A food fight in a Michelin-starred restaurant

Why do I feel so comfortable with you that I would share even the most embarrassing bits of my life? I honestly don’t know. Maybe it’s that I’m now forty-seven and shedding more of my ego skin with each year. All it takes is following me for a few months to see that I am so very far from perfect, so why would I even pretend?

As you better know by now, my latest, The English Bookstore in Bologna, publishes next month, and I’d like to share a tale of how this cool cat ain’t quite so cool, but damned if I wasn’t close.

REMINDER: As always you can listen to each one of my newsletters read by yours truly via the “Listen to post” button above, or through my Drowning in Words podcast on Spotify and Apple.

Last time, I talked about the seeds of my novel, how I felt left out after reading Gabrielle Zevin’s The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry and wanted desperately to contribute to the growing collection of books set in bookstores.

I neglected to mention another seed that predated that one, and it’s a confession like never before. It’s a shameful moment of my past that’s taken me many moons to be able to laugh about.

To protect those involved, I must hold back names (You know who you are!!! Muahahhahha!) and details, but many years ago, I partook in a food fight in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Copenhagen, Denmark (not the one you’re thinking). I know. I know. I know! Awful, right?

If you’re not familiar, a restaurant must meet a super high-level of quality, presentation, consistency, creativity, etc. to be given a Michelin star, so you can bank on all of them being fancy. In other words, it’s the last place on earth you’d expect a food fight.

There may or may not have been too much wine flowing in the lead-up to that disastrous evening. Imagine a baguette flying through the air like a ninja star and you’ll get the idea. It was the kind of night that you regret with all of you the following morning, especially as you taste the dust on your tongue and realize the extent of your hangover.

Long before I decided to set a book in a bookstore, I was intent on creating a story about misfit expats who were either running to or away for something, and I already knew there would be a pivotal scene involving a similar food fight. How could I not bring such a disaster to the page? The entire book evolved from the idea.

Naturally, as a novelist who seeks to always give his readers the verisimilitude they deserve, I was tasked with the hard work of finding the perfect Michelin-starred setting in Bologna. During a night at the remarkable I Portici, located inside a former theater surrounded by frescoes, the scene came alive in my head.

I’d flown ahead of my wife and son to focus on research, so I was dining alone, and I’d decided I would pretend like I was a Michelin inspector. Imagine me sitting down for a nine-course meal, my only dining companions being my notebook and the cast of misfits, including a love-interest chef, running around in my imagination.

Let me tell you, as I studied the food and the details of the night and watched my cast come alive within those walls, I had never felt so grateful to be a novelist. How in the world was this work? I was actually writing this whole thing off!

I don’t know if it was the way the staff treated everyone, but they sure seemed to snap to attention once I started scribbling in my notebook and taking thoughtful shots of my dishes. They appeared to put extra effort into the preparations and pour a little heavier with each glass of wine.

I remember a sense of pride coming over me. I am a Michelin inspector realizing one of the best meals of my life as each person rushes to meet my every desire. Can you see this might not end well?

About halfway through the meal, one of the servers approached and suggested I use the table lamp for better lighting. It seems like no big deal, a great suggestion, but ultimately, it was a message from him that I’d not fooled them for a second.

Like all the other bozos taking photos of every dish, I’d been a total amateur! Why wouldn’t I have used that subtle warm glow from the tiny lamp? Oh, I’ll tell you. Because I’m not pro food critic! On top of that, I learned later that inspectors never use notebooks, as they don’t want to be discovered. They want to experience the restaurant without special treatment. I Portici 1 - Boo 0.

There you go, almost cool boo bringing your next read to life. The English Bookstore in Bologna is up for pre-order now and goes live on August 18th. I’d greatly appreciate your support, so I can keep slinging new stories your way.

I’ll leave you with more shots of the meal. I hope all these images deliver an even better reading experience in August.

Gratzie!

boo