Michael, You RUHLman

(The caption on the photograph is Rulhman-written.)

I knew this day would come.

Michael Ruhlman is blogging. (And he owes it all, well, a little molecule or two, to me.)

Why do I love Michael Ruhlman? Because he is a fine, fine writer with sensibilities I respect and with which I resonate. He supports the production of food that is both sustainably grown and humanely raised. Because he is ardent and articulate in his deconstruction of idiotic policies (like the ban of foie gras) that take the focus off the true atrocities in American agriculture and factory farming.

Whatever he turns his attention to is something worth knowing about: not just food, but his books on his house, the craftsmanship of making wooden boats, or saving children's lives (I admit I have not read it—I'm too squeamish, and especially about babies)...he is a thoughtful man.

Simultaneously, Ruhlman is not above a certain kind of King Henry VIII gluttony when confronted with the opportunity to do a faceplant in some pork belly confit—you can hear it on the podcast by Hungry Magazine. (Have some wine while you're listening...he does!) He seems to enjoy puncturing the veil of his choir-boy persona. (I knew guys like Michael Ruhlman in school...innocent faces, teacher's pets, and oh, could they instigate.)

Like many people, I came to know his work through Soul of a Chef (2000), which prompted me to buy its predecessor, The Making of a Chef (1997). Both were written before the Food Network really catapulted into our lives, creating celebrity chefs like Emeril and the talented (but completely obnoxious and boastful) Bobby Flay. It was the phenomenon of chefs turning into rock stars that compelled Ruhlman's attention, and this is one phenomenon he explores in The Reach of a Chef.

I'd write about Reach now—he sent me a copy—but I can't find my notes and want to get this posted. The short story is that I had no expectations that Reach could approach the quality of Soul, but I was mistaken. Ruhlman is hitting his stride, and his experience brings insight, perspective, and a context for assessing your own opinions on the qualities and foibles (a nice way to put it) of high-profile chefs. He examines philosophical issues like, "Is it okay to be an absolute asshole to the people in your kitchen? Does tyranny make the food taste better?" and "Does the quality of a chef's work diminish if he franchises his name?"

What I appreciate most about his writing: he simply observes the small details in a person or an environment, and reports them with the kind of clarity and understanding I envy. Vignette upon vignette is painted with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that comes from the brush of a painter like John Singer Sargent—Ruhlman is a tranquil and confident writer, not a Van Gogh or a Jackson Pollack. He knows what to leave in, and he knows what to leave out. (Hmmm, like a good chef.)

A snippet, printed with his permission:

[...] I entered K-8—a large rectangular teaching kitchen in the heart of this old elegant seminary on the verdant banks of the Hudson River—looking to seventeen students and one chef-instructor like something resembling a culinary student. My intent had been no more complex than to get in with my notebooks, get out with a story and maybe a few cooking tips, write a book and move on to the next subject. How was I to know that learning to make a veal stock would change my life, that sauce Robert (ro-BAIR, one of the oldest derivative sauces, veal demi spiked with mustard) could be as mind-altering to me as several tabs of Timothy O’Leary’s finest, that the true measure of a man, was not determined by slaying the dragon and capturing the Holy Grail, but rather by the proper cooking of a green bean. Yea, verily! The meaning of life could be found in an onion, and the battle of a busy restaurant service could deliver you to an altered state of being, equal parts grace and shame, in fact to a kind of parallel existence without any relativity regarding the speed of light, for me a new universe. I would become a cook. I liked this place and I wanted to stay.

On the other hand, association with that blackguard, Anthony Bourdain, has undoubtedly added a little arsenic to Ruhlman's character. I can almost see Bourdain's imp-self in a tiny red cape and tights on Ruhlman's shoulder, whispering (in a helium-filled voice), "Say 'f-ck,' Michael, would it kill ya? G'wan, I dare ya." But there is no gratuituous foul language in Reach, and what there is, reminds me of the Spencer Tracy quote about Katharine Hepburn from "Pat and Mike": ""There ain't much meat on her, but it's all cherce."

So yes, The Reach of a Chef delivers. If it's a tab of Michael Ruhlman's finest you want, and you haven't yet read it, go get it now.

Next recommendation.

If you want to experience a side of Michael Ruhlman you likely haven't yet (on camera, not on the page), do yourself a favor and take the time to watch the broadcast of his Fall Convocation address to Case Western Reserve University. He ties together the moment he fully committed to becoming a chef—and what distinguishes chefs like Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz from people less driven—to addressing the question, "Isn't it frivolous to write about food when [there's a war going on, global warming is killing us, _________________ (insert your disaster here)]?"

The short answer: no, it is not frivolous. It is important. And done well, it is inspirational.

• • • • • • • • • • •

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: these lyrics from one of my favorite Van Morrison songs, "Rave On, John Donne," from my favorite Van Morrison album in the world (Inarticulate Speech of the Heart):

Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools

Rave on, down through the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
Rave on down through time and space down through the corridors
Rave on words on printed page

Rave on, you left us infinity
And well pressed pages torn to fade
Drive on with wild abandon
Uptempo, frenzied heels

Rave on, Walt Whitman, nose down in wet grass
Rave on fill the senses
On nature's bright green shady path

Rave on Omar Khayyam, Rave on Kahlil Gibran
Oh, what sweet wine we drinketh
The celebration will be held
We will partake the wine and break the Holy bread

Rave on let a man come out of Ireland
Rave on on Mr. Yeats,
Rave on down through the Holy Rosey Cross
Rave on down through theosophy, and the Golden Dawn
Rave on through the writing of "A Vision"
Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on

Rave on John Donne, rave on thy Holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools

Rave on, down though the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age

• • • • • • • • • • •

Rave on, Michael Ruhlman. Rave on.

That's all for today. Thanks for visiting.

Comments

[Nick gatti]

How ya doin girl?

[coffeepot]

I wish to read this. I dislike F word chefs, and wonder if something in the job is catching.

[Aimee]

Nah, it's pretty frivolous,
actually. (As I suspect Michael
would agree)

[Tana]

"Aimee" is yet another anonymous commenter, and whoever "she" is, I bet she didn't watch the convocation address. Whatevah. (As if her being too chickenshit to use her own name somehow reflects on me. Right.)

But wait...let's read that again. I noted that Michael Ruhlman makes the case that writing about food in this day and age isn't frivolous. And "Aimee" thinks he will agree with her that it is.

Brilliant. I hadn't seen her point, but now I do. Wow.

Nick, nice to see your name. Things are mostly good; I'll write you.

[ammello]

heard him interviewed on an NPR station and he was fascinating! and ever so clear about his life change. would that we all were.

ammello

[Tana]

I hope you have a chance to watch the address to the university. He's so well-spoken, and makes so many good points. It's good listening.

Thanks for visiting, Ammello.

[ruhlman]

i'm not sure exactly what coffee pot is saying.

and isn't aimee saying the work of the chef is frivolous? or writing about it.

At a time when agribusiness and government are trashing the environment and complicit in the horrific state of health this country's in, hardly frivolous.

[Tana]

Michael, "Aimee" is just trying to pull my chain. She isn't saying anything that makes any sense.

I usually won't publish chickenshit anonymous comments (because writing anonymously IS chickenshit), but I let this one in because it's extra stupid. Laughable, even.

Whoever said "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" never had a handful of obsessed stalkers leave "anonymous" (not) comments on their blog for over a year. They deserve a blog of their own, really—and I might give them one.

Thanks for commenting, Mr. Ruhlman.