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That is Not A Chef’s Kiss
This is a Chef’s Kiss
Sure, some chefs show their love by kissing their own fingertips and then expanding their digits outward. I’m sure some chefs also occasionally give a laid-back thumbs up or shoot zany finger-guns. But most chefs — and I’ve known many — don’t love with aloof hand gestures. Instead, they show their amore with a passionate, greasy, mustache-tickling kiss.
Some chefs will offer you a taste of the sauce on a long spaghetti noodle, and as you suck it down, you’ll notice that on the other end of the noodle, the chef is nonchalantly waiting with lips puckered. When you meet in the middle, eyes open, for a closed-mouth kiss, the chef will use both hands to lift his toque up and down for a Hanna-Barbera cartoon gag. The chef will punctuate the chef’s kiss by declaring, “Now that’s a spicy a’meatball!”
Some chefs are even more spontaneous though. They’ll become so overcome with emotion at the taste of your marinara that they’ll take on a sense of urgency. In one grand sweeping motion, they’ll swipe the entire 160-qt stock pot of red sauce onto the floor, and with a quick “Mama Mia!” they’ll slide onto the counter like a lounge singer in a film noir. With head resting in one hand, and one leg propped up, they’ll use their free hand to motion you hither. Next thing you know, you’ll be wiping your brow with the little red handkerchief the chef normally has tied around their thick neck. You’ll share a cigarette and a can of ravioli.
Some chefs — when you meet them — will have never been kissed. These chefs are so insecure that it’s likely they won’t even have a date to the restaurant’s big dance. But after you make a bet with the cool, preppy maître d’, and you give the chef a complete makeover, you’ll find that underneath that dorky double-breasted chef’s jacket is a heart of gold. The chef will obviously be upset when they learn about the bet, but you’ll win them back by standing outside their walk-in freezer, playing Pavarotti from a boombox, and holding high above your head a pot of ragu bolognese. They’ll tell you to shut up, that “You had’a me’a at buongiorno.”
Some chef’s kisses smell like hot carrots and onions. Some chef’s lips are slippery with olive oil. Some chef’s kisses are a beginning, as filled with promise as an Italian wedding soup. Some chef’s kisses are an end, as bitter as a doppio espresso. But all chef’s kisses — and I’ve had my fair share — have something ineffable, a quality as breathtaking as a cannoli at sunset on the Riviera and as heartbreaking as a scoop of gelato on the sidewalk.
Sometimes, when I am lonely, I come across a picture of a chef, one Chef Boyardee on a can of Beefaroni, or one Chef Pisghetti in the books of Curious George. I think of that tenderness. With great approval, I kiss my fingertips in that chef’s kiss.
