Snacking on a memoir

Hamilton, Gabrielle. Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef. New York: Random House, 2011.

As loyal readers know, I munch on a fair number of food-related memoirs, from Ruth Reichl to Julie Powell to Anthony Bourdain. So, when another comes along, especially one with such breathless praise on the covers ("Simply the best memoir by a chef ever. Ever." from Mr. Bourdain), how can I resist my appetite?

I don't really know what I think about this book. I'm certainly not flipping out cover-blurb-style. On the other hand, it's a different take on the industry than I've seen in other memoirs, and so honest that it's hard to dismiss. It makes me wonder what Hamilton's friends and family thought when they finished the book, seeing her mother pictured as a loathsome spider; her husband (ex now?) as a heavily accented, thoroughly detached iPhone-wanter; and herself as a formerly coked-out wild child who nonetheless has a serious work ethic and thrashed her way to the top of her profession at Prune. Did they recognized these characters? Only Hamilton's character is given the opportunity to surprise the reader much, but I suppose that's her privilege in her own book.

Hamilton has a master's in fiction, and her talent comes out in the calmer moments of the story. The image of her childhood visits to her father's stage-set-design business stuck with me:

Prying back the lid on a fifty-gallon barrel of silver glitter--the kind of barrel that took two men and a hand truck to wheel into the paint supply room of the shop--and then shoving your hands down into it up to your elbows is an experience that will secure the idea in your heart for the rest of your life that your dad is, himself, the greatest show on earth.

Or her description of a backyard lamb roast, with hissing drippings that "sounded like the hot tip of a just-blown-out match being dipped into a cup of water." As nostalgia wanes and things get more hectic, I stopped tabbing such evocative passages. Later, when Hamilton glories in a return to family life via her "Italian Italian" husband, imagery similarly resurfaces. She describes sgropino, "that lively dessert drink of prosecco and vodka and lemon ice cream which is so named because it describes the sneezelike sound a horse makes when she's shaking the flies from her nostrils. Because it makes you shudder just like that. And that's just how it felt to be introduced to Michele's family."

In addition to these rich descriptions, I liked learning about the insane stresses of commercial catering, and I particularly enjoyed one rage-filled vignette in which Hamilton MUST EAT NOW and finally sinks her teeth into an Italian sub, a far cry from the nice lunch she hoped for but just what she needed. I've felt that way.

I probably don't have the experience (other than reading other food memoirs and eating a lot) to truly appreciate this book--hence the blurbs from other chefs. I can see it as instructive for both people considering a career in the food industry and entertaining for those already in it. For me, it was worth reading but not life-changing: a three-star meal.

Rating: ***