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Eat A Peach: A Memoir (English Edition) Formato Kindle
David Chang (Autore) Scopri tutti i libri, leggi le informazioni sull'autore e molto altro. Vedi Risultati di ricerca per questo autore |
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The celebrated chef behind Momofuku and star of Netflix's Ugly Delicious gets uncomfortably real in his New York Times bestselling memoir.
In 2004, Momofuku Noodle Bar opened in Manhattan's East Village.
Its young chef-owner, David Chang, served ramen and pork buns to a mix of fellow restaurant cooks and confused diners whose idea of ramen was instant noodles in Styrofoam cups.
Eat a Peach chronicles Chang's journey to becoming one of the most influential chefs of his generation. Laying bare his mistakes and feelings of otherness and inadequacy, Chang gives us a penetrating look at restaurant life...
'Full of humour and honesty, it provides nourishment and a sense of solidarity' New York Times
For fans of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential and Nigel Slater's Toast
- LinguaInglese
- EditoreVintage Digital
- Data di pubblicazione4 febbraio 2021
- Dimensioni file3870 KB
Descrizione prodotto
Recensione
“An honest and vulnerable autobiography that will have you laughing and crying at the same time . . . an absolute must-read.”—CNN
“David Chang is one of the most beloved chefs on earth, but his inspiring memoir is not just for foodies. He’s one of the most audaciously openhearted and honest humans you’ll ever find. This book is for anyone who has ever felt like an underdog or an underachiever—or aspires to become an entrepreneur or a more decent person.”—Adam Grant, New York Times bestselling author of Originals and Give and Take, and host of the TED podcast WorkLife
“Eat a Peach is not merely an autobiography of a great creative; rather, it’s a compelling philosophy of a man who believes in a beautiful life beyond reach. It is profoundly gratifying to witness Chang marching uphill, step by step, toward his sublime vision. As Chang suffers, rages, and fights for his quest, we can’t help but admire his vulnerability, courage, and conviction.”—Min Jin Lee, author of Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, a finalist for the National Book Award
“Dave Chang’s writing is honest and vulnerable. As a child of immigrants, the DNA of his story spoke to me. Now I just have to keep up with his drive and tenacity!”—Hasan Minhaj, host of Patriot Act with Hasan Minhaj
“If you’re looking for a cookbook, this is a terrible choice. Herein you will find the recipe for one of our brightest, most energetic, talented, and inspiring Americans (who also happens to be a chef). David Chang is a great storyteller with a great story to tell.”—Jimmy Kimmel, host of Jimmy Kimmel Live!
“This is one of the most compelling chef memoirs in recent memory. . . . Chang’s writing is engaging and his story is stirring, humorous, and compulsively readable.”—Shondaland
“Just like the food from his famed Momofuku restaurants is must-devour, Chang’s memoir is a must-read.”—E! News
“David Chang is one of the world’s most creative chefs, but it wasn’t obvious he would become that. I was absolutely enthralled by his underdog story, which he tells with passion, humor, and skill. Don’t miss this incredible memoir!”—Brian Grazer, New York Times bestselling author of A Curious Mind and cofounder of Imagine Entertainment
“An entertaining, admirably candid self-assessment of life in the foodie fast lane.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Foodies and chefs alike will dig into Chang’s searing memoir.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review) --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
L'autore
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.
High school was where I first noticed that something was off. I’d spoken to the in-house therapist a few times, but I stopped because I didn’t really feel comfortable spilling my guts to someone who had lunch with my teachers seven days a week. Instead I wrote about everything going on in my head. One day, my roommate dug through my computer and mocked me mercilessly for what he found. I saw another counselor in college. It took him two minutes to pull out the prescription pad and prescribe me Paxil. I never took it and I never saw him again.
I was embarrassed. I didn’t feel justified in seeing a therapist or taking pills. For one thing, I didn’t know any other Asian people who saw therapists. A lot of my friends had shrinks in college, but their situations were different. They were wealthy kids with actual bad shit going on at home in Westchester or whatever northeastern enclave had produced them. Rich kids are always the most f***ed up. I didn’t recognize my issues in anyone else.
At Trinity, I grew acutely aware of my otherness. The girls at school were mostly white and therefore off-limits. I’d seen how my parents reacted when my siblings had tried dating non-Koreans, and it wasn’t pretty. Not that it would have mattered. The white girls at school were explicit in their pronouncements that they would never be seen with an Asian man. And so, aside from random drunken hookups, I never dated anyone in college. For years, any kind of meaningful relationship I had was one I found during the summer or while traveling abroad. I simply felt more comfortable somewhere else.
