As a semi-serious collector of vinyl LPs, I would later discover Wilson’s comedy albums from the early 1960s, languishing in the dollar bins, alongside so many copies of “Staying Alive.” Although I never purchased any of Wilson’s albums (even for a buck), his ample discography was a strange revelation for me: I had grown up assuming that Wilson was simply a chef with a schtick, not an established humorist who had somehow branched out into cooking. I’m still not even sure how Wilson — as grassroots and as authentic he was  — managed to make the jump to celebrity chef, although I’m glad he did (I should note, however, that Wilson actively continued to record comedy albums well into the 1990s, long after his popularity as a chef had peaked).

I stumbled across my reprinted edition of “The Justin Wilson Cookbook” on a rainy Napa Valley afternoon, and felt it was worth mentioning. Wilson originally published his first cookbook in 1965, though my copy is the eighth printing from 1986 (just about the same year that Wilson began shilling Cajun-spiced potato chips for Ruffles). The spiral-bound book is a rather slender volume — about 90 pages — with simple Cajun recipes and plenty of photos and anecdotes, written in his trademark dialect. I found my copy of “The Justin Wilson Cook Book” in a used bookstore for $3, and I’m pretty sure most copies turn up for $5 or less. At that price, it’s a wondermous piece of Americana, for true.

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Certainly, Antonin Carême never imagined his own future success when he began his culinary career in 1793 at the tender age of 10. Born the youngest of 16 — and possibly even 24 — children, Carême was abandoned by his family during the midst of the French Revolution, and as the legend goes, his father confided in him, “Nowadays you need only the spirit to make your fortune, and you have the spirit.” On the heels of that succinct pep talk, Carême became a dishwasher, and eventually worked his way into a well-known Parisian pastry kitchen, where his talent blossomed. Despite his Dickensian beginnings, many details of Carême’s early life (as well as many of his recipes) have been lost to war and the general turmoil of French history. Even in adulthood, we know very little of Carême’s personal life, or why his daughter (an only child) destroyed almost all of his letters.

As culinary historians are left to speculate upon the mysteries of Carême’s personal life — his two marriages and an estranged father-daughter relationship — Kelly tackles this impossible biography in the best possible way, with well-researched historical data, and plenty of excerpts from Carême’s menus and cookbooks (although Carême lived just 48 years, his star certainly shined bright, and several of his publications remain, despite others being lost). As for his status as a celebrity, it may prove interesting to learn that an orphan of the French Revolution would eventually bake Napoleon’s wedding cake, but for me, Carême’s profound influence on French haute cuisine remains much more intriguing; to the credit of “Cooking for Kings,” the royal name-dropping represents only one part of the story.

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But for those who have been following culinary trends for the last 10 years, the center of culinary relevance has slowly shifted outside of France. As author Michael Steinberger points out in his book “Au Revoir to All That,” several factors have contributed to France’s declining culinary influence, including the nation’s poor economy and its general complacency, the rise of chef Ferran Adriá and Spain’s nuevo cocina, the increased competition of fine wine from the New World, and the recent “franchising” of French chefs in overseas markets, such as Las Vegas and New York. Of course, based upon its long history of culinary contributions, France will still continue to enjoy a large stake in the game, but its chip count has steadily eroded over the years, and perhaps for good.

With each chapter, “Au Revior to All That” delivers an insightful analysis of the French malaise, supported with thoughtful and compelling research. Steinberger also provides many terrific first-hand anecdotes along the way, making the text both approachable and engaging. What surprised me the most, however, was a statistic in the book’s seventh chapter, titled “Fast-Food Nation,” in which Steinberger reveals that France has become the single-biggest market for McDonald’s outside of America. Talk about undermining some deep-seated stereotypes — the French have actually embraced the Golden Arches? While it may still be true that most Westerners might still give France the benefit of the doubt when it comes to gastronomy, in reality, globalization seems to have cost France far much more than it has gained.

