Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain

Forewords & Introductions

When I wrote Kitchen Confidential, I was still working the line. I'd get up at 5 or 6 in the morning, light up a smoke, and start typing. I'd try to get in a couple of hours at the computer, then I'd drag a razor across my face, hail a cab and go straight to work. Usually, I'd work the saut&#eacute; station for lunch, do my orders in the afternoon, then hang around until nine or ten expediting. The chapter, Day In The Life is a pretty accurate representation of a typical Friday for me at that time.

So I didn't have time to craft artful lies and evasions even if I'd wanted to. I wasn't intending to write an expos&#eacute;, didn't want to "rip the lid off the restaurant business" and frankly couldn't have cared less about recycled bread or the whole "fish on Monday" thing. I was not -- and am not -- an advocate for change in the restaurant business. I like the business just the way it is. What I set out to do was write a book that my fellow cooks and restaurant lifers would find entertaining and true. I wanted it to sound like me talking, at say..ten P.M. on a Saturday night, after a busy dinner rush, me and a few cooks hanging around the kitchen, knocking back a few beers and talking shit. You will notice that the tone of the book is blustery, that there is rather more than a little testosterone on the page, that I make the occasional sweeping generalization. That was entirely intentional. Chefs, on occasion, are guilty of such things. I had no expectation that anyone -- other than a few burnt-out line cooks, curious chefs and tormented loners would ever read the thing.

Those who did read the book, I was determined, would not be saying, "This is bogus, mann..!" I did not want my colleagues wondering "What cooks talk like this? This is bullshit! Who is this fucking guy?" I wanted to write in Kitchenese, the secret language of cooks, instantly recognizable to anyone who has ever dunked french fries for a summer job, or suffered under the despotic rule of a tyrannical chef or boobish owner. I wanted my little memoir/rant to reflect the somewhat claustrophobic world-view of the professional cook -- that slightly paranoid, fiercely territorial mix of pride and resignation which allows so many of us to get up every morning and do the things we do. I did, to be honest, understand that there would be members of the general public upset by some of the things I talked about. The adversarial way we cooks tend to look at the civilians who fill our dining rooms, if desribed honestly, was bound to cause unhappiness - and a lot of people would rather not talk about some of the corner-cutting and "merchandising" so many of us have seen on our way up and way down the greasy pole. I just didn't care. I even liked the idea -- of goosing the general public a little. I hadn't really written the book for them anyway. This book was for cooks. Professional cooks.

The new celebrity chef culture is a remarkable and admittedly annoying phenomenon. While it's been nothing but good for business -- and for me personally, many of us in the life can't help snickering about it. Of all the professions, after all, few people are less suited to be suddenly be thrown into the public eye than chefs. We're used to doing what we do in private, behind closed doors. We're used to using language that many would find..well...offensive, to say the least. We probably got in the business in the first place because interacting with normal people in a normal workspace was impossible or unattractive to us. Many of us don't know how to behave in public -- and don't care to find out. Fans of our many TV chefs, and the multitudes of people identified as "foodies" have come to believe, it appears, that chefs are adorable, cuddly creatures who wear spotless white uniforms and are all too happy to give them a taste of whatever they're whipping up at the time. The truth, as professionals well know, us somewhat different. What's been lost in all this food-crazy, chef and restaurant-obsessed nonsense is that cooking is hard -- that the daily demands of turning out the same plates the same way over and over and over again require skills other than -- and less telegenic than -- catch-phrases and a talent for schmoozing.

