If you have not read Bill Buford’s “Heat,” an account of the writer as budding culinarian, you should remedy that. The guy can write.
Here, for instance, is a paragraph from his review in the New Yorker of three carnivorous
For twelve months, Fearnley-Whittingstall was in culinary heaven. He had never learned so much so quickly. He discovered the seasons, and their bounty, and was paid to make food from it: could things get any better? They couldn’t, because he was fired. He was told that, actually, he wasn’t good enough. He was disorganized, and incorrigibly messy: he was Pigpen in the kitchen. For Fearnley-Whittingstall, it was a heartbreaking moment-he’d discovered both his calling and his inability to follow it.