Gourmet Canine Menu for Kennel Guests Aboard the S.S. France. Mid
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Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page viii Mid-Atlantic aboard the S.S. France with Mr. Beauregard Beagle, 1974. Gourmet canine menu for kennel guests aboard the S.S. France. Invitation to cocktails and dinner at the captain’s table. Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 1 PREFACE I’VE SEEN THE ELEPHANT HEN I WASAYOUNG BOY growing up in North Carolina, my wise Wfather had an expression that he’d use anytime he thought he was being hoodwinked. Daddy was a tolerant, indulgent, fun-loving man fully capable of suffering fools gladly, but stretch his patience to the absolute limit, or try to challenge him about something he deemed important, and he’d stare at you with his piercing, dark, Greek eyes, raise an eyebrow, and say, “Listen, I’ve been to the circus and seen the elephant”—meaning he’d moved around, covered the territory, taken in the big show, and absorbed a bit of wisdom. Although the testy expression no doubt has its ambiguities, I know of none other that sums up better the flush, uproarious, refractory, often combative life I’ve led over the past forty-odd years as a frus- trated teacher and scholar, a feisty food journalist and iconoclastic writer, a soi-disant gay blade, and an overall fop perched under the Big Top. I’m fully aware of my reputation as a furtive, antisocial, and 1 Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 2 BETWEEN BITES sometimes “difficult” individual, and after twenty-seven years as the food and wine editor of Town & Country and contributor to other upscale magazines like Esquire and Gourmet, I’ve certainly become accustomed to being perceived as a snob, arrogant dilettante, and cad. The fact that such tags are basically so much hogwash only serves to confirm the need for aloofness. Of course some labels I gladly take on. Elitist, proudly. Hedonist, assuredly. Both describe not only my wan- ton, unbridled approach to gastronomy in general but the way I’ve cultivated lasting relationships only with those whom I consider to be extraordinary people. As a paid pundit on food, drink, travel, and the good life, I’ve wandered the globe, ventured into realms that have produced outlandish stories, and encountered unforgettable charac- ters whose encouragement and influence have been profound. I’ve taken queasy risks, probably made more enemies than friends, reaped the gains and shouldered the losses, and, to paraphrase Mama Cass, made my own kind of music. I’m not and never have been a conventional food writer, not in my personal conduct, not in my social connections, and certainly not in the books and articles I write. Much to the nervous horror of my peers, I refuse to drink wine at cocktail parties, I smoke, I spurn salsas, sushi, and the food processor, and at table I much prefer the company of an expert pig breeder or hungry whiskey distiller to that of a fatuous food- ie waxing ecstatically about Peruvian peppers or some young hotshot chef’s latest fusion concoctions. I do not show up at ceremonial din- ners to claim my occasional awards and schmooze; I consider it unfair and immoral to review a restaurant that’s been in business less than three months. On principle I will not eat any form of raw fresh tuna, blue potatoes, apricot mustard, or Parmesan ice cream. And the recipes that flood my books and articles fairly explode with butter, eggs, rich cheeses, and all the other sinful but glorious ingredients that the Good Lord intended us to eat. None of this is affected to make me appear superior, antagonistic, or wicked. It’s just my natural makeup– 2 Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 3 I’VE SEEN THE ELEPHANT the way I work, function socially, eat, and survive, and the pulse that throbs throughout these memoirs. I’ve never believed that food writing is any more of an art than eat- ing and cooking, and that to try to elevate the craft to the exalted level of serious literature, music, and painting is a naive attempt by dream- ers to transform a quite ordinary discipline into a complex process by which true masterpieces are produced. Just as popular music, howev- er charming, is risibly not as profound and important as the immortal notes penned by Beethoven, so even the best, most trenchant essays and books of authors like M.F.K. Fisher, Waverley Root, and Elizabeth David can hardly be equated with the impact of writings by Montaigne, Nietzsche, or Proust. Much too much careless nonsense is made these days about the so-called art of eating, the art of cooking, and the art of writing about food and restaurants. In fact, the only