How Cooks Talk in Private

  I should not eat. I am, or should be stuffed already. But that is not me, the laws of etiquette never seem to apply. I eat like a bird, truly. I am a man, not in love with appetite, but with flavor. I could take small bites If I could taste many things exotic. I speak the language of cooks. It is a language brusque and coarse: "order! Fire! 86! On the Fly! Rush!" etc. I speak the language of my people. And yet, I’m a stranger. What I have in my kitchen, these are not cooks. They are there from a to b. A to b is not for me. A chef knife, lonliness, distance. That is my life, a simmering pot, a sear, a sear! as meat hits a properly heated pan and reacts violently. This, this is the romantic part of the language I speak. A language most people will never understand I eat secret meals secretly. They keep me young. But I long for the day I can cook a real meal again. I made a pizza at the Brass Tap of foie gras and baby salmon on rosemary honey dough which I spun in the air after it had proofed. "If only you worked in New York you would be world famous." If only… I speak the language of cooks in a hushed tone, under my breath. Suprisingly cooks round the world and through time look much like me, no matter their sex, race, or shape. An Egyptian cook and an Irish cook, and a cook from 1912 all speak the same words.