Aspiring chefs who arrive in New York with dreams of fame and fortune tend to plot their paths to greatness in one of two ways. Most slink into town anonymously, at a relatively young age, and work their way up the greasy kitchen pole, from commis to sous-chef to restaurant chef to superstar. Then there are those poor deluded souls who attempt to ride into the city from the provinces in mid-career, with their reputations preceding them and all guns blazing. The second path, as out-of-town chefs from Alain Ducasse (from the province of Paris) to Gordon Ramsay (from the province of London) have discovered, is infinitely more precarious. New Yorkers used to blindly worship chefs from far away, but not anymore. Nowadays, we prefer to anoint humble artisans (David Chang, April Bloomfield) who have slaved for suitable periods of time in anonymous kitchens around town. Conversely, we take an almost perverse delight in trashing out-of-town cooks and their lofty out-of-town reputations.
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