... may well be an even greater pleasure than its predecessor ... most enjoyable (for us, if not for him) are the apprenticeships in which he sets out to master the five mother sauces, bake the perfect baguette and construct the same misleadingly named 'duck pie' by which one year’s candidates for the Meilleurs Ouvriers de France (a kind of culinary knighthood) were judged ... The book’s dust jacket breathlessly proclaims it as 'the definitive account of one of the world’s great culinary cultures,' but Dirt is something better: a delightful, highly idiosyncratic exploration of how, as Buford puts it, 'a dish is arrived at not by following a set of instructions but by discovering everything about it: the behavior of its ingredients, its history and a quality that some chefs think of as its soul.'
You can almost taste the food in Bill Buford’s Dirt, an engrossing, beautifully written memoir about his life as a cook in France ... Mr. Buford brings a novelistic approach to his story; he is both observer and participant. He’s an entertaining, often comical, raconteur ... His descriptions of his new city are vivid and evocative.
This is a more sober book than Heat. It’s as if Johnny Cash followed up 'Get Rhythm,' as a jukebox single, with 'Hurt.' ... As with good cookery, no shortcuts are taken in Dirt. When Buford picks up a subject — be it bread or language or culinary history or Italian versus French food or the nature of Lyon — that subject is simmered until every tendon has softened ... This is a big book that, like an army, moves entire divisions independent of one another. Watching Buford choose a topic for scrutiny is like watching an enormous bodybuilder single out one muscle, on the mountain range of his or her arms, for a laser-focused burn ... this book has a blind spot as regards money. Buford and Green abandon their jobs and apparently their incomes and rent an apartment in Lyon that has six marble fireplaces. They order dear bottles of wine in restaurants and consume extortionate menus and take high-priced classes and send their children, when they finally return to New York, to an elite private school ... I don’t demand that a writer tell me where his or her seemingly endless supply of scratch comes from. But the lack of even vague disclosure, in a book that takes an interest in social class in Lyon, leaves an odd crater. Buford’s story may have some readers skating along the line that separates envy from something else ... At a time when writers really, really want us to like them, and it’s all a bit gross, Buford doesn’t try very hard. He has a smart, literate, sly voice on the page. But he doesn’t go overboard, for example, when it comes to calling attention to himself as a good father. He’s away from home a great deal, leaving a lot of the messy work to his wife ... I admire this book enormously; it’s a profound and intuitive work of immersive journalism. If I didn’t turn every page with equal enthusiasm, well, it’s a long trip. There will be gray days and sunny ones. Walter Bagehot said some writers are incisors, while others are grinders. Buford is a grinder of a high order.
Like all sequels, Dirt struggles with the successful formula of its predecessor ... there are several mentors, but none quite takes the central role that is Batali’s blazing presence in Heat. The result is a more disjointed book than the first, less focused, particularly at the beginning, when Buford struggles to find a restaurant that will hire him and allow him to do his 'kitchen bitch' bit ... If Heat sometimes feels like a magazine assignment that unexpectedly resulted in something more, then Dirt is more committed, more lived-in. It is not a better book, but it might be the deeper one ... Heat rode the crest of a larger trend, a greater thoughtfulness about what we eat; Dirt is a continuation of that trend, both a lament for a lost world and a hope that it can be regained.
[Buford] delves into the controversial origins of French cuisine and restaurants, drawing unflinching portraits of past and present luminaries like culinary school founder Paul Bocuse himself. He pursues origins of dishes, sauces, and their ingredients, even participating in the stark grittiness of butchering a pig and learning that in France the best, most coveted flavors come from the earthiest animal organs. An inside look into haute cuisine.
The things that I like about this book—sometimes, I love them almost as much as I love a fat, chewy slice of saucisson secare—are also the things that make it flawed. I adore Buford’s enthusiasm, which is unstinting, endlessly curious and absolutist in the best sense (no, he will not hang out with other expats; yes, he will try to enjoy the piggiest treats, even when all he can taste is the sty). But could he not, sometimes, rein himself in just a little? ... his verbosity is matched only by his determination. Everything must be described, up to and including the laborious process of getting a French visa. If it were a dish, it would be something rich that can only be eaten in small amounts. Readers should use a teaspoon and remember that any leftovers will taste even better tomorrow.
An often funny and eye-opening behind-the-scenes look at haute cuisine, as well as life as an expat in France. Readers will be engrossed not only by Buford’s story, but that of his family as well.