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It also begs the question: Just whom, exactly, was “The Quintessential Art” written for? On one hand, the book assumes a weighty amount of culinary knowledge from its reader. Gagnaire’s recipes are among the most avant-garde you’ll ever read (or taste), with dishes such as Udon with Raw Ham and Cooked Strawberries, or a Ratatouille of Chanterelles, Eggplant and Apricots. The “recipes” themselves are almost presented off-handedly, but with obvious thought and consideration at their core. Devoid of weights, measurements, or cooking times, Gagnaire’s recipes read more like a loose set of instructions, all predicated on an innate knack for cooking (and, alas, not a single food photo in the entire book). As a result, “The Quintessential Art” seems to be geared partially towards professional cooks, yet on the other hand, the book’s dry, philosophical slant caters to an entirely different demographic: namely, philosophy majors.

As a professional cook with an English degree (and a minor in philosophy, no less), I suppose that I’d fall squarely into the target demographic of “The Quintessential Art,” but I’d be a filthy liar if I didn’t admit to catching myself skipping through certain passages of the text. I’m just being honest. But really, what does that mean for those readers who don’t have a built-in predilection for Aristotle or John Stuart Mill, nor enough experience in the kitchen to follow Gagnaire’s vague recipe methods? I think it’s safe to say that most people — even those who might even consider themselves food lovers — simply wouldn’t be bothered to finish “The Quintessential Art.” Frankly, I don’t feel that anyone would be the worse for it. In a nutshell, I suppose the book is just a bit too lofty to be practical. I will confess, however, that reading “The Quintessential Art” did teach me a fancy new term: “gustatory alliesthesia” — it’s the sensory fatigue, or unpleasantness, from eating too much of the same food (or too much food, in general). Somehow, feeling “full” just sounds mundane in comparison.

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For folks like me, those who are devoted to drinking and exploring Napa wine, “ABC” usually means “Anything but Chardonnay.” This quippy, yet dismissive critique of Napa’s most prominent white wine may seem surprising to some, especially since Chardonnay still enjoys both pedigree and popularity the world over. However, the “ABC” philosophy does have some merit in regard to local wine. On one hand, the Chardonnay alternatives are few and far between here in the valley; for most Napa wineries, Sauvignon Blanc represents the only other local option for white wine (Chardonnay accounts for almost two-thirds of Napa’s total white wine production, while Sauvignon Blanc accounts for about one-fourth). But for the “ABC” camp, it’s not so much the fact that Chardonnay dominates the white wine landscape — it’s more the idea that California Chardonnay, despite its overall popularity, simply lost its taste appeal to many wine drinkers.

The local backlash against California Chardonnay began to build in the late 1990s, following an era when many local producers used to treat Chardonnay with a heavy regimen of new oak, coupled with heavy malolactic fermentation (often referred to simply as “malocatic” — or even “ML” — this secondary “fermentation” is actually bacteria-based, and isn’t a true yeast-based fermentation). With Chardonnay, heavy oak plus full ML typically results in the oaky-buttery style that many folks still enjoy (Rombauer Vineyards is the poster-child for this particular approach, and Rombauer will probably always bear the oaky-buttery torch). In the 1980s, this heavy-handed style became the vogue for many (perhaps most) Napa Valley winemakers, and the result was that Chardonnay eventually began to taste less and less like the grape, and more and more like the process. Taste, of course, remains subjective, and inherently, this particular style of winemaking wouldn’t necessarily present an issue, except that it began to make lots of Napa Chardonnays all taste the same.

Indeed, Chardonnay is widely known as “the winemaker’s grape,” a canvass that can lend itself to plenty of tweaking and manipulating in the cellar. As author Freddy Price acknowledges in his brief introduction of “Reisling Renaisance,” the Riesling grape is the complete opposite of Chardonnay. Classically, Riesling is rarely aged in oak barrels and the use of ML is non-existent. As Price also points out in his introduction, Riesling expresses its terroir more clearly than any other wine. Terroir, or what I would colloquially call” the taste of place,” is the notion that no grapevine grows within a vacuum. For better or worse, nature’s elements are bound to have an influence on the vine, and farming techniques are also bound to play a role in a grape’s flavor development. For serious wine drinkers, this idea of terroir is what allows experts to identify a wine’s origin simply by its taste, smell and appearance.

