The Accidental Wino » Food Books

1961: “Gourmet’s Basic French Cookbook” by Louis Diat

The Accidental Wino — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 07:57:08 +0000

Truffled Capon.

Vintage food photography continues to fascinate me, especially the quaint-yet-complex aesthetics of 1960s-era French cookery. Within an historical context, the early 1960s proved to be a pivotal era for both French and American cuisine: In France, the death if Fernand Point in 1955 marked the passing of a legend, but at the same time, Point’s legacy and influence would become even more widespread, thanks to his impressive stable of proteges (among them, Alain Chapel, Georges Perrier, the Troisgros Brothers, and Paul Bocuse). Meanwhile, in the United States, Americans were slowly becoming aware of French cuisine in the early 1960s. Helping to foster this awakening, Craig Claiborne began his stint as the “New York Times” Food Editor in 1957, while Julia Child made her television debut in 1963.

As for “Gourmet” magazine, the now-defunct publication was just 20 years old when “Gourmet’s Basic French Cookbook” made its debut in 1961. I found a copy of this cookbook in Berkeley a few weeks ago, along with several other well-kept cookbooks from the same era (someone unloaded a pretty nice collection, apparently). It may seem difficult to believe that “Gourmet’s Basic French Cookbook” is already a half-century old today. Then again, the food styling is practically archaic (classic?) in its charm. Anyhow, please consider the following photos as your mental preparation for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast. Indulge!

Jambon Persillé an Gelée, or Parsleyed Ham in Aspic.

• • •

Seafood mousse.

• • •

Blanquette de Veau.

• • •

Côtes de Veau Braisées à la Chartres, or Braised Veal Chops with Gravy.

• • •

Homard Albert.

• • •

Il Flottante, also known as the Floating Island.

• • •

Baked Alaska.

Sharing is caring...

Vintage Cajun: “The Justin Wilson Cook Book” by Justin Wilson

The Accidental Wino — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 06:44:27 +0000

Being in my 30s — and not being a native of Louisiana — my first exposure to Justin Wilson was from a Ruffles commercial in the mid-1980s. For better or worse, that was also the first time that I’d ever heard the Cajun dialect, a quirky easygoing patois that now has many associations for me, having lived and cooked in New Orleans since then. During the same few years that Wilson was landing these national ad campaigns, his Louisiana-based cooking series began to appear on California public television stations, and Wilson himself began doing cooking demos on several morning talk shows. At least that’s how I remember it, growing up in Northern California.

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.

Sharing is caring...

“Cooking for Kings: The Life of Antonin Carême” by Ian Kelly

The Accidental Wino — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 10:43:58 +0000

The full title of Ian Kelly’s Antonin Carême biography is “Cooking for Kings: The Life of Antonin Careme, the First Celebrity Chef.” Frankly, I’m a bit wary of the term “celebrity chef,” especially in the era of the Food Network and its streak of made-for-TV paper tigers. Placing the word “celebrity” in front of the word “chef” almost seems to diminish the latter; I don’t consider Thomas Keller or Ferran Adria to be “celebrity chefs,” even though they’re both reasonably famous. To me, they’re just chefs — albeit great chefs — plain and simple. I suppose that the word “celebrity” almost seems self-serving in some way, which is really the opposite of a true chef’s character. Although it’s certainly important to build one’s “brand” these days — even with television appearances — the world’s greatest chefs never entered the kitchen with television deals in mind. Professional cooking, with all of its various demands, just doesn’t work like that.

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.

Sharing is caring...

Book Review: “Au Revoir to All That” by Michael Steinberger

The Accidental Wino — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 08:52:48 +0000

I suspect that in middle America — and perhaps anywhere else the Western world — most people would assume that the French have cemented their reputation as the world’s culinary avant garde. It’s certainly a fair assumption. Not only have the French enjoyed an enviable culinary tradition for the last two centuries, but Western pop culture has reinforced this idea again and again. The notion of sophisticated French cuisine has become an enduring cultural archetype both here and abroad, as seen recently in movies like 2007′s “Ratatouille,” or even going back 20 years prior, to the Danish film “Babette’s Feast.” Within the media, French cuisine has been portrayed as the Western standard for decades now, and pop culture has continued to reinforce this hierarchy. Even one of America’s earliest and greatest culinary icons, Julia Child, had deep roots in French cuisine.

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.

Sharing is caring...

