Mincemeat Read online

  Copyright © 2016, Garzanti S.r.L., Milano

  Gruppo editoriale Mauri Spagnol

  Originally published in Italian as Carne Trita

  by Garzanti Libri in 2016.

  Translation copyright © 2016, Other Press

  Production editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas

  Text designer: Julie Fry

  This book was set in Scala Pro and Trade Gothic by

  Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 267 Fifth Avenue, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site: www.​other​press.​com

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PRINTED EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Names: Lucarelli, Leonardo, 1977– author.

  Title: Mincemeat : the education of an Italian chef / Leonardo Lucarelli ; translated from the Italian by Lorena Rossi Gori and Danielle Rossi.

  Other titles: Carne trita. English

  Description: New York : Other Press, [2016] | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016017889 (print) | LCCN 2016017657 (ebook) | ISBN 9781590517925 (ebook) | ISBN 9781590517918 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Lucarelli, Leonardo, 1977– | Cooks—Italy—Biography. | Restaurateurs—Italy—Biography.

  Classification: LCC TX649.L84 (print) | LCC TX649.L84 A3 2016 (ebook) | DDC 641.5092 [B]—dc23

  LC record available at https://​lccn.​loc.​gov/​2016017889

  Publisher’s Note: Although the events described in this memoir are true, the names and identifying characteristics of some people and places have been changed.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-59051-792-5

  v3.1

  for Giuli

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28.

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 34.

  Chapter 35.

  Chapter 36.

  Chapter 37.

  Chapter 38.

  Chapter 39.

  Chapter 40.

  Chapter 41.

  Chapter 42.

  Chapter 43.

  Chapter 44.

  Chapter 45.

  About the Author

  Other Press

  If you put aside those prodigious, singular moments that destiny gives us, love of one’s work (a privilege enjoyed, unfortunately, only by a few) is the best, most concrete approximation of happiness on earth — but most people don’t realize this.

  Primo Levi, The Monkey’s Wrench

  You start working in a kitchen because you stumble into it. Because when you were growing up, you would get home after school and you were alone or, at most, it was you and your kid brother. Because at some point you thought you knew how to cook. And when you saw someone working in a kitchen you thought that he was some modern-day hero, a daredevil, a sultan, or an impostor, and if an impostor can cook, then so can you.

  You start working in a kitchen because when you’re a cash-strapped student, nothing could be easier than slaving away in a restaurant, and since kowtowing to spoiled customers isn’t your thing, it’s way better being a cook than a waiter. Because you want to grow your hair and a beard, and cooks are junkies and alcoholics and womanizers and artists. Because Orwell worked in a kitchen, and even if you can’t imagine yourself as the next Gordon Ramsay, you can still dream of being the next George Orwell. Because there comes a time when it seems all too easy, before it becomes insurmountably difficult, but then it slips back into easy again. Because at twenty you crave a job to call your own, and it’s not too hard to get one in a kitchen.

  You start working in a kitchen because you couldn’t get it across to your mother that you really wanted to do something else, but more than that, you couldn’t explain it to yourself. Because you came across some cooks with a heart, and at first, cash in hand is easier to deal with than a regular job — but then again, who in their right mind would ever give you a regular job? And you like being able to quit at the drop of a hat knowing that there’s another job just across the piazza. Because deep down you like to keep saying you’ll quit this shitty job for good, but then you never do, because you can’t, and opportunity doesn’t come knocking at your door all that often. Because food nourishes you, but it also makes you happy.

  You start working in a kitchen because every restaurant is a world unto itself and the chef is always at the top of the heap and if a cute girl is out to fuck someone, she’ll start at the top.

  Because for you cooking is an act of love, but you don’t give a shit about love. And if someone like Joe Bastianich can make money, then so can you. Because you know there are lots of jobs behind the kitchen door. And you are genuinely convinced that every man, woman, and kid should know how to cook.

  Because you like to lean out over the edge and survey the scene below.

  You start working in a kitchen because you’re good at it. Because you get a kick out of pulling rank. And kitchens still let you start from the bottom and sweat your way up the pecking order. Because creative jobs usually call for expensive schools and expensive equipment. And everyone knows that the greatest chefs are the ones who have washed mountains of dirty dishes and that MasterChef is a scam. Because you like being an artisan of your craft.

  Because once you discover the power of food, you just can’t give it up, not even when the shattered shards of your life are being hurled all over the place.

  Because being a chef is an alibi. And cooking is like telling a story or writing a book and you think you have tons of things to say.

  Because deep down you feel like a loser, but you’re the prince of losers. And maybe, just maybe, everyone feels like that, at first.

  You start working in a kitchen because you can tell tall tales about what you do. Because while others might work in a kitchen to pass time, you’d do anything else to pass the time away from the kitchen. Because making a living by cooking makes you feel important. And there’s something irresistible about working at night. Because you like having the keys to the restaurant and suppliers on speed dial.