“Reisling Renaissance” is invaluable for anyone who wishes to gain a deeper insight into the world’s Riesling production. Price has spent more than 50 years pursuing his passion for the grape, and his knowledge of Riesling certainly shines. The book is divided into regional chapters, leading off with the most important, Germany, and then delving into sections on France, Austria, Australia, New Zealand, and the United States. “Riesling Renaissance” features great maps, concise and insightful histories, and lists of the top Riesling producers for each wine-growing region. Unfortunately, here in the Napa Valley, Riesling is all but absent, even though the grape was extremely popular before Prohibition, and also during the 1960s and 1970s (today, Riesling accounts for a little more than 1% of Napa’s total white wine production). To be fair, however, Napa is generally too warm to grow world-class Riesling on a large scale (Washington State has since become the domestic leader in Riesling production).

“ABC” has become a tough bet for Californians who wish to drink locally, but a few wineries have continued to produce Riesling with some success. Among the California wineries in consideration, Price highlights Bonny Doon, Greenwood Ridge, Navarro Vineyards, Smith-Madrone and Trefethen. Although it is noteworthy to point out that Bonny Doon sources its juice from Washington State and Germany’s Mosel, the other four wineries do grow and produce a true California Riesling. Trefethen and Smith-Madrone are the only Napa representatives on the list, although personally, I would also add Stony Hill Vineyards, since they’ve been producing an admirable dry Riesling in Napa Valley for more than 50 years now.

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“Life, on the Line” follows Achatz from his earliest years, growing up in Michigan, where he spent much of his time working at his family’s diner and where the life and the pace of the kitchen soon became the norm. After high school, Achatz attended the Culinary Institute of America before he eventually landed at the French Laundry in 1996, just two years after Thomas Keller had purchased the restaurant. Along the way, Achatz occasionally stumbles, and I found the early chapters recounting his eight-week stint at Charlie Trotter’s to be particularly revealing. It seems that whenever someone achieves success at the highest level, it can often be difficult to remember (or even imagine) that there were also the early failures. But despite his natural abilities, Achatz just couldn’t ever find his footing at Trotter’s, proving that kitchens themselves can have their own distinct personas, and that not all people will thrive in the same environment.

If anything, it may remain comforting for many to learn that Achatz had once experienced these early professional defeats; I have no doubt that the kitchen at Charlie Trotter’s has chewed up and spit out hundreds of would-be chefs since then, as well. But how different people respond to these setbacks can often say the most about them. For Achatz, he learned of the French Laundry shortly after he left Trotter’s, and he sent his resume to Thomas Keller for 14 days in a row, until he was finally allowed to stage at the Yountville restaurant. Subsequently, Achatz thrived under Keller, and he would rise to the rank of sous chef by the time he left the French Laundry in 2001. Upon leaving his mentor, Achatz soon began to establish his own culinary identity at Trio in Chicago, where one of his most loyal diners, Nick Kokonas, would become his future business partner at Alinea.

Of course, it would be remiss not to mention that Kokonas himself authored a small portion of “Life, on the Line” — I would estimate about 10% or maybe 15% of the text. The shift in narrative is differentiated by a change in font, and although this approach may seem a little unorthodox, it works well. Kokonas’ narrative contributions begin midway through the book, and his passages not only provide insight into the business of launching and running a restaurant, but they also offer an added perspective of Achatz’s battle with cancer. It’s Kokonas whom Achatz claims saved his life, if only by encouraging him to see one more specialist who might offer an alternative to tongue and partial jaw removal (an operation which Achatz was totally unwilling to even consider). As it turns out, aggressive chemotherapy proved the only recourse to surgery, and amazingly (but perhaps not surprisingly), Achatz continued to work at Alinea well into his treatment.

