gluttony. An interesting insight into the non-glamorous life of a chef, and a great story. if you're interested in why you shouldn't order the shrimp cocktail at your favourite restaurant, this is the book for you.
    gwendolyndawson on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    Highly entertaining memoir about a gourmet chef and his various drug and alcohol-laced exploits. I'm interested in the restaurant industry, and there are plenty of insider tips for the industry in this book.
    miketroll on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    Subtitled "Adventures in the culinary underbelly". A titillating exposé of life in the kitchens of some serious metropolitan retaurants. It's witty, frenetic and obviously embroidered for effect. You wouldn't be scared off eating out by this book and are not really meant to. But you might heed the good advice of not ordering fish on a Monday.
    TheScrappyCat on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    Extremely entertaining look at the 'underbelly' of the restaurant world. Bourdain's voice is loud and clear and crude and absolutely wonderful. There are parts of this book that made me laugh out loud. Highly recommended.
    mscongeniality on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    Kitchen Confidential was one of the better memoirs I have read. Bourdain uses a straightforward style to bare his past and experiences, both good and bad, and opens up a world that exists just on the other side of the kitchen doors at your favorite restaurant. I enjoyed every second of the time I spent reading it and was only disappointed because it went so fast.
    marthasoft on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    I loved this book, and I hated it. I loved it because it is fun to read, engaging, and I could not put it down. I hated it because it gives an almost too-close look inside restaurant kitchens, making me leary of eating at restaurants and of ordering some things I used to really enjoy at restaurants. Ignorance might be bliss in this case¿
    missmaya on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    very entertaining book. I now mostly eat in restaurants on Tuesday or Wednesday night.
    micbella on LibraryThing 1 days ago
    ahaha haha haa.. anthony "tony" bourdain is funny & frank. He does not bite his tongue, no pun intended.
    ayoungenator on LibraryThing 7 days ago
    Lots of testosterone, very informative about kitchen culture, apparently all true or at least plausible.
    teaperson on LibraryThing 7 days ago
    An interesting book -- I'll never eat brunch again. It provides a lot of understanding about what goes on behind closed doors. Unfortunately, Bourdain is a somewhat annoying person (to me), and the parts about his life are somewhat annoying. But they are overshadowed by the parts about restaurants.
    shaska on LibraryThing 7 days ago
    How I LOVED this book! It's certainly not for everyone, but if you can appreciate a severely rough and brash sense of humor that you really would find in a commercial kitchen, this one will work it's way into your heart in no time. I couldn't put this down! He had me in hysterics because so much of it is.. sadly.. so true!Thumbs up.
    Anonymous 6 months ago
    It’s as though I had my own private time with someone I’ve enjoyed watching and listening to for years on the “tellie”. Wonderful read. He’s sorely missed!