"What has reaction been from your peers?" was the most asked question in the flurry of media attention that followed the publication of this book "Benedict Arnold! Alger Hiss" shrieked some writers. So-called "restaurant insiders" and "foodies" were said to be outraged. The truth? I have never had so many free meals and free drinks come my way in my life. Chefs who only a few months earlier I would not have considered myself worthy of laundering their socks, greeted me warmly, insisted on dragging me in to their kitchens to commiserate with their staffs. On book tour -- all over the US and United Kingdom -- in Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Miami, Philly, DC, Boston -- in London, Glasgow, rural Bristol, Manchester, and elsewhere -- chefs and cooks would turn out for signings to say hello, share stories, lure me away to buy drinks. After too many meals on planes or out of hotel mini-bars (the book tour diet), I'd slip off to a restaurant in a strange city, sit down at the bar, order a beer and an appetizer - and strange and wonderful things would happen; amuse geules would appear, one course after another, appropriate glasses of wine, little tastes of cheese, desserts. I'd look over towards the kitchen, and some wise-ass cook - a total stranger would be giving me the thumbs-up from behind the kitchen door. Slophouses and temples of haute cuisine alike -- both here and abroad -- I'd see the same expressions on cooks' faces -- that wary, cynical, expect-the-worst-and-you'll-never-be-disappointed look so familiar to so many of us.

Yet, all of them were friendly.

And there were moments of real irony and wonder: One day, in my kitchen at Les Halles, the phone rang and some French guy is talking to me, inviting me up to his restaurant to meet, talk, have a little lunch. "Who is this?" I inquired. " It's Eric Ripert," the voice said. My knees turned to custard. This was like -- like...Joe Di Maggio calling up to say "Let's throw the ball around the back yard together, sport." Things were different, boy...I could see that now -- I got my heroes calling me up. Andre Soltner, funnily enough, after my assertion that he would most definitely not be inviting me on any ski weekends, in fact did invite me skiing. (Babe Ruth on line one!). Bob Kinkead, in spite of my egregiously misspelling his name in the hardback edition, was wonderful to me as soon as I wandered into his restaurant, and plied me with spectacular food. Norman Van Aken came calling, congratulated me and shared some stories of his own early years in the Wilderness. (He also asked me nicely to lay off his pal Emeril -- who, he informed me, is actually a very sweet, soft spoken guy who can actually cook). Gary Danko fed me for free. I don't think he'd read the book, but his cooks, a particularly piratical mob of pierced and scarred hooligans, seemed to like the book -- so he extended me great courtesy. Chefs with whom I'd thought I'd had nothing in common showed me there is indeed a shared mindset, an appreciation of the dark and adrenelin-jacked culture we all share.

I found myself the poster boy for bad behavior in the kitchen.

I'm asked a lot what the best thing about cooking for a living is. And it's this: To be a part of a subculture. To be part of a historical continuum, a secret society with its own language and customs. To enjoy the instant gratification of making something good with one's hands -- using all one's senses. It can be, at times, the purest and most unselfish way of giving pleasure (though oral sex has to be a close second).

Things are different now. I've changed. I've had to. I've learned, God help me, to behave -- for somewhat more extended periods of time than I'm used to. I can speak in sound bites when called upon to do so. I know what "back-end" and "points" refer to -- kind of. I have health insurance for the first time in my life. I'm actually current on my rent. And sadly, I work much, much less in my beloved kitchen at Les Halles. If I've betrayed anybody in my profession -- it's my cooks, who I feel I've abandoned as I swan around the world flogging my books on television. For a while, it looked like my tiny kitchen was going to be the most photographed part of America -behind Dealey Plaza. Angel, my garde-manger briefly considered getting a publicist, and Manuel, the fry guy, can now light a room, ("Try the peenk gel chef!") and every cook in my kitchen knows just when to suck in their gut for the camera. I'm the chef I always hated as a cook, always coming from or going to someplace else. My hands -- which I'm so proud of in the final pages of the book--are soft and lovely now--like a little baby girl's.

I suck.

I comfort myself that I was reaching the end of my usefulness as a line cook anyway. Too old, my knees getting bad from all those knee-bends into the low-boys, my expediting abilities diminished with age and the ravages of alcohol. They were going to be hauling me off to the glue factory anyway one of these days, I like to tell myself. Where the old chefs go. (What happens to old chefs anyway? Where do they go? I always imagined a scenario like in Goodfellas, you know--"Tony, you sit in the front seat there. Good. Let Steven sit in the back." Then BOOM! Two behind the ear. No such luck. Old chefs sell out. Or they die.)

