So it goes like this: Andy Comer, who’s our boy at GQ, is asking for David Chang to blog about what goes down on our tour to promote the book we’ve written. Dave agrees. No budget, no contract, just, “We want to be on Jim Nelson’s good side—we’re doing it.”
The book tour kicks off with a party last week. Now we’re on a plane to San
Francisco (I feel like a grandpa because I’m
totally going to be telling people, “Hey, did you know they’ve got the
INTERNET on planes now?”) and after a couple beers (Dave drinks Bud
Light, me, Bud) and a couple shots of tequila and a little ribbing
from Comer, we’re (finally) getting it under way.
Because I'm his linguistic wet nurse, the "I" here is gonna be me, Peter Meehan, most
of the time, because I will be attempting to string together the
staccato blasts from Chang's laptop in a way that makes these horribly
self-serving posts readable.
Here’s how it’s gone so far, just to bring you up to speed:
October 27: Momofuku came out. It is not a horrible flop out of the
gate, which makes Dave and me feel better.
October 29: Book madness officially begins. I can't even read it on
account of the two spelling
errors that have been included in all 68,000 printed copies. (Find
them and mock us in the comments!) We both
love the pictures. Gabriele Stabile is the best.
The brunt of the promotional weight is on Dave; lots of radio and
phone interviews. I will turn the reins over for him to a moment now:
Chang: It’s weird to have finished something a long time ago and look at it
again. Most of the phone interviews deal with comments about San
Francisco and food in general… Looking forward to the left coast, should
be fun.
That “San Francisco” thing is what is being called “Fig-Gate” in
certain corners of the universe where, obviously, there’s little news
and less of import to care about than the out-of-context commentary of
some drunken jackass chef from New York. It will probably come back as
a recurring theme this week, so consider this “foreshadowing.” But before
that, the kickoff book party:
Chang: Book party at 88 Palace, dim sum house, I couldn't even find the
place. Pete and I finally celebrated what felt like a bar mitzvah or a
wedding. Lots of hand shaking and slaps on the shoulder. Meehan
pulls the most amazing trick out of his ass, getting Julian Van Winkle
to pour his bourbon at the event. Fucking living legend. Meehan's
second trick was to get Endless Boogie to play at a dim sum house.
Amazing. People really showed up for the booze and to dance to the
band, so that’s another reason why it felt like a wedding. After-party
at Apotheke. Many shots of bourbon with Momofuku crew, hooked up with
Quino Baca and the Brooklyn Star team. Lots of drinking and cookies
that had magical properties. I knew it was time to leave when people
wanted me to dance. Finished last shot with Ty and Irish from Noodle
Bar...the good old "gin rummy on the nothing." Warm-rail gin and rum
mixed into a big shot. Tastes and smells like rubbing alcohol, always
a good thing when you need to remind yourself to stop drinking, and a
bad sign when you find yourself drinking 10 gin rummies.
I’ll say for my part that I had no idea Julian Van Winkle would be
there but it was FUCKING AMAZING that he was, plus we had a bar set up
where there was Elijah Craig and Rittenhouse Rye in both straight and
cocktail form. If you're ever looking to get a room full of people
seriously bent, having a all-brown-booze open bar and 1,000 bottles of
beer on hand is a good way to do it.
The Endless-Boogie-at-a-Dim-Sum-palace thing was always Dave and my way
of saying “We won’t have a book party unless…” And then the ladies of
Momofuku (pictured here) made it happen.
The band killed. You should
really see them live. If you must, buy their CD, but the double LP
comes with an extra track and sounds that much better.
So that was the party.
October 30: The next day I went back to being a decent citizen of
the republic. Not Chang:
Chang: Stumble home from the bar at 4:00 a.m. to pack bags. I am supposed to
head to Oxford, Mississippi, right away—I’m taking part in the
Southern Foodway Alliance’s conference down there. Needless to say, I
passed out. Christina Tosi, Momofuku’s pastry chef/defacto adult,
calls at least 8 times. On the ninth time I got up and found the
phone, which was in my closet under a pile of clothes and I was pissed… WHY was somebody calling me? Didn’t they know I was still DRUNK from
the night before? It was 5:00 a.m. Tosi explained to me what was going
on. I had to get to Ssam Bar to pick up her and Gabe, a cook who’d be
coming down to help us, and head to LGA. I was fucked up. Tosi wanted
to kill me. I was literally falling over in a drunken stupor like
Dudley Moore in Arthur. My life had two-day hangover written all over
it.
Arrive at airport at 5:50 for a 6:30 am flight and magically got on.
For some reason, the flight got delayed for four hours... but it was all
news to me: I pilled myself out, so I came to on the runway in
Memphis. Who knew that Memphis was so close to Mississippi? The two
coolers of food we prepped out and checked in? Disappeared. Fuckers.
Memphis was raining like I’d never seen it, hard, driving rain—who
knew it rained like that in Memphis?—and after a couple hours we
got out to Oxford. We were eager to meet John Currance, chef of City
Grocery. He took one look at us—he probably smelled my hangover—and took us to eat food asap. I get biscuit with sausage and grits,
but Tosi crushed it with a way better order: the “pylon,” a waffle
with chili, jalapeño peppers, potato chips, sour cream, hot dogs, and a
few other things. I hate when I get out-ordered.
I call Pete in New York who says he feels fresh as a daisy. I pray to
Krishna for a bus to hit him.
The event was a daze and a blast:
* Square Books is the cutest bookstore on the planet. Why don’t we
have more places like that in NYC? I have to sign books, which is a
fucking surreal experience. I find it weird that people are buying
books. And the pressure involved...”To John and Linda”....and then
what...something witty? My brain was too fried to perform well.
* John T. Edge and his crew who run the event are the best. Southern
hospitality makes me feel terrible as it makes me realize what a
massive asshole I am. Currance and his team help us get our lunch
ready. Even they are nice about us showing up with no prep. Jesus.
* The very sight of the cool BBQ rigs that the Cochon guys own send me
into a covetous, jealous spiral. They are the coolest smokers and
rotisseries I've ever seen. They've got Caja Chinas rockin’, another
big-ass smoker for turkeys and goats. Fuck. They make me want to move
to New Orleans.
* I hear that you can't buy cold beer in any supermarket or
store in Oxford. It's true, and weird. When I got there I promised myself and
any Gods that were listening that I wouldn’t drink, but who can say no
to Allen Benton? He offers me an elixir that is dangerously tasty. I
have to go to sleep but it rarely happens. At 8pm on day two we were
hanging around with Team Cochon and bottles of booze were being passed
around like baseball cards, everyone taking big swigs of this label
and that label...rum, bourbon, whatever. What was I supposed to do,
say no to someone who offers me a friendly bottle of booze? I mean I
have no idea how people drink as much as they do in the South, places
like Savannah and Charleston, etc. Don't those people get hangovers?
After a sick goat feast we head to Currance's restaurant City Grocery
and have dinner. I have two Manhattans. I need to stop drinking. We
have to get home and catch a 9am flight back to NYC. BTW, I vomit in
the morning, which makes me feel great. We search the airport at
Memphis for chicken biscuits for Gabe. Daylight savings buys me an
extra hour of sleep, thank God. No more booze for a week, I tell
myself.
And with David Chang lying to himself let's wrap up this post. We'll
keep it shorter going forward, I promise.
Wait, now we've ended with two lies. This is going nowhere good and fast.
—David Chang & Peter Meehan