For a minute, I thought I’d attend divinity school after Trinity, but my grades weren’t good enough to get me into a graduate program, much less one of the cushy jobs that my classmates were landing in New York. I didn’t know what else to do with myself, so I showed up to a postgrad career fair and signed up to teach English in Japan, because the booth was closest to the door. I’d come to think that my problems were in America, and I wanted to live the life of an expat. Being away from home would be a fresh start, a chance for reinvention. I fled the States with the intention of being gone for good.
Cut to the cross-country track behind the high school in Izumi-Tottori and the largest Asian man within thirty miles running around and around and loving it: my first encounter with the highs of a manic episode, and the other side of bipolar disorder. I had boundless energy. I felt invincible. At night, I read dense Russian classics, plowing through the entire canon. I finished War and Peace in a couple of days.
I had originally requested an assignment in cold, northern Sapporo. The company sent me to this steamy town in Wakayama Prefecture instead. Imagine Jacksonville, only hotter. At night, I would hear wannabe yakuza riding their dirt bikes and motorcycles around the rice paddy that was my backyard. Most of my students were either the wives of organized criminals or kids prepping for college entrance exams. Once they realized that their English grammar was better than mine, they started using my class as an opportunity to nap. I lived in an apartment with my boss, next to a dorm for Jehovah’s Witnesses, and I don’t think I had a full night of sleep the entire time I was there.
I’d hoped to find something in Japan—a sense of belonging, maybe. No such luck. The women in Japan were no more inclined to date me than the women at Trinity. All the Japanese girls seemed to be paired up with a white guy. If not, they certainly weren’t going to stoop to dating a Korean.
I did a little traveling while there, and saw that many of the Koreans living in Japan were downtrodden or wrapped up in gambling and shadier professions. Finding vandalism on the monuments to Koreans who died in Hiroshima was an early lesson in racism’s ubiquity.
I’d always assumed Japan was a country of extraordinary punctuality, but the train would sometimes be late in Izumi-Tottori. I learned that the delays were caused by people jumping on the tracks, even though the government did everything it could to prevent it. They announced that they would fine the families of the deceased. They painted the station a calming pastel yellow. None of it seemed to have an effect.
Between Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, I read Camus. I spent a lot of time mulling over his famous quote about finding an “invincible summer” within himself. I wondered about the car crash that ended his life, when he took a ride with a notoriously bad driver. When they examined his body, they found a train ticket in his pocket. Did he maybe want to get in that accident? --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
Dalla quarta di copertina
Dettagli prodotto
- ASIN : B083PTZQR8
- Editore : Vintage Digital (4 febbraio 2021)
- Lingua : Inglese
- Dimensioni file : 3870 KB
- Da testo a voce : Abilitato
- Screen Reader : Supportato
- Miglioramenti tipografici : Abilitato
- X-Ray : Non abilitato
- Word Wise : Abilitato
- Lunghezza stampa : 289 pagine
- Posizione nella classifica Bestseller di Amazon: n. 570,630 in Kindle Store (Visualizza i Top 100 nella categoria Kindle Store)
- n. 4,769 in Cucina (in inglese)
- n. 5,603 in Cucina e vini in lingua straniera
- n. 8,820 in Cucina internazionale e regionale
- Recensioni dei clienti:
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It is a fun read with some heavy reflections, just like all David Chang touches.

Unfortunately the book is kind of all over the place.
First, the obligatory and rather unremarkable childhood memories that don't really connect to what comes later (to be fair, Chang admits as much as he's describing it all).
Then, a rather scattered, confusing, conflicting account of what Chang thinks he did right and wrong while setting up Momofuku and the restaurants that came later.
Lots of mea culpa musings over his anger issues - at turns apologetic and defensive - but mostly coming across as just excuses for bad behaviour, and after a while a just repetitive.
In between all of that, he talks a lot about his struggles with depression and how this impacted his journey. This was interesting to a point, but not that different than so many other accounts of depression and (mild) addiction.
As for the writing, it just isn't very good, which I found surprising given that Chang employs a co-writer here (Gabe Ulla), which seems to be the point of that sort of collaboration.
All in all, there were some interesting parts, juicy tidbits, thoughtful musings on the industry and an insightful list of chef Dos and Don'ts at the end. And Chang does his sincere best to explain himself to those who care to listen. But this won't stand out as either a powerful memoir or influential food book.


