Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef

This memoir of the making of a chef is for the most part beautifully written. So many descriptions are lovely especially in the first part, "Blood", where the author recounts her young years. Her memories of her mother are especially tender - "I remember the smell of the sulphur every morning as she lit a match to warm the tip of her black wax pencil." Or, "I sat in that woman's aproned lap every single night of my young life, so close to the sounds and smells of her that I still know her body as if it were my own." The portrayals of her father's lamb roasts are classic. Once the family disintegrates and Ms. Hamilton is more or less abandoned by both parents, she, and the book, lose her special freshness of observation and story-telling and a bitter, angry tone dominates.In the next part, "Bones", as she comes into her own slowly as a chef, and as other reviewers have noted, Ms. Hamilton trashes nearly everyone and everything she comes into contact with - fellow students in a writing class, other female chefs, catering companies, people she works for and with, suppliers etc. While clever and often funny in her criticisms, the premise that she is the only one who knows how to do things right, no matter what the issue, grates. Yes, successful chefs must be demanding of themselves and egotistical [as in most fields] but she continually exudes a superiority complex coupled with a martyrdom problem [how many times did she say she had to nurse her infants and cook and clean and get no sleep and be on her feet all day and...].Most off-putting of all is her unrelenting bitterness and dreadful relationship with those supposedly closest to her: her father drifts out of the book completely in the early pages, she visits her mother once in 20 years and is incapable, as others have noted, of compassion or forgiveness and most appallingly shows no sadness at the death of a brother. Does she have friends? It seems so but even she notes that her moods are so volatile especially when her "blood sugar" is down that everyone is more than a little afraid of her. Her marriage is depressing as it seems to be one of convenience so her Italian husband can get a green card; does she love him? We never know. She writes a little of the worshipful adoration she holds for her two sons - shouldn't those feelings help her to mature by the end of the book to develop those softer human qualities that give essence to a richer, happier life? She never truly reveals who she is or who those around her are. She never digs into her feelings to understand her behavior.The last part of the book, "Butter", is too long and repetitious as we go again and again to Italy and eat the same meals over and over. She doesn't even learn Italian so she can converse with her husband's family! - how telling when she laments near the end that, "If I don't come back...I will not be missed, and no one will write me or call me to acknowledge my absence."Ms. Hamilton has great talent as a writer, and I'm sure she's a great chef; she's succeeded in those realms. Now maybe she can work on herself and become a more tolerant, nicer person. Now THAT would be accomplishment!

While by no means a terrible read, I put Blood, Bones & Butter down with a sense of relief. Perhaps Anthony Bourdain's review gracing the front cover ("Simply the best memoir by a chef ever. Ever.") should not have been a significant factor in getting me to read this book. Most comprehensive? Perhaps. But best? I shudder to think at the reasons why other chefs' biographies fall short of attaining this status.Complaints aside, it is admirable that Hamilton stays on topic throughout the entire book. Blood, Bones & Butter isn't so much a memoir as it is an extensive autobiography, starting with Hamilton's earliest memories and ending at present day. She does not get sidetracked (unlike Anthony Bourdain) by dedicating entire chapters to food and everything that goes along with it. The passion for her bread of life is there, but it infuses her life story, rather than strives for its own sections.This passion is the beauty of the read. There is not a single page that does not relate Hamilton's culinary tastes to her life in general. Food is by far the most important thing in her existence, which should not be taken as a sad statement. Meals become holy in this book, something to be worshiped. Home-cooked food is the mainstay of her childhood, representing the one constant in her life. She's poetic about her subject, even when most would shy away from her disgusting culinary findings, such as near-rotting meat in France:"Pheasants...hung for a few days until their necks finally gave out, and you could see, physically, a kind of perfect ripeness to the meat when it became tender enough to pleasurably chew, as if the earliest stage of rot itself was a cooking technique."Unfortunately, the poetry, while very moving, might actually detract from some of the more interesting aspects of Hamilton's life. For example, her mother's decision to leave her husband and take all of her children with her is an abrupt transition in Hamilton's life, even though her parents' relationship had been on the rocks for a long time. Her mother quickly becomes demonized and despicable in Hamilton's eyes, but not with the justification one would expect. Hamilton herself struggles with identifying concrete reasons for hating her mother for most of her life, so much that she severs all ties with her for decades. Don't get me wrong: I'm not hoping to de-emphasize the impact any divorce can have. I'm just saying, compare this to what you'd expect in most memoirs discussing childhood turmoil, and it is not nearly as moving.Perhaps this is due to Hamilton's hyper-awareness about what she eats. Seemingly every meal, even minor ones, throughout her entire life is described in explicit, delectable detail. She is a master at food writing, managing to tease one's taste buds, without crossing over into "food porn." I don't fault her for these descriptions at all--they are a mainstay of this memoir--but the lack of detail concerning other major life decisions eventually creates a sense of dullness throughout the read (for example, the first time she tries cocaine is quickly brushed over, whereas family meals are discussed for nearly entire chapters).Food is Hamilton's saving grace for many domestic problems in her life, which is why it takes precedence over the troubles themselves. While I was perfectly satisfied with this for the Blood and Bones sections of the book (the book is divided into the three nouns of its title, respectively), Butter grated on me. Not only did it irritate me, it outright bored me and I kept checking my page count, hoping to finish soon so I could move on to something else.The boring bits begin with Hamilton's marriage to her Italian immigrant husband, Michele. The situations of the marriage itself are thoroughly entertaining, and the bizarre nature of the relationship give one pause for thought (the two lived separately for most of their years together). This is all part of what makes Blood, Bones, and Butter entertaining; however, the multiple chapters dedicated to descriptions of the couple's yearly visits to Michele's family in Rome, ripe with the continuous long dedications to homemade food and descriptions of their marital spats, become so trite that the last fourth of the book blends together to form one boring chunk that could be summarized in half the amount of space.What starts out as a memoir that delivers everything it promises, ends as a horrible flop. This is a shame considering I really loved reading the larger portion of this book. It's unfortunate that it left such a bad taste in my mouth, because I hate recommending books solely on sections, but that's exactly what I'm about to do. If this is the first book you want to read about a chef's life, I'd steer clear of it until you get some other reads under your belt. However, if you enjoy these types of books, by all means read this. I'll go so far as to saying you need to read this. Just be prepared for the latter portion of the book.