  You start working in a kitchen because a chef’s wages are still pretty decent, all things considered.

  You start working in a kitchen because you’ve never minded teetering on the edge of legality; otherwise you’d be an architect or a doctor. But you’ve never had the doggedness and dedication to be an architect, or a doctor, or anything else, for that matter. Because food never lies but everything else conn
ected to it does. Because you like being a bullshit artist, yet in all that heat and sweat and shouting you learn to understand people, and kitchens breed friendships with people you’d never talk to otherwise and probably won’t, if you come across them anywhere other than a kitchen.

  Because professional chefs are the only ones left who are passing on traditions. And you enjoy handling tons of meat, you love the smell of cold rooms and porcini mushrooms and fresh fish arriving at the crack of dawn and the moist panties of waitresses at the end of the day.

  Because outside the kitchen you are a misfit and you know you’d be torn to shreds. And you can be called a chef without knowing how to cook all that well, and you can earn the respect of your coworkers even if you are a son of a bitch. And your grandma used to say that undertakers and cooks will never be out of work, and even though you think she’s just a little old lady thinking little old lady thoughts, at the end of the day she’s telling it exactly how it is.

  Because if you didn’t cook, you wouldn’t know where to put that stomach-churningly dangerous desire to settle a score with the world. Because in reality you have always, always gotten a kick out of discovering new flavors. And when you’re filling people’s bellies, they adore you.

  Because it’s tough feeling lonely on your own; it’s easier when everyone else is lonely too. And it never occurs to you to work as an undertaker and no one’s ever asked you to dig a grave. And the flabbergasted looks you get when you julienne something in a matter of seconds make you cocky. And you’ve always loved knives anyway, and what else is there for jerks and rejects like you? Because you are scared of just drifting and never amounting to anything. But if you’re cooking, nothing else matters. Because before you went to work in a kitchen you thought you weren’t worth much, and maybe you still aren’t, but nobody seems to have noticed. And it’s soothing to be surrounded by order when there’s no order inside you. Because there are plenty of people you should have told to fuck off and now you can.

  The truth is that sometimes there is no alternative but to run, because food is both a divine precept and a mortal sin. And when they told you that entering a restaurant kitchen was like feeding yourself into a meat mincer, you replied that mincers transform scraps into great food.

  You start working in a kitchen because it’s just another job.

  You start working in a kitchen because you think it will make all your dreams come true.

  You start working in a kitchen because one day the orders, the diners, the waitstaff, the raging chef — they come down on you like a ton of bricks, leaving you gasping, overwhelmed. But you get back up dazed and exhausted, and something in your head asks: Do you really want to be a chef? You never thought this was a question you’d ask yourself, and when you answer “Yes,” you don’t even realize you’ve said it.

  You start working in a kitchen because you have to start somewhere.

  You start working in a kitchen because you’re not thinking straight.

  1.

  The walls are all far away except for the one right in front of me. I’m wearing whites at least two sizes too big, instead of the usual blacks with my name embroidered in dark red over the left pocket: Leonardo Lucarelli. There’s nothing written on this uniform, I’m only a cook in a vast, anonymous commercial kitchen, puffing and panting, yelling and getting frazzled. All around me people are dashing about, blabbering in some thick dialect. I don’t understand a word. I know I’m in a kitchen in Thiene, up north in the Veneto region of Italy. The restaurant is packed. Orders are shooting out from the printer in front of me at such a rate that I can barely tear off and pin up the tickets. They’re getting all scrunched up, falling to the ground like streamers, and in the end there’s just a long strip of dishes I should already have prepped and loaded on the pass, bellowing “Go!” Instead, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s unbearably hot. The kitchen is too big. The uniform is too loose. The tickets are coming in too fast. Everything is wrong. I’m in the wrong place. I don’t like these people and they don’t like me, but the thing is that I can’t move my hands, get into the groove, utter a word. The chef arrives (I’m trying to remember — what’s his name?) and tells me what to do but I don’t understand him. I should know what to do. But I don’t and I can’t understand what he’s saying. So I move out of his way. I see hands opening and closing the oven, drizzling reductions and sauces over dishes. I see a perfect assembly line, timers going off, crockery clinking, a full pass, servers sprinting. I see the Nigerian dishwasher, Sofia, swamped under a heap of filthy pots and dishes. Hers is the only face I recognize. Her slop sink is tiny and I ask myself how she can possibly get everything washed in that woefully cramped space. She doesn’t look at me, she’s too busy. I return to my station, determined to pull myself together. I’m back in the game now, I understand what I have to do. Can I still save the evening? By now, we’re up to our necks in shit. And when you’re struggling to keep your head above the shit, there’s nothing you can do about it, the night is ruined. You work your knuckles to the bone and your only reward is frustration. You hope it will all end soon and that the machine on the counter will stop spitting out tickets and the waiters will stop yelling: Get a move on with table 36! Rush table 15 to the front of the line but without the lobster, the lady doesn’t want it now! Five walkins, no reservation. Fire the appetizers! I turn around and take a step back. If I’m no use at my station, the least I can do is give Sofia a hand.

