Chef's Image Quotes

But who cooks it?" I asked, imaging an underground kitchen staffed by tiny, invisible chefs. "Who serves it?" "I don't know," he said, with a disinterested shrug. I couldn't help laughing. "John, food magically appears here three times a day, and you don't know where it comes from? You've been here for almost two hundred years. Haven't you ever tried to find out?" He shot me a sarcastic look of his own. "Of course. I have theories. I think it's part of the compensation for the job I do, since there isn't any pay. But there's room and board. Anything I've ever wanted or needed badly enough usually appears, eventually. For instance"-he sent one of those knee-melting smiles in my direction-"you." I swallowed. The smile made it astonishingly hard to follow the conversation, even though I was the one who'd started it. "Compensation from whom?" He shrugged again. It was clear this was something he didn't care to discuss. "I have passengers waiting. For now, here." He lifted the lid of a platter. "I highly recommend these." I don't know what I expected to see when I looked down...a big platter of pomegranates? Of course that wasn't it at all. "Waffles?

His em-tracking machinery is driven by words more than images, but that’s only his make and model. Empathy is related to intuition, and intuition is individually customized, tuned to dominant talents. Chefs need tastes, painters images. His experience is biblical: It starts with logos.

Storms of all sorts, were facts of our lives. Those images shown on the news of fellow citizens drowned, abandoned, and calling for help were not news to us, but still further evidence of what we long ago. I knew, for example, that we lived in an unequal, masquerading world when I was eight and crossing the dangerous Chef Menteur Highway with Alvin. I knew it at Livingston Middle School when I did not learn because no one was teaching me. I knew it in 1994, when we were petrified, afraid, the law might kill us—knew it before, during, and after the Water. Katrina's postscript—the physical wasteland—was only a manifestation of all that ailed me and my family in mind and spirit.

Hence we may, with proper precautions, regard a certain humility as the overall characteristic of medieval art. Of the art; not always of the artists. Self-esteem may arise within any occupation at any period. A chef, a surgeon, or a scholar, may be proud, even to arrogance, of his skill; but his skill is confessedly the means to an end beyond itself, and the status of the skill depends wholly on the dignity or necessity of that end. I think it was then like that with all the arts. Literature exists to teach what is useful, to honour what deserves honour, to appreciate what is delightful. The useful, honourable, and delightful things are superior to it: it exists for their sake; its own use, honour, or delightfulness is derivative from theirs. In that sense the art is humble even when the artists are proud; proud of their proficiency in the art, but not making for the art itself the high Renaissance or Romantic claims. Perhaps they might not all have fully agreed with the statement that poetry is infima inter omnes doctrinas.17 But it awoke no such hurricane of protest as it would awake today. In this great change something has been won and something lost. I take it to be part and parcel of the same great process of Internalisation18 which has turned genius from an attendant daemon into a quality of the mind. Always, century by century, item after item is transferred from the object’s side of the account to the subject’s. And now, in some extreme forms of Behaviourism, the subject himself is discounted as merely subjective; we only think that we think. Having eaten up everything else, he eats himself up too. And where we ‘go from that’ is a dark question.

To that point, I remember when visiting my parents’ years later, I happened to catch an old episode of The French Chef. Because my interest in food had grown, I watched it with even more attentiveness than I had when I was young. But on this particular occasion, I was taken aback by my reaction when Mrs Child bid US her ubiquitous farewell, ‘This is Julia Child, bon appétit!’ My eyes suddenly welded up and I had to stop myself from crying: why was I suddenly experiencing a powerful rush of emotion because a black and white moving image of a chef was saying goodbye to me in French? After a few moments, I realised that I was moved by Mrs Child not only because she brought back happy boyhood memories of spending time with my mom but also because Julia herself was so genuinely happy to be doing what she was doing. I saw in that moment the embodiment of what I, and so many of us, aspire to. To spend your life doing what you love and doing it well. To achieve this is a rare thing, but for those who can, real joy is theirs, as is the ability to bring that joy to others through their chosen vacation.

