Kitchen Confidential was brash, bullying, and brilliantly written. In it, Tony railed against “sauce-on-the-side” vegetarians and lazy American- and French-trained cooks, and he detailed everything you never wanted to know about the business of cooking. The book sold 160,000 copies and sat on the New York Times best-seller list for 14 weeks (it has since been released in paperback). Tony became the poster boy for badly behaving cooks everywhere, and Brad Pitt is rumored to have signed on to play him in the movie version, Seared.
No one was more shocked by the book’s success than its author. “I was terrified. I saw myself in some small, horrible way becoming like Emeril. I’d go to a reading and look out and see all these adoring people out there. I’m everything they’d never let their daughters associate with! I’m a forty-five-year-old, chain-smoking ex-junkie with a less than distinguished culinary career. Bobby Flay looks like a Greek god in comparison. Why me?”
That’s the question on all our minds, many hours and wrong turns later, as we pull into a pulquería for what Tony’s been referring to as his “Under the Volcano moment.” This is where he plans to down bucketfuls of pulque, the Mexican moonshine fermented from the agua miel of the maguey cactus, which is something like a cross between between buttermilk and beer. Consumed in sufficient quantities, the stuff reputedly has hallucinogenic properties.
Tony sidles up to the bar and orders a few plastic buckets of the slimy white liquid. Matthew and Jerry look dubious. The place is painted a chalky blue and lined with faded paintings. Music screeches from an old jukebox, and a lone patron sits at a table chortling to himself. Tony appears upbeat, in a forced sort of way. “This is my kind of place,” he tells Eddie.
After a few buckets of grog, we’re still the only people, and the scene is feeling more Barfly than Under the Volcano. It turns out Mexicans like to drink pulque during the midday siesta. Right now it’s 7 p.m. and way past closing time.
Matthew encourages Tony to reminisce about John Huston’s classic film, to down another drink, but & nothing. Everything’s gone quiet and strange. Without a word, Tony gets up and rips out his mike. That’s it. The star is outta here.
For the second time today, Matthew has been thwarted. Maybe it was the mix of insect delicacies, or too much booze, or not enough booze. Or maybe it’s just the way a man who’s been cooped up in kitchens most of his life deals with the impending threat of national fame.
Eddie’s ranch, a smattering of concrete buildings bordering a central yard, overlooks a tiny village surrounded by pipe-organ cacti and a few grazing goats. By the time we arrive, several rancheros are loading the barbacoa pit they dug this morning. At the bottom of the pit, the men position giant pots to collect the juices they’ll use as stock for the goat’s-head soup. Gently, they lower in five freshly butterflied goats, blanketing them in avocado leaves and laced branches that will drip pinesap into the brew. The stomachs have been extracted and stuffed with mint, onions, carrots, and blood for a smoky, rustic version of boudin noir. Five girls in communion dresses gently rest the skinned goat skulls atop the pile, as if putting their dollies to bed.
The midday heat is shoe-melting, but all around the yard women have staked their positions over open fires: One boils rice; another pinches cornmeal masa, slapping and pressing it into tortillas; a third de-spines and roasts nopales. It’s like an army in action, connected by young girls running messages, bowls, and knives between them. A sweet, floppy-eared baby goat has found its way into Tony’s arms, and the star is enjoying an uncharacteristic moment of cuteness.
“You hated the chiles en nogada yesterday, didn’t you?” I ask once we’ve staked out a patch in the shade.
“I hated hated HATED it.”
“So why not say so?”
“Because that chef was an adorable kid just starting out, running an impeccably clean kitchen. I didn’t want him to go home feeling bad just so I could provide amusement for the camera.”
“Why couldn’t you say, ‘I don’t like it because it has fruit and pine nuts in it?’ ” asks Matthew.
“Look, I may not like what Grandma makes, but I’m certainly not gonna tell Grandma. I’m gonna smile and shove it down.”
All of which makes me think we got Tony totally wrong. He wasn’t being difficult. He was being decent.
Many hours and several beers later, the goats have been hoisted, a soundstage has been rigged, an impromptu press conference has been convened, and the mariachis are tuning their guitars. A crowd starts to gather. Eddie is nervous. (“A little drunk, too.”) The mayor’s arrived, along with 50 other majordomos, and they’re all seated at a long banquet table beneath a straw palapa.
The goat’s-head soup is served, and Tony dutifully smacks his lips, first for the camera (“It’s fine”), then for me (“It’s incredible! This is INCREDIBLE!! I mean f—ing incredible!!!”).
He goes on to connect a few cross-cultural culinary dots. “In Morocco, eating happens in small groups. And there’s very little verbal communication between husband and wife. It’s said that you can tell your wife’s mood by her cooking. A lot of information goes into how well the couscous is fluffed that day.
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