Fortunately, the important people in my life have been completely unimpressed by swinging new Hefneresque vida loca, . " Hey, baby! I'm on CNN tonight! I'm a best-selling motherfuckin' author!" I'll tell my wife, who inevitably responds, " Yeah yeah yeah. What's on CourtTV?" Steven will call from Florida after yet another segment showing me grimacing at the camera and warning the dining public about the dangers of brunch. "You are soooo gay," he'll say. "You suck, dude." Then he'll turn up the volume on some fucking Billy Joel or Elton John song he's got on the radio -- just cause he knows how much I hate that shit.

Easily, the happiest development to come from all of this unexpected notoriety is the cooks I've been able to meet. The recognition that this thing of ours is worldwide -- that the outlaw spirit survives -- even in the kitchens of the best of chefs -- that somewhere, in the darkest part of their hearts, all cooks know how different they are from everybody else, and relish their apartness.

This book was a nice-sized score for me, after a long life living hand-to-mouth, bouncing around from restaurant to restaurant, hustling a living, any hopes of ataining the peaks of Culinary Olympus long abandoned. "Nice to see one of the home team win one," said a cook in Boston. The only people who seem to really hate me for this book are the folks who write articles on mayonnaise and "fun with french fries" for a living -- and of course vegetarians -- but they don't get enough animal protein to get really angry. Chefs and cooks -- even waitrons have been wonderful. I'd forgotten when I wrote this thing, how many people work in the restaurant business -- and as signifigantly, how many have at one time or another worked in the business. And whether they're now sitting behind a desk or piloting their own Lear jet, many of them apparently miss it. It was the last time they could say what they wanted in the workplace. The last time they could behave like savages, go home feeling proud and tired at the same time. The last time they could fuck somebody in the linen closet and have it not mean anything too serious. or stay out all night and wake up on the floor. The last time they found themselves close with people from every corner of the world, of every race, proclivity, religion and background. The restaurant business is perhaps, the last meritocracy -- where what we do is all that matters. I'm not even out of the life and I miss it already. I think I'll swing by Les Halles and do a little expediting. I feel safe there.

This is for the cooks.

November 20, 2000 New York City

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I saw a sign the other day outside one of those Chinese-Japanese hybrids that are beginning to pop up around town, advertising 'Discount Sushi'. I can't imagine a better example of Things To Be Wary Of in the food department than bargain sushi. Yet the place had customers. I wonder, had the sign said 'Cheap Sushi' or 'Old Sushi', if they'd still have eaten there.

Good food and good eating are about risk. Every once in a while an oyster, for instance, will make you sick to your stomach. Does this mean you should stop eating oysters? No way. The more exotic the food, the more adventurous the serious eater, the higher the likelihood of later discomfort. I'm not going to deny myself the pleasures of morcilla sausage, or sashimi, or even ropa vieja at the local Cuban joint just because sometimes I feel bad a few hours after I've eaten them.

But there are some general principles I adhere to, things I've seen over the years that remain in mind and have altered my eating habits. I may be perfectly willing to try the grilled lobster at an open-air barbecue shack in the Caribbean, where the refrigeration is dubious and I can see with my own eyes the flies buzzing around the grill (I mean, how often am I in the Caribbean? I want to make the most of it!), but on home turf, with the daily business of eating in restaurants, there are some definite dos and don'ts I've chosen to live by.

I never order fish on Monday, unless I'm eating at Le Bernardin -- a four-star restaurant where I know they are buying their fish directly from the source. I know how old most seafood is on Monday -- about four to five days old!

You walk into a nice two-star place in Tribeca on a sleepy Monday evening and you see they're running a delicious sounding special of Yellowfin Tuna, Braised Fennel, Confit Tomatoes and a Saffron Sauce. Why not go for it? Here are the two words that should leap out at you when you navigate the menu: 'Monday' and 'Special ' .