  I move toward the sink and start emptying and refilling the dishwasher, but there are too many plates, I can’t cope. Sofia sighs and rinses, and says, “Be careful!” while I grab another stack of plates. Maybe I can do something useful, put the dishes away and make space for others. Make space, leave space, take space: A kitchen is a bit like a video game, and I’m wondering if I’ll ever advance to the next level. The stack of plates sways perilously and crashes to the floor, smashed to pieces. It literally explodes. Everything stops. Time is a bubble and Earth is galaxies away from here. For a fraction of a second there is absolute stillness and silence. The dishwasher is the only thing that doesn’t react to the crash and continues sloshing away. Sofia covers her gaping mouth with both wet hands, scared they’ll take it out on her. I raise my arm and immediately shout out, “It’s my fault, I picked up too many plates at once, it’s all my fault.”

  That’s what happens in a commercial kitchen: If you screw up, if you forget something, and above all, if someone is about to get the rap over something you did, you’ve got to own up immediately. But if you are blamed for someone else’s screwup and that person doesn’t speak up, you must not rat them out. In a kitchen, rot, like denatured protein in a good piece of boiled meat, rises to the surface immediately. There’s no faking it. You can sweet-talk other people, fool people outside the kitchen (with them you have to, it’s the other unwritten law), but not your kitchen buddies.

  In a flash, I feel the adrenaline surging to my temples, my heartbeat quickens, my mouth dries up, and I shriek like a wounded animal in a forest of glass shards. Flushed, the veins in my neck bulging, I have no idea what I am screaming. I hear the words only after they have left my mouth. I scream at the chef and at all those freaking frustrated hypocritical brownnosers. I scream at Sofia too, who should know how to stand up for herself but doesn’t. I keep screaming and start waving my arms about, angrily, incoherently. I scream and flail as if in the throes of some bizarre exorcism. But inside, my thoughts are calm, deliberate, tuned to the soft sloshing of the dishwasher. This is no way to behave, what the hell am I doing? This is so wrong. In the meantime I hurl a plate at the wall. Open and slam the oven door a few times. You have to buckle down, I tell myself, show them the stuff you’re made of. I throw a punch at the fridge. Then I open it and start flinging its contents onto the floor. Thoughts course through my brain: I will not let them screw with me, I will show them I can rise above everything and deal with whatever comes my way. I stomp on milk cartons, showering the kitchen in white rain. I have come
out on top, I win, I am the best, I have nerves of steel. A slab of beef slams against the door separating us from the dining room. Because if it weren’t for me in here, everything would just hit the fan. I throw pans on the floor and thump the exhaust hood. Because, I’m thinking, you’re the only one who can keep his cool after slaving over a hot flattop for ten hours, the only one who can find a solution — a quick one — to unforeseen calamities. Now I start taking my clothes off. I’m screaming, tossing everything to the floor, slapping the air around me. I peel off the white jacket that is way too big for me, popping the buttons. But my thoughts are calm. I am the Incredible Hulk on weed. I’m thinking, if you can’t be convincing, at least bamboozle them. So now I’m grabbing the chef’s head and pushing it in the sink, thinking, this is the only way people will recognize who’s the boss, the alpha male in the kitchen, whether or not you really are. Now I’m kicking the fat pastry chef’s ass. It’s not enough to be hired as the chef; you have to be acknowledged as one by your peers. Otherwise, there’s absolutely no point. My mind is calm. Now I go to the sink and turn the hose on everyone in sight, soaking them. I’m screaming, throwing punches, nearly naked. But inside I’m completely serene. I’m thinking, a crew that doesn’t look up to you and respect you when things fall apart will turn against you, and you will sink to the bottom of the heap because a leader alone is nothing but a man alone. Now I start sobbing, screaming that they all make me sick, that this is no way to work, that I don’t give a shit about the restaurant, about Rotzo potatoes or Borso del Grappa peas, that they can all go to hell. I am the Incredible Hulk when he was a little boy and lost his way home. I’m weeping. Exhausted. Enough already.

  I open my eyes suddenly, and it’s dark. It takes me a few seconds to collect my thoughts and realize I’m in bed. I swallow hard. My throat is parched. I hear the central heating pumping hot water through the radiator. Someone is snoring. I’m covered in sweat but I’m shivering. My pillow is on the floor. I start by whispering my name: Leonardo Lucarelli. I say it again. And yes, I am a chef. Height five foot seven, weight 160 pounds, and I’ve never bitten my nails.