«Regardez, regardez, continua le comte en saisissant chacun des deux jeunes gens par la main, regardez, car, sur mon âme, c'est curieux, voilà un homme qui était résigné à son sort, qui marchait à l'échafaud, qui allait mourir comme un lâche, c'est vrai, mais enfin il allait mourir sans résistance et sans récrimination: savez-vous ce qui lui donnait quelque force? savez-vous ce qui le consolait? savez-vous ce qui lui faisait prendre son supplice en patience? c'est qu'un autre partageait son angoisse; c'est qu'un autre allait mourir comme lui; c'est qu'un autre allait mourir avant lui! Menez deux moutons à la boucherie, deux bœufs à l'abattoir, et faites comprendre à l'un d'eux que son compagnon ne mourra pas, le mouton bêlera de joie, le bœuf mugira de plaisir mais l'homme, l'homme que Dieu a fait à son image, l'homme à qui Dieu a imposé pour première, pour unique, pour suprême loi, l'amour de son prochain, l'homme à qui Dieu a donné une voix pour exprimer sa pensée, quel sera son premier cri quand il apprendra que son camarade est sauvé? un blasphème. Honneur à l'homme, ce chef-d'œuvre de la nature, ce roi de la création!»

What is this food in my head, anyway? Let’s see...it’s green and good for you and so delicious. It’s prepared by angels with love. The minute you bite into it, it’s savory, chewy, nourishing, and whole- some. You feel instantly revitalized. A small, tiny amount, just a few bites, rejuvenates every cell, deepens your breath, clears your mind, heals your wounds, and mends your heart. It’s made from joyous plants that voluntarily separate themselves from their stalks, laying themselves at the feet of the approaching gardener who gathers them. They eagerly offer their vital energies to nourish living spirits. The angels in their chef hats, singing mantras, cook it tenderly to retain all the benefits of the generous plants. It’s barely sweet, barely salty, and contains all the freshness of spring herbs, summer fruit, spreading leaves, and burgeoning seeds. It comes premade in bags or boxes...you just open it up, sit down, and enjoy. It’s a full meal, enough maybe for a whole day, maybe for a week, maybe for your family, maybe for your friends and neighbors. It multiplies like loaves and fishes, in little biodegradable containers that vaporize instantly the moment you finish them, without any greenhouse emissions. Nothing to clean up!

Italian cuisine is the most famous and beloved cuisine in the world for a reason. Accessible, comforting, seemingly simple but endlessly delicious, it never disappoints, just as it seems to never change. It would be easy to give you, dear reader, a book filled with the al dente images of the Italy of your imagination. To pretend as if everything in this country is encased in amber. But Italian cuisine is not frozen in time. It's exposed to the same winds that blow food traditions in new directions every day. And now, more than at any time in recent or distant memory, those forces are stirring up change across the country that will forever alter the way Italy eats. That change starts here, in Rome, the capital of Italy, the cradle of Western civilization, a city that has been reinventing itself for three millennia- since, as legend has it, Romulus murdered his brother Remus and built the foundations of Rome atop the Palatine Hill. Here you'll find a legion of chefs and artisans working to redefine the pillars of Italian cuisine: pasta, pizza, espresso, gelato, the food that makes us non-Italians dream so ravenously of this country, that makes us wish we were Italians, and that stirs in the people of Italy no small amount of pride and pleasure.

As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait--there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

Papa-bobo précipité avec inquiétude sur mon genou saignant, qui va chercher les médicaments et s'installera des heures au chevet de mes varicelle, rougeole et coqueluche pour me lire Les Quatre Filles du docteur March ou jouer au pendu. Papa-enfant, "tu es plus bête qu'elle", dit-elle. Toujours prêt à m'emmener à la foire, aux films de Fernandel, à me fabriquer une paire d'échasses et à m'initier à l'argot d'avant la guerre, pépédéristal et autres cezigue pâteux qui me ravissent. Papa indispensable pour me conduire à l'école et m'attendre midi et soir, le vélo à la main, un peu à l'écart de la cohue des mères, les jambes de son pantalon resserrées en bas par des pinces en fer. Affolé par le moindre retard. Après, quand je serai assez grande pour aller seule dans les rues, il guettera mon retour. Un père déjà vieux émerveillé d'avoir une fille. Lumière jaune fixe des souvenirs, il traverse la cour, tête baissée à cause du soleil, une corbeille sous le bras. J'ai quatre ans, il m'apprend à enfiler mon manteau en retenant les manches de mon pull-over entre mes poings pour qu'elles ne boulichonnent pas en haut des bras. Rien que des images de douceur et de sollicitude. Chefs de famille sans réplique, grandes gueules domestiques, héros de la guerre ou du travail, je vous ignore, j'ai été la fille de cet homme-là.