Here's how it works: the chef of this fine restaurant orders his fish on Thursday for delivery Friday morning. He's ordering a pretty good amount of it, too, as he's not getting another delivery until Monday morning. All right, some seafood purveyors make Saturday deliveries, but the market is closed Friday night. It's the same fish from Thursday! The chef is hoping to sell the bulk of that fish -- your tuna -- on Friday and Saturday nights, when he assumes it will be busy. He's assuming also that if he has a little left on Sunday, he can unload the rest of it then, as seafood salad for brunch, or as a special. Monday? It's merchandizing night, when whatever is left over from the weekend is used up, and hopefully sold for money. Terrible, you say? Why doesn't he throw the leftover tuna out? The guy can get deliveries on Monday, right? Sure, he can .�.�. but what is preventing his seafood purveyor from thinking exactly the same way? The seafood vendor is emptying out his refrigerator, too! But the Fulton Street fish market is open on Monday morning, you say!! He can get fresh! I've been to the Fulton Street market at three o'clock on Monday morning, friends, and believe me, it does not inspire confidence. Chances are good that that tuna you're thinking of ordering on Monday night has been kicking around in the restaurant's reach-ins, already cut and held with the mise-en-place on line, commingling with the chicken and the salmon and the lamb chops for four days, the reach-in doors swinging open every few seconds as the line cooks plunge their fists in, blindly feeling around for what they need. These are not optimum refrigeration conditions.

This is why you don't see a lot of codfish or other perishable items as a Sunday or Monday night special -- they're not sturdy enough. The chef knows. He anticipates the likelihood that he might still have some fish lying around on Monday morning -- and he'd like to get money for it without poisoning his customers.

Seafood is a tricky business. Red snapper may only cost a chef $4.95 a pound, but that price includes the bones, the head, the scales and all the stuff that gets cut and thrown away. By the time it's cut, the actual cost of each piece of cleaned fillet costs the chef more than twice that amount, and he'd greatly prefer to sell it than toss it in the garbage. If it still smells okay on Monday night -- you're eating it.

I don't eat mussels in restaurants unless I know the chef personally, or have seen, with my own eyes, how they store and hold their mussels for service. I love mussels. But in my experience, most cooks are less than scrupulous in their handling of them. More often than not, mussels are allowed to wallow in their own foul-smelling piss in the bottom of a reach-in. Some restaurants, I'm sure, have special containers, with convenient slotted bins, which allow the mussels to drain while being held -- and maybe, just maybe, the cooks at these places pick carefully through every order, mussel by mussel, making sure that every one is healthy and alive before throwing them into a pot. I haven't worked in too many places like that. Mussels are too easy. Line cooks consider mussels a gift; they take two minutes to cook, a few seconds to dump in a bowl, and ba-da-bing, one more customer taken care of -- now they can concentrate on slicing the damn duck breast. I have had, at a very good Paris brasserie, the misfortune to eat a single bad mussel, one treacherous little guy hidden among an otherwise impeccable group. It slammed me shut like a book, sent me crawling to the bathroom shitting like a mink, clutching my stomach and projectile vomiting. I prayed that night. For many hours. And, as you might assume, I'm the worst kind of atheist. Fortunately, the French have liberal policies on doctor's house calls and affordable health care. But I do not care to repeat that experience. No thank you on the mussels. If I'm hungry for mussels, I'll pick the good-looking ones out of your order.

How about seafood on Sunday? Well .�.�. sometimes, but never an obvious attempt to offload aging stuff, like seafood salad vinaigrette or seafood frittata, on a brunch menu. Brunch menus are an open invitation to the cost-conscious chef, a dumping ground for the odd bits left over from Friday and Saturday nights or for the scraps generated in the normal course of business. You see a fish that would be much better served by quick grilling with a slice of lemon, suddenly all dressed up with vinaigrette? For 'en vinaigrette' on the menu, read 'preserved' or 'disguised'.