You don't have to be a foodie to enjoy Gabrielle Hamilton's engaging memoir charting her journey from childhood in small town Pennsylvania to her present status as a celebrated chef and owner of acclaimed NYC restaurant, Prune. Growing up in a converted silk mill, Hamilton's early years sound rather magical. Her parents were not typical suburbanites; her theatrical director father was noted for staging creative and flamboyant parties and her French mother was passionate about cooking. But this idyllic life came to a sudden end with the divorce of her parents. Hamilton became, at a very tender age, something of a tough cookie. Left to a semi-feral life with one brother, she lied about her age to land restaurant jobs - already honing skills that would inform her life choices. She went off the rails with drink and drugs...nearly landed in jail...yet somehow managed to finish university. There is a rather hard, almost brittle undercurrent to Hamilton's voice. As her story unfolds she makes some mystifying choices such as her green card marriage to an Italian PhD student - a wedding she describes as 'performance art'. In spite of being a lesbian, she maintains the marriage which eventually produces two children. Estranged from her mother for 20 years, she finally visits her after the death of her brother. Yet it is no warm reunion, and Hamilton seems to feel only a faint contempt for her mother. Interesting then, that her famous restaurant is named Prune, referencing her mother's nickname for Hamilton. Hamilton writes very well and her story is hard to put down. I don't think I like her, however, and I am certain she is not remotely bothered about anyone liking her.

Nigella Lawson has described Gabrielle Hamilton: a more beautiful writer it would be hard to find. And who am I to contradict my domestic goddess! It isn't just one of the best memories of a chef that I have ever read, it is one of the best books in the last 10 years. Hamilton pours her blood and guts and heart and soul into this book and it is right there beautiful, sensuous, titillating and vividly bloody on every page.

What an odd book. What a wonderfully written, elegantly prosed (if that's such a word) book.It's about food, about cooking, about starting out in life in a family that has everything, then collapses, with repercussions that ring through the decades. But, then in the end (as one other reviewer has noted, somewhat negatively), it also becomes a platform for self-analysis around the author's own marriage, and how her life is secure professionally but fragile personally.It's a bit scattered in places - a chapter devoted to a conference about women in restaurants is worthy, but out of place. What holds it all together, however, is the writing style, which has a wonderful cadence, and which reveals the passion of the author for her profession.I really enjoyed it. I would be interested if she turned her hand to another book, one slightly more focused.Her restaurant is great as well. Do go there if you get the chance.

An vivid account of chef Gabrielle Hamilton's life and career. Her style is warm and friendly. She immediately involves the reader in her misadventures and turns in her road.

It takes you to another world - one everyone in love with good food dreams about - negroni in Italy, butter and ham sandwiches on the road side, culinary adventures in Turkey and France... All wrapped up in flawless writing and shocking honesty about the authors life story. I read and admire her world views, work ethics and stubbornness to 'cut those branches'. It's a great book that will make you feel hungry!