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For me, the lure of reading “Life, on the Line” actually had little do with the life-and-death decisions and the existential dilemmas that pervade the latter half of the book. Instead, I’m always fascinated by the journey to culinary greatness, and how people get there. Since Achatz and I are practically the same age, it’s also interesting to compare years and milestones with a true professional (Achatz opened Alinea in 2004, roughly the same time that I began attending the CIA, very different trajectories). That being said, as proud as I am to have cooked in a handful of one-Michelin-star restaurants, I’m also keenly aware of my own limitations in the kitchen. Rest assured, I’ve long accepted the fact that I’ll never run a three-Michelin-star kitchen (nor will I ever play Carnegie Hall). In fact, I’d probably feel most fulfilled selling Southern-style comfort food from a catering truck — that’s just the way I am. But it’s still fascinating to see the other side, especially when the story proves compelling.

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Back then, “Kitchen Confidential” proved to be an inspiring call to action, and one of many factors that helped push me towards a career in food and wine. I finished the book in less than two days, as I remember just buzzing through the text, probably over the course of just three or four sittings. Subsequently, I did something that I never do, which was loan the book to someone else. I actually gave my copy to a server at Houston’s Santa Monica named (and I’m not making this up) Karma. I told him that when he was finished reading it, just to loan the book to someone else in the business. Ideally, I’d like to think that the book has changed many hands since then, but who knows? As a former English major, I usually go well out of my way to hoard books, but for some reason, I felt almost evangelical about this one. Or perhaps it was because I knew that I would soon be leaving Los Angeles, and one more book would just be one more thing to pack.

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My decision to revisit “Kitchen Confidential” occurred while I was at a barbecue last month, having spotted a dog-eared copy on a friend’s bookshelf. I was with all my new co-workers, on our first day off since I had started at Chandon, and after flipping through the text, I wanted to compare notes with my own experiences in the business, now that I was further along. Having borrowed the book and now finished it, I discovered that “Kitchen Confidential” struck me much differently on the second read. For one thing, the book is now laden with dramatic irony, especially whenever Bourdain mentions that he is forever entrenched in the restaurant business, or that he really wouldn’t have it any other way. By telling his story, and putting pen to paper, Bourdain had unwittingly reinvented himself. I certainly don’t blame the author for leaving the restaurant business, but it’s definitely poignant to read these former moments of happy resignation, now that Bourdain has stumbled upon fame and fortune elsewhere.

More than the irony, however, what really struck me about “Kitchen Confidential” was that it’s not nearly as universal as it once seemed. I think that when the book was first published, many people assumed that it represented the restaurant industry at large, when it was actually nothing more than the memoir of one (formerly) anonymous insider. I had chef-instructors at the CIA who dismissed the book for its gritty portrayal of the industry, and who refused to consider Bourdain a chef, even as he made guest appearances on campus. Although I do feel that “Kitchen Confidential” can often capture the spirit of the kitchen, I’ll also acknowledge that Bourdain’s own New York-centric tales from 30 years ago don’t really mesh with anything that I’ve experienced in California within the last 10 years. Of course, Bourdain does spin a good yarn, certainly, but the overall insight of “Kitchen Confidential” seems to have diminished for me, while the occasional hyperbole of story-telling seems to have become all the more glaring.

As it is, I’m not so sure that I can rally behind “Kitchen Confidential” as much as I once did, although I don’t want to knock the book, either. Perhaps it’s due to my own experience in the industry, but “Kitchen Confidential” seems to have become less of a curiosity than it once was. I now view it more as a “New York City” book, something very specific. That being said, I can still appreciate the way in which Bourdain wryly recounts his own personal journey, which is rife with drug use, shady characters, and mediocre employment. If nothing else, “Kitchen Confidential” is exactly as honest as it needs to be, as least as far as memoirs are concerned.

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