If restaurants and travel are high on the list of things you miss most during lockdown, I heartily recommend Bill Buford's Dirt. This is a writer who gives new meaning to the expression 'glutton for punishment' ... Buford returns with his reportorial blades freshly sharpened in this blazingly entertaining and frequently scalding account of the five years he planted himself in several exacting kitchens ... Buford again proves himself to be a relentless reporter and a self-deprecating guide ... This deliciously salty chronicle, loamy with culinary history and profiles of the great chefs, is worth digging into.
... a welcome reminder of simpler times ... The author’s perspective as a father, witnessing his kids immerse themselves in a foreign culture, keeps the memoir from being bogged down in the history and often aggravating precision of preparing French food. Instead, his writing is filled with humor and heartFood memoirs often romanticize the places in which they are set, but Buford never pretends that Lyon is glamorous. He’s enamored with the grittiness of the city ... [Buford] unveils the importance of understanding a city in order to better prepare its dishes ... For some, it may feel a strange time to read a tale of travel — and the ease with which Buford can hop on an airplane in Dirt could surely spark envy. But in so delicately capturing his relationship with Bob and the boulangerie, Buford underlines a deeply resonant tenet of life: the value of community.
The subtitle attempts to prepare the reader for the book’s sweep, but this sprawling memoir exceeds even those generous borders ... Though Buford is clearly in awe of the country’s cuisine, he is never so starstruck that he can’t offer a delightfully unvarnished opinion ... Despite moments of levity, a heaviness hangs low throughout ... stands as Buford’s most personal book yet — though lacking the single-minded sizzle of Heat and the searing carnality of Among the Thugs — and is as much an examination of himself as his subjects. Lucky for us, the life he is creating makes for a fascinating read.
There is evidently a sort of man-of-action masochism at play. The more hurtful the better. Niceness doesn’t make good copy ... He has a wide-eyed unknowingness and is happy to agree that in the wildflower-obsessed Michel Bras’s cooking there is an essence that 'seems to radiate almost spiritually' ... His affection for the everyday details and specificities of the place is attractive. But it is, strangely, not matched by an enthusiasm for the vernacular cooking of the city ... Lyon is what France was an indefinite time ago: Buford is lucky to have lived there then. He has written a report from that past.
Buford's impetuousness comes off as charmingly enthusiastic ... Some of the history starts to read a little like inside baseball, but his premise will prompt at least some readers (and diners) to consider potential connections ... Buford paints Lyon as a city that is undoubtedly rich in culinary history but also far from perfect, with areas that are crime-ridden, noisy and dirty --- hardly the picture-perfect vision of a French landscape. Likewise, he illustrates just how difficult rising through the ranks of restaurant kitchens can be, even for classically trained young chefs --- especially when those chefs are women or non-white ... Much of the humor here comes from anecdotes about Buford’s surprisingly resilient young family.
... raises one’s eyebrows again and again. While readers may not come away with the thought that you have to be stupid to pursue a restaurant career, it’s likely at least that the word 'crazy' might apply? ... has the unsurprising effect of making you hungry; if your mind wanders as you are reading, you’ll probably find yourself thinking of food. The book wanders as well. Still, even if it seems that sometimes threads are lost, characters are occasionally left unrealized, and quite a few unanswered questions linger, it may be best to relax and not care. Hopefully the French attitudes won’t irritate (they might!). This is a rambling salute; everything is germane, organic, and mostly pleasant at the least. But you’ve been warned: 'crazy' is operative.
... funny, irreverent and obsessive ... sometimes ventures into the weeds in its excavation of culinary history and lore, but this may be forgiven in light of Buford’s honest hunger for knowledge and personal evolution ... This book doesn’t offer any recipes, per se, but if perused closely, readers can find instructions for assembling perhaps the grandest concoction of them all: a life well and fully lived, seasoned with curiosity, perseverance and humor—and a dash of adventure.
Buford delivers a vivid and often laugh-out-loud account of the tribulations, humblings, and triumphs he and his family endured in the five years they lived in France ... Buford’s a delightful narrator, and his stories of attending a pig slaughter, befriending the owner of a local bakery, and becoming gradually accepted by the locals are by turns funny, intimate, insightful, and occasionally heartbreaking. It’s a remarkable book, and even readers who don’t know a sabayon from a Sabatier will find it endlessly rewarding.
... ebullient, entertaining ... [Buford] describes in mouthwatering detail the many dishes he cooked and ate and the charming restaurants the family visited ... A lively, passionate homage to fine food.