thing more bor- ing for me than writing (and reading or talking) about food out of the context of human experience is writing abstractly about wine. Yes, since we must eat to survive, it’s preferable to approach the act intel- ligently; since food must be prepared in one way or another, it’s good to have practitioners with the necessary skills and insights; and since millions find it useful and interesting to be instructed about food and its relation to the senses, it’s helpful to be exposed to dedicated experts willing and ready to dispense all the facts, anecdotes, and romance about food and dining. But to credit such mundane facets of life with the same transcendental creativity implicit in the fine arts is both vain and obtuse. After some forty years participating in the world’s riotous food and beverage scene and associating with dynamic individuals like those portrayed in these memoirs, I have indeed gone to the circus and seen the elephant, and, my, what a spectacle to behold. Connected with prestigious magazines, I’ve been lucky enough to know many of the era’s most respected chefs, restaurateurs, food authors, and exorbitant gourmands. I’ve hobnobbed on the royal banquettes with dukes and 3 Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 4 BETWEEN BITES duchesses, the king of Spain, Leslie Caron, Ned Rorem, Truman Capote, Pauline Trigère, and a contingent of other gold-plated swells, while, at the same time, slumming in various low-life dens with delightful creatures who didn’t know the difference between a truffle and a dessiccated turnip. Aboard the S.S. France, I’ve shared a lavish pot-au-feu with Salvador Dalí and his pet ocelot and, outrageously, danced with Sir Stephen Spender after dining on coulibiac of salmon washed down with Niagaras of vintage Krug. Once, on a Concorde flight to Paris, I had a memorable discussion with Rudolf Nureyev about the different grades of caviar, surpassed only by a jolly argument with Tennessee Williams at Antoine’s in New Orleans about the correct preparation of shrimp remoulade. I suppose I was on speaking terms with the maitre d’ of every restaurant of consequence from Lyon to Venice to San Francisco, but some of my most meaningful relationships have been with Greek fishermen, French geese breeders, Spanish sausage makers, and Midwestern farmers eager to teach me about prime beef, persim- mons, and pygmy rabbits. I’ve lived high on the hog in the plushest hotels and sat in the back of the spiffiest limos, squatted in bug- infested Moroccan huts, zipped around Jamaica in a ridiculous rattle- trap, and bicycled to a remote Norwegian fjord just for the excitement of wading up to my belly in a giant pen with thousands of thrashing farmed salmon. At possibly no point in history has gastronomy evolved more vibrantly and radically than during the second half of the twentieth century, a phenomenon that we can already look back upon with a cer- tain jaundiced nostalgia and one that should provide the inspiration needed to move ahead to more impressive developments. A lot of gin has flowed over the gold crowns since I first became involved in all the action, strong bonds have been formed with extraordinary people who have contributed so much to my joy and vitality, and if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that to draw a bead on work, human rela- 4 Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 5 I’VE SEEN THE ELEPHANT tions, and indeed life, an author must at once be in the center ring and stand on the sidelines—an essential but irrelevant observer. Believing firmly in the hedonistic philosophy of living half as long and seeing twice as much, I certainly don’t expect to remain forever under the Big Top, but oh yes, I’ve seen the elephant, marveled at his fabulous per- formance, and appreciated the way he’s accepted the peanuts of my gratitude so graciously. 5 Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 6 With fellow Fulbright scholarsen (I’m route in to the France, center) 1961. aboard the Queen Elizabeth Chef Alexandre Dumaine in the garden of Hôtel de la Côte d’Or in Saulieu. France, 1962. Pam, my favorite dining companion during my year in Grenoble, before lunch in the Alps. Villas 01 (no fm) 3/18/02 12:08 PM Page 7 CHAPTER ONE FROM GRITS TO GAUL “ TISAPLEASURE TO INFORM YOU ...” began the official letter dated IApril 10, 1961, from the Department of State in Washington. Without even taking time to finish reading the sentence, I whooped right there in the middle of the Chapel Hill post office, waving the sheet of paper excitedly in the air like a twenty-two-year-old lunatic as a dig- nified man checking his postal box close by turned and glared at me.