Saturday, April 3, 2010

I worked at a cooking school and one chef--I shall call him Le Superchef--in one night: talked a student down from a bad trip on something in the locker room, performed the Heimlich on an elderly guy, diagnosed and treated the groom in a rehearsal dinner with anaphylactic shock after he ate some shellfish, and supervised dinner for 400 people.

He was unflappable and very French throughout the whole night. The Fire department asked "who the fuck is this guy?" the second time they came that night (Le Superchef stablized the allergic groom then went to reduce a sauce.) I said "He's who we need him to be. He's our French Chef."
Okay I didn't say that last part but the rest is true.  

A small and strange looking boy dressed in a giant fake moustache, wearing a chef's hat emblazoned with the word 'chef' written in sausages, with an Earthward plummeting aeroplane on his shoulder, advertising a seasoning called Praise Allah. A work of staggering genius or Dadaist madness? Who can tell? From Gourmet- The Magazine of Good Living, November 1960.