Book Review: “Cooking: The Quintessential Art” by Herve This and Pierre Gagnaire

The Accidental Wino — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 19:59:14 +0000

“Cooking: The Quintessential Art” is an odd little book, but with noteworthy pedigree. Co-authors Herve This and Pierre Gagnaire have each earned their stripes in the culinary realm (the former, as a food chemist and one of the pioneers of molecular gastronomy; the latter, as a three-Michelin star chef and an innovator of fusion cuisine). As contemporaries, This and Gagniere have both forged unique careers by rethinking the basic elements of cuisine. In “The Quintessential Art,” the two authors delve into the very meaning of cooking, by analyzing the culinary arts through a surprisingly comprehensive philosophical lens. Replete with references ranging from Plato to Einstein, “The Quintessential Art” tackles the philosophy of cuisine in a chronological history, beginning with the Greeks and Romans, continuing into the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and the Enlightenment, and eventually tackling modern territory with folks like the Surrealists and the Bauhaus Movement. It’s awfully heady stuff, to say the least.

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.

Sharing is caring...

Book Review: “Life, on the Line” by Grant Achatz

The Accidental Wino — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 22:50:32 +0000

Although “Life, on the Line” is packaged as chef Grant Achatz’s culinary memoir, the crux of the book may actually be the existential question it poses: If a three-Michelin star chef loses his ability to taste, is life even worth living any longer? For most of us, this question may seem a bit melodramatic. After all, taste is just one of our five senses, and there certainly must be more to life than food and cooking. But then again, who are we to judge? The passion, the genius, and the dedication of a three-Michelin-star chef is simply beyond the grasp of most people, even among professional chefs. And if food cooked at the highest level can be considered art, then a chef’s sudden loss of taste would prove every bit as debilitating as a musician losing a hand or a painter losing his eyesight. For Achatz, who was diagnosed with stage IV tongue cancer in 2007, this existential crisis becomes painfully real.

• • •

“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.

• • •

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.

Sharing is caring...

Review: “Kitchen Confidential” by Anthony Bourdain, Revisited

The Accidental Wino — Wed, 18 May 2011 02:17:56 +0000

Although there are very few books that I’ve ever read more than once, I decided to re-read “Kitchen Confidential” this week, just to see how well the book has held up since I had first read it, almost 10 years ago. In this case, revisiting Anthony Bourdain’s 2000 best-seller seemed like a fitting exercise for me: I had just returned to the professional kitchen last month, after a three-year layoff selling wine at Nickel & Nickel. Naturally, with that much time away from the kitchen, I’ve come to view my current job at Étoile as a new beginning, and in many ways, cooking on the line these last four weeks has been almost like starting over, although the timing and the moves are quickly returning. Similarly, I had first read “Kitchen Confidential” back in 2002 when I really was starting over, at a time when I was first contemplating chef school, still reeling from the dot-com crash, and working my first job as a prep cook in Los Angeles.

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.

• • •

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.

Sharing is caring...

Book Review: “Everyday French Cooking” by Henri-Paul Pellaprat

The Accidental Wino — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 18:47:13 +0000

Lobster Russian Style: Garnished with hard-boiled eggs and black truffles, though the book allows black olives as a substitute for the latter.

I meant to snap some food pics from Berkeley and the East Bay this week, but my camera battery was drained. Among the missed opportunities: a grilled bockwurst from Top Dog, a falafel pita from Fa-La-La, and a plate of yellow curried rice from Bua Luang. On the upside, I did find several great used cookbooks at Pegasus Books, including “Everyday French Cooking” by Henri-Paul Pellaprat. Originally published in America in 1966, Pellaprat’s book is an obvious response to Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” which was first published in 1961. Much like Child’s seminal work, “Everyday French Cooking” aims to assist the American housewife, as the book states in its introduction (the book’s original French title is “Le Nouveau Guide Culinaire,” published in 1956, or perhaps even earlier).

As the author of “Everyday French Cooking,” Henri-Paul Pellaprat began his culinary career as an apprentice in 1881, before training under some of the greatest chefs of Belle Epoque France. After his stint in the professional kitchen, Pellaprat spent nearly 40 years teaching at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris (some also credit Pellaprat as the founder of the culinary school, although I’m not so sure). Once retired, Pellaprat turned his attention to writing in 1932, and is perhaps best known for his comprehensive “L’Art Culinaire Moderne,” which was originally published in 1935. As a friend and contemporary of Auguste Escoffier, Pellaprat is considered one of the fathers of modern French cuisine, and “Everyday French Cooking” — though lesser in scope than some of Pellaprat’s other works — remains a valuable classical resource.