At the risk of oversimplifying a topic that deserves entire books, we can summarize like this: During enslavement, many Black cooks learned their way around kitchens because their lives could depend on having that knowledge and skill. After slavery was abolished, many took to slinging fried chicken (or cooking in general) as one way to make a living. Interestingly, it wasn’t until Black folks began navigating their supposed freedoms-applying to schools, looking for paid work, seeking housing-that cartoonish, offensive images of Black folks eagerly consuming chicken or stealing chickens began to appear in essays, comics, advertisements, and postcards, perpetuating a narrative by white society that Black people were subhuman and needed to be controlled, policed, and locked out of mainstream opportunities. Exacerbated by the deep white resentment of Black people’s increasing social and political mobility (this period saw the largest representation of Black people in Congress than any time since), the idea took root that being Black meant that you loved fried chicken so much that you couldn’t resist it. This narrative is a painful legacy of slavery that wasn’t of our own making and is ironic, given that people all over the world get down with wings and things. But the essence of this stereotype persists. We know folks who refuse to eat fried chicken around white people, or chefs who don’t cook it in their restaurants, because they feel that’s the only thing certain diners expect from them…American fried chicken tastes good. It’s also complicated.

With this in mind, I’d started a leadership and mentoring program at the White House, inviting twenty sophomore and junior girls from high schools around Greater D.C. to join us for monthly get-togethers that included informal chats, field trips, and sessions on things like financial literacy and choosing a career. We kept the program largely behind closed doors, rather than thrusting these girls into the media fray. We paired each teen with a female mentor who would foster a personal relationship with her, sharing her resources and her life story. Valerie was a mentor. Cris Comerford, the White House’s first female executive chef, was a mentor. Jill Biden was, too, as were a number of senior women from both the East and the West Wing staffs. The students were nominated by their principals or guidance counselors and would stay with us until they graduated. We had girls from military families, girls from immigrant families, a teen mom, a girl who’d lived in a homeless shelter. They were smart, curious young women, all of them. No different from me. No different from my daughters. I watched over time as the girls formed friendships, finding a rapport with one another and with the adults around them. I spent hours talking with them in a big circle, munching popcorn and trading our thoughts about college applications, body image, and boys. No topic was off-limits. We ended up laughing a lot. More than anything, I hoped this was what they’d carry forward into the future—the ease, the sense of community, the encouragement to speak and be heard. My wish for them was the same one I had for Sasha and Malia—that in learning to feel comfortable at the White House, they’d go on to feel comfortable and confident in any room, sitting at any table, raising their voices inside any group.

As I morphed from from a fat, cute kid to a young man, the world began to see me differently. At Mount Saint Michael's, the Catholic private school to which I had transferred, I was surrounded and befriended by much tougher kids, mostly black like me, many of whom had grown up fending for themselves. Many of the teachers, however, were middle-aged or older white women, and they approached us 10 year olds like we were dangerous. They wielded their power like prison wardens and in their fear, I saw reflected back an image of myself I hadn't seen before. At the same time, I saw the power my friends possessed. How they could manipulate using fear. As our teachers reprimanded us, and when that didn't work suspended us, I saw how the kids around me dealt with this anger and frustration. They turned their faces to stone and dead in their eyes like those of statues. They became hard and menacing, and as I saw it then, that hardness meant strength.

As I morphed from from a fat, cute kid to a young man, the world began to see me differently. At Mount Saint Michael's, the Catholic private school to which I had transferred, I was surrounded and befriended by much tougher kids, mostly black like me, many of whom had grown up fending for themselves. Many of the teachers, however, were middle-aged or older white women, and they approached us 10 year olds like we were dangerous. They wielded their power like prison wardens and in their fear, I saw reflected back an image of myself I hadn't seen before. At the same time, I saw the power my friends possessed. How they could manipulate using fear. As our teachers reprimanded us, and when that didn't work suspended us, I saw how the kids around me dealt with this anger and frustration. They turned their faces to stone and dead in their eyes like those of statues. They became hard and menacing, and as I saw it then, that hardness meant strength.