While we're on brunch, how about hollandaise sauce? Not for me. Bacteria love hollandaise. And hollandaise, that delicate emulsion of egg yolks and clarified butter, must be held at a temperature not too hot nor too cold, lest it break when spooned over your poached eggs. Unfortunately, this lukewarm holding temperature is also the favorite environment for bacteria to copulate and reproduce in. Nobody I know has ever made hollandaise to order. Most likely, the stuff on your eggs was made hours ago and held on station. Equally disturbing is the likelihood that the butter used in the hollandaise is melted table butter, heated, clarified, and strained to get out all the breadcrumbs and cigarette butts. Butter is expensive, you know. Hollandaise is a veritable petri-dish of biohazards. And how long has that Canadian bacon been festering in the walk-in anyway? Remember, brunch is only served once a week -- on the weekends. Buzzword here, 'Brunch Menu'. Translation? 'Old, nasty odds and ends, and 12 dollars for two eggs with a free Bloody Mary'. One other point about brunch. Cooks hate brunch. A wise chef will deploy his best line cooks on Friday and Saturday nights; he'll be reluctant to schedule those same cooks early Sunday morning, especially since they probably went out after work Saturday and got hammered until the wee hours. Worse, brunch is demoralizing to the serious line cook. Nothing makes an aspiring Escoffier feel more like an army commissary cook, or Mel from Mel's Diner, than having to slop out eggs over bacon and eggs Benedict for the Sunday brunch crowd. Brunch is punishment block for the 'B'-Team cooks, or where the farm team of recent dishwashers learn their chops. Most chefs are off on Sundays, too, so supervision is at a minimum. Consider that before ordering the seafood frittata.

I will eat bread in restaurants. Even if I know it's probably been recycled off someone else's table. The reuse of bread is an industry-wide practice. I saw a recent news expose¨, hidden camera and all, where the anchor was shocked .�.�. shocked to see unused bread returned to the kitchen and then sent right back onto the floor. Bullshit. I'm sure that some restaurants explicitly instruct their Bengali busboys to throw out all that unused bread -- which amounts to about 50 percent -- and maybe some places actually do it. But when it's busy, and the busboy is crumbing tables, emptying ashtrays, refilling water glasses, making espresso and cappuccino, hustling dirty dishes to the dishwasher -- and he sees a basket full of untouched bread -- most times he's going to use it. This is a fact of life. This doesn't bother me, and shouldn't surprise you. Okay, maybe once in a while some tubercular hillbilly has been coughing and spraying in the general direction of that bread basket, or some tourist who's just returned from a walking tour of the wetlands of West Africa sneezes -- you might find that prospect upsetting. But you might just as well avoid air travel, or subways, equally dodgy environments for airborne transmission of disease. Eat the bread.

I won't eat in a restaurant with filthy bathrooms. This isn't a hard call. They let you see the bathrooms. If the restaurant can't be bothered to replace the puck in the urinal or keep the toilets and floors clean, then just imagine what their refrigeration and work spaces look like. Bathrooms are relatively easy to clean. Kitchens are not. In fact, if you see the chef sitting unshaven at the bar, with a dirty apron on, one finger halfway up his nose, you can assume he's not handling your food any better behind closed doors. Your waiter looks like he just woke up under a bridge? If management allows him to wander out on the floor looking like that, God knows what they're doing to your shrimp!

'Beef Parmentier'? 'Shepherd's pie'? 'Chili special'? Sounds like leftovers to me. How about swordfish? I like it fine. But my seafood purveyor, when he goes out to dinner, won't eat it. He's seen too many of those 3-foot-long parasitic worms that riddle the fish's flesh. You see a few of these babies -- and we all do -- and you won't be tucking into swordfish anytime soon.

Chilean sea bass? Trendy. Expensive. More than likely frozen. This came as a surprise to me when I visited the market recently. Apparently the great majority of the stuff arrives frozen solid, still on the bone. In fact, as I said earlier, the whole Fulton Street market is not an inspiring sight. Fish is left to sit, un-iced, in leaking crates, in the middle of August, right out in the open. What isn't bought early is sold for cheap later. At 7 a.m. the Korean and Chinese buyers, who've been sitting in local bars waiting for the market to be near closing, swoop down on the over-extended fishmonger and buy up what's left at rock-bottom prices. The next folks to arrive will be the cat-food people. Think about that when you see the 'Discount Sushi' sign.

'Saving for well-done' is a time-honored tradition dating back to cuisine's earliest days: meat and fish cost money. Every piece of cut, fabricated food must, ideally, be sold for three or even four times its cost in order for the chef to make his 'food cost percent'. So what happens when the chef finds a tough, slightly skanky end-cut of sirloin, that's been pushed repeatedly to the back of the pile? He can throw it out, but that's a total loss, representing a three-fold loss of what it cost him per pound. He can feed it to the family, which is the same as throwing it out. Or he can 'save for well-done' -- serve it to some rube who prefers to eat his meat or fish incinerated into a flavorless, leathery hunk of carbon, who won't be able to tell if what he's eating is food or flotsam. Ordinarily, a proud chef would hate this customer, hold him in contempt for destroying his fine food. But not in this case. The dumb bastard is paying for the privilege of eating his garbage! What's not to like?

Vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter-faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn. To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living. Vegetarians are the enemy of everything good and decent in the human spirit, an affront to all I stand for, the pure enjoyment of food. The body, these waterheads imagine, is a temple that should not be polluted by animal protein. It's healthier, they insist, though every vegetarian waiter I've worked with is brought down by any rumor of a cold. Oh, I'll accommodate them, I'll rummage around for something to feed them, for a 'vegetarian plate', if called on to do so. Fourteen dollars for a few slices of grilled eggplant and zucchini suits my food cost fine. But let me tell you a story.

A few years back, at a swinging singles joint on Columbus Avenue, we had the misfortune to employ a sensitive young man as a waiter who, in addition to a wide and varied social life involving numerous unsafe sexual practices, was something of a jailhouse lawyer. After he was fired for incompetence, he took it on himself to sue the restaurant, claiming that his gastro-intestinal problem, caused apparently by amoebas, was a result of his work there. Management took this litigation seriously enough to engage the services of an epidemiologist, who obtained stool samples from every employee. The results -- which I was privy to -- were enlightening to say the least. The waiter's strain of amoebas, it was concluded, was common to persons of his lifestyle, and to many others. What was interesting were the results of our Mexican and South American prep cooks. These guys were teeming with numerous varieties of critters, none of which, in their cases, caused illness or discomfort. It was explained that the results in our restaurant were no different from results at any other restaurant and that, particularly amongst my recently arrived Latino brethren, this sort of thing is normal -- that their systems are used to it, and it causes them no difficulties at all. Amoebas, however, are transferred most easily through the handling of raw, uncooked vegetables, particularly during the washing of salad greens and leafy produce. So think about that next time you want to exchange deep tongue kisses with a vegetarian.

I'm not even going to talk about blood. Let's just say we cut ourselves a lot in the kitchen and leave it at that.

Pigs are filthy animals, say some, when explaining why they deny themselves the delights of pork. Maybe they should visit a chicken ranch. America's favorite menu item is also the most likely to make you ill. Commercially available chickens, for the most part (we're not talking about kosher and expensive free-range birds), are loaded with salmonella. Chickens are dirty. They eat their own feces, are kept packed close together like in a rush-hour subway, and when handled in a restaurant situation are most likely to infect other foods, or cross-contaminate them. And chicken is boring. Chefs see it as a menu item for people who don't know what they want to eat.

Shrimp? All right, if it looks fresh, smells fresh, and the restaurant is busy, guaranteeing turnover of product on a regular basis. But shrimp toast? I'll pass. I walk into a restaurant with a mostly empty dining room, and an unhappy-looking owner staring out the window? I'm not ordering shrimp.

This principle applies to anything on a menu actually, especially something esoteric and adventurous like, say, bouillabaisse. If a restaurant is known for steak, and doesn't seem to be doing much business, how long do you think those few orders of clams and mussels and lobster and fish have been sitting in the refrigerator, waiting for someone like you to order it? The key is rotation. If the restaurant is busy, and you see bouillabaisse flying out the kitchen doors every few minutes, then it's probably a good bet. But a big and varied menu in a slow, half-empty place? Those less popular items like broiled mackerel and calves' liver are kept festering in a dark corner of the reach-in because they look good on the menu. You might not actually want to eat them. Look at your waiter's face. He knows. It's another reason to be polite to your waiter: he could save your life with a raised eyebrow or a sigh. If he likes you, maybe he'll stop you from ordering a piece of fish he knows is going to hurt you. On the other hand, maybe the chef has ordered him, under pain of death, to move that codfish before it begins to really reek. Observe the body language, and take note.

