Blood, Bones, and Butter

Gabrielle Hamilton's memoir took me much longer to read than it should have, which doesn't entirely reflect my reaction to the book. I read the galley copy and was perhaps a bit set up by the ravings that covered its front and back: Mario Batali wants to burn all the books he's written, in homage, and Anthony Bourdain claims it's "simply the best memoir by a chef ever. EVER." So. Yeah, where do you go from there?

Well, I dove in, and Blood, Bones, and Butter is a fascinating account of a chef by accident. At least, that's how it comes across. Hamilton grows up in a slapdash, complicated family in that there's never enough money and there are too many kids without enough supervision, and there are massive indications that both parents have a screw or two loose, even while they gave their children plenty of interesting traits and skills. Hamilton learns to cook from watching her meticulous, ex-ballerina mother pull off meals as only a French woman can. There is no waste and no skimping, which seems like a contradiction but one that echoes throughout the book: Get the best you can afford and don't mess with it.

Hamilton's mother retires a bit awkwardly from the family and the book, only to reappear a totally different woman near the end. There were some disturbing parallels to my own mother which was one of a couple of reasons I put this book aside. The other that bothered me--and this is my personal tic--was having to listen to Hamilton talk about all the drugs she used to get where she is now. I get so tired of hearing that all the interesting people in the world were abusers at some point (or still are), but that's just me. Doesn't mean anything about the book and Hamilton isn't annoying about it.

The book isn't really a chef memoir in that food isn't lavished over in quite the way you'd expect. It seems more like a "how the hell did I get here and what were people thinking, putting up with me?" For this, the tone is just right. You believe in Gabrielle Hamilton, whether she's disabusing you of any romance over the beautifully catered food you ate at that fund-raiser last week or tossing KFC at some camp counselors, undeserving of a lobster dinner (really, they were undeserving, and the lobster story is depressing). When she stumbles into opening her own restaurant, it seems just as crazy and just as lucky as when she stumbles into her first job at age 13 when all she wanted was to have enough money to buy shampoo (because she sure wasn't getting money for that at home). Even Hamilton admits how wide-eyed and innocent she was about the restaurant business and, having read about her crazy path, "innocent" is not a word that comes easily to mind.

Food rhapsody comes late in the book (in the 'Butter' section) and then it's because that section takes place in Italy. I think it's a national requirement to talk lusciously about food in Italy and Hamilton switches gears readily to do just that. "Blood" is not just about family, but about the brutal way by which Hamilton enters the world of (restaurant) work; "Bones" is the structure she builds for herself, including the family; "Butter" is the place where she is now, though mellow, like innocent, doesn't begin to describe Gabrielle Hamilton.

So, best chef memoir ever? Naw, probably not, but I would eat anything Hamilton put in front of me, even if I never got a great sense of what she cooks. I just know she'll get it done and it'll be delicious and perfect.