[...] D’emblée, nous avons parlé de la Marche Verte annoncée quelques heures plus tôt. Il ne cachait pas sa colère sans l’extérioriser brutalement. Il restait très maître de lui jusqu’à ce qu’à l’écran apparaissent les images du roi Hassan II prononçant un discours. Là, le visage de Boumediene s’est métamorphosé. Un mélange de sourire nerveux et de fureur crispait son visage. Un moment, le roi parle de l’Algérie sur un ton conciliant et amical. Le Président lui lance, en arabe, une injure et, à ma stupeur, il avance son bras droit et délivre un magistral bras d’honneur. Tel un voyou de Bab el Oued. Le Président austère qui se donnait à voir quelques instants plus tôt avait disparu. J’avais devant moi un autre homme. Un jeune garnement des rues prêt à tout. Il s’est levé de son fauteuil et s’est mis à sautiller de façon étrange. Un peu hystérique. Je ne saurais dire s’il sautait de joie ou de colère, mais, je le revois très bien, il a bondi à plusieurs reprises. Il trépignait, comme s’il avait perdu le contrôle de son personnage. Les insultes contre Hassan II pleuvaient. J’étais stupéfait. Jamais je n’avais vu un chef d’Etat dans cet état. Ce n’était qu’un torrent d’invectives à un niveau insoutenable de grossièreté, d’obscénité, de vulgarité. Sans transition, ont suivi les menaces. Hassan II ne l’emportera pas au paradis. Il ne sait pas ce qui l’attend. L’Algérie ne se fera pas rouler dans la farine. J'étais d'autant plus abasourdi que l'affaire du Sahara trainait depuis longtemps. Les revendications du Maroc dataient de Mohamed V qui entendait affirmer sa souveraineté non seulement sur le Sahara Occidental mais sur la Mauritanie tout entière. Je n'oubliais pas, et Boumediene non plus, la défaite de l'Algérie pendant la guerre des sables d'octobre 1963. On sentait le goût de la revanche, le besoin d'effacer de mauvais souvenirs. Je n'ai plus souvenir des termes exacts mais l'idée était bien celle d'une riposte qui fera regrette à l'agresseur ses rodomontades. L'algérie ne se laissera pas marcher sur les pieds. Elle rétorquera de tous ses moyens et on verra ce qu'on verra [19 Juillet 2013]

Among them were a Bored Ape with a vaguely racist “sushi chef headband,” and a pixelated image of a cartoon penis, called a CryptoDickButt, which, incredibly, was worth about $1,000 at the time. (Davies told me that one was sent to him unsolicited, apparently by some kind of crypto flasher.)

The image was like finding an automobile factory in your closet.

Parfois, je pense à ces petits morceaux de tissu quand la vie me semble incompréhensible. J'essaie de fermer les yeux et de croire que bien que je ne puisse pas voir le bon côté, et que le côté que je regarde est laid et tout embrouillé, tous ces noeuds et ces fils emmêlés forment en fait un chef-d'oeuvre. je m'efforce de croire que la beauté peut jaillir de la laideur, et que le moment viendra où je pourrai la voir pour ce qu'elle est. Tu m'as aidée à voir ma propre image, Archer. Laisse-moi t'aider à voir la tienne.

Parfaitement : mais ces spectres à propos desquels, aujourd'hui encore, trop de Roumains exaspérés de se voir rappeler les méfaits de l'ère fasciste (commémorations du pogrome de Iași, demandes recouvrement de biens « roumanisés », nouvelles publications sur « l'holocauste roumain », etc.) déclarent volontiers : « Et ce qu'ils nous ont fait subir, une fois entrée au parti communiste ? Et la manière dont ils se sont vengés de nous après la guerre ? Allez-vous parler d'Ana Pauker, Joseph Kichinevski et autres ? ! » La réplique vaut d'être relevée. En premier lieu, elle offre l'occasion d'une mise au point relative aux différentes formes de rapports qui se firent jour, avant et juste après la Seconde guerre mondiale, entre le PCR [le parti communiste roumain] les Israélites. Lesquels rapports, s'ils devaient en effet impliquer, entre 1944 et 1950, la présence d'une proportion signifiante de Juifs parmi les cadres du parti, s'ils devaient également s'assortir de cas de bestialité tel celui incarné par Boris Grünberg (dit Alexandru Nicolschi), cet officier juif soviétique devenu « inquisiteur en chef » de la Securitate, s'avérèrent au total très loin–c'est là le moins que l'on puisse dire !–d'avoir servi les intérêts de la communauté israélite. (p. 580)