What I enjoy about the 1968 edition of “Everyday French Cooking” is the photography. Of course, it’s not great by modern standards, but technical merits aside, I appreciate the old school composition of the dishes. For me, it’s a trip back in time, and it’s interesting to consider how culinary aesthetics have continued to evolve over the last half-century.

Fried Trout a la Meuniere: Will curly-leaf parsley ever come back?

• • •

Glazed Pork Chop: Garnished with parsley potatoes, grilled tomatoes and English peas.

• • •

Tournedos Chateau Figeac: Garnished with mushroom caps on the steaks, boiled carrots, and artichoke bottoms topped with asparagus tips.

• • •

Frosted Genoise: Garnished with candied oranges and cherries.

Sharing is caring...

Book Review: “A Revolution in Taste: The Rise of French Cuisine” by Susan Pinkard

The Accidental Wino — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 07:56:25 +0000

If footnotes indicate anything, I’d argue that Susan Pinkard’s “A Revolution in Taste” is perhaps the best-researched text available on French culinary history. Pinkard has clearly done her homework, and her book is both comprehensive and concise, and for me, it represents one of the great recent surveys of food and culture. Published in 2009, “A Revolution in Taste” may prove a bit scholarly for the casual gourmet, but for the student of Western cuisine, the book offers an approachable and well-documented account of the culinary trends that evolved from the Greco-Roman Era to the French Revolution. Along the way, Pinkard explains how medicine, exploration, philosophy, and an ever-changing social climate helped to forever transform the way people eat. My one criticism with the book, though it may be slightly unfair, is that I wish Pinkard had pressed further into the 19th and 20th centuries. I do understand that, in terms of ingredients and techniques, French cuisine has not changed nearly as dramatically over the last 200 years as it had previously, but at the same time, it also seems somehow remiss to stop short of Auguste Escoffier (1846-1935), who continued to improve and perfect the modern professional kitchen. Then again, with a book this well researched, I suppose it’s always natural to wish for more.

Sharing is caring...

Review: “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles” by Jennifer 8. Lee

The Accidental Wino — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 08:39:33 +0000

What most Americans would recognize as “Chinese food” is far more likely to be Chinese-American, than anything truly Chinese. That said, it may seem surprising that there’s no chop suey or General Tso’s chicken in China, at least not as we know them. The staunch food-snob might label these Americanized dishes as a bastardization of the original form, although I feel that “bastardization” is much too strong of a term. Okay, if the food is served from a steam-table, then it probably is a bastardization. But whether it’s a buffet set-up or not, mom-and-pop Chinese restaurants outnumber McDonald’s franchises by two to one in this country, and for me, Chinese-American cookery falls under the jurisdiction of “comfort food,” rendering the notion of “authenticity” a totally moot point (the craving for “authenticity” is cerebral, while the craving for “comfort” is much more primal — the primal craving will always win out).

• • •

Authored by Jennifer 8. Lee, “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles” reveals the murky origins of Chinese-American cuisine, as viewed through the puzzling history of the fortune cookie itself. Granted, I spent most of 2010 fixated on eating local Asian cuisine, but for me, Lee’s book represents one of the most compelling food histories that I’ve read this year, hands down. The origins and the evolution of Chinese-American cookery is inextricably tied to politics, war, and some of America’s darkest moments, including the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and the Japanese internment camps of World War II. Of course, in the case of America’s Chinese food, the politics of culture transcends American shores, and China’s own political machine has created a lasting ripple effect on America’s Chinese restaurants, even today.

In her book, Lee unravels the history of Chinese-American cuisine with considerable research and legwork, and for me, “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles” is a must-read for anyone who is interested in the politics and the culture of food. As it turns out, fortune cookies finds their roots in Japan (as tsujiura senbei), but they only first became a cultural phenomenon in California during World War II, then spreading eastward across America within a few short years. However, for the thousands of Chinese restaurant workers who’ve completed the dangerous journey to America, the trip from China often took just as long, and sometimes longer. “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles” recounts the 1993 shipwreck of the Golden Venture, the highly-publicized human-smuggling operation that crashed onto New York’s Rockaway Beach after 112 days at sea.

Although political and social discussions give “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles” an intelligent spin, for the most part, Lee explores the more light-hearted facets of Chinese-American culture: Things like the iconic, white-cardboard, take-out box or the ubiquitous soy sauce packet, which can typically be found in most American kitchens (sequestered in a drawer alongside the silverware, usually). With a commendably thorough approach to her subject, Lee uncovers food-related topics that are varied, yet interesting, with no filler to slow the overall pace of the narrative.

Sharing is caring...