Watchwords for fine dining? Tuesday through Saturday. Busy. Turnover. Rotation. Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best nights to order fish in New York. The food that comes in Tuesday is fresh, the station prep is new, and the chef is well rested after a Sunday or a Monday off. It's the real start of the new week, when you've got the goodwill of the kitchen on your side. Fridays and Saturdays, the food is fresh, but it's busy, so the chef and cooks can't pay as much attention to your food as they -- and you -- might like. And weekend diners are universally viewed with suspicion, even contempt, by both cooks and waiters alike; they're the slackjaws, the rubes, the out-of-towners, the well-done-eating, undertipping, bridge-and-tunnel pre-theater hordes, in to see Cats or Les Miz and never to return. Weekday diners, on the other hand, are the home team -- potential regulars, whom all concerned want to make happy. Rested and ready after a day off, the chef is going to put his best foot forward on Tuesday; he's got his best-quality product coming in and he's had a day or two to think of creative things to do with it. He wants you to be happy on Tuesday night. On Saturday, he's thinking more about turning over tables and getting through the rush.

If the restaurant is clean, the cooks and waiters well groomed, the dining room busy, everyone seems to actually care about what they're doing -- not just trying to pick up a few extra bucks between head-shots and auditions for Days of Our Lives -- chances are you're in for a decent meal. The owner, chef and a bored-looking waiter sitting at a front table chatting about soccer scores? Plumber walking through the dining room with a toilet snake? Bad signs. Watch the trucks pull up outside the restaurant delivery entrance in the morning if you're in the neighborhood. Reputable vendors of seafood, meat and produce? Good sign. If you see sinister, unmarked step-vans, offloading all three at once, or the big tractor trailers from one of the national outfits -- you know the ones, 'Servicing Restaurants and Institutions for Fifty Years' -- remember what institutions they're talking about: cafeterias, schools, prisons. Unless you like frozen, portion-controlled 'convenience food'.

Do all these horrifying assertions frighten you? Should you stop eating out? Wipe yourself down with antiseptic towelettes every time you pass a restaurant? No way. Like I said before, your body is not a temple, it's an amusement park. Enjoy the ride. Sure, it's a 'play you pay' sort of an adventure, but you knew that already, every time you ever ordered a taco or a dirty-water hot dog. If you're willing to risk some slight lower GI distress for one of those Italian sweet sausages at the street fair, or for a slice of pizza you just know has been sitting on the board for an hour or two, why not take a chance on the good stuff? All the great developments of classical cuisine, the first guys to eat sweetbreads, to try unpasteurized Stilton, to discover that snails actually taste good with enough garlic butter, these were daredevils, innovators and desperados. I don't know who figured out that if you crammed rich food into a goose long enough for its liver to balloon up to more than its normal body weight you'd get something as good as foie gras -- I believe it was those kooky Romans -- but I'm very grateful for their efforts. Popping raw fish into your face, especially in pre-refrigeration days, might have seemed like sheer madness to some, but it turned out to be a pretty good idea. They say that Rasputin used to eat a little arsenic with breakfast every day, building up resistance for the day that an enemy might poison him, and that sounds like good sense to me. Judging from accounts of his death, the Mad Monk wasn't fazed at all by the stuff; it took repeated beatings, a couple of bullets, and a long fall off a bridge into a frozen river to finish the job. Perhaps we, as serious diners, should emulate his example. We are, after all, citizens of the world -- a world filled with bacteria, some friendly, some not so friendly. Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles through the rural provinces of France, Mexico and the Far East, eating only in Hard Rock Cafe¨s and McDonald's? Or do we want to eat without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria's mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, Senor Tamale Stand Owner, Sushi-chef-san, Monsieur Bucket-head. What's that feathered game bird, hanging on the porch, getting riper by the day, the body nearly ready to drop off? I want some.

I have no wish to die, nor do I have some unhealthy fondness for dysentery. If I know you're storing your squid at room temperature next to a cat box, I'll get my squid down the street, thank you very much. I will continue to do my seafood eating on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, because I know better, because I can wait. But if I have one chance at a full-blown dinner of blowfish gizzard -- even if I have not been properly introduced to the chef -- and I'm in a strange, Far Eastern city and my plane leaves tomorrow? I'm going for it. You only go around once.