Being the Groom

A peek into book tour life

Plated dishes for our Chilango dinner, with books in the background.

I am standing in the walk-in cooler sweating. Heart not quite racing, but not quite calm, either. A fryer grease burn on my right arm smarts. After a couple of hours of kitchen prep, I need to stop sweating so I can change into a “front of house” shirt and freshen up. I am very glad I brought a little tin of waxy deodorant. I tap my forehead a few times. OK, OK, it’s gonna be good. Exhale.

I duck into the men’s bathroom, strip off my sweaty t-shirt, daub deodorant in the important places, put on an undershirt, then a nice green button-down. Deep breath. Let’s do this. Let’s do this. LET’S DO THIS.

I stride out into the dining room and start signing books. There are 80 books tonight. Each signature needs to be perfect because it matters to some people. Every detail matters. I never forget that. Yet, paradoxically, the less I stress over my signature, the smoother and more beautiful it gets — as I realize this, it occurs to me that love is very much the same way. I tuck that thought away to sit with later.

Right now there’s no time. Guests are arriving.

This evening I didn’t get a chance to look at “the book,” the list of reservations. A week ago in Fargo, I did, scanning for friends who made it, as well as those who did not. I never slight friends who don’t — life happens — but if there are a significant number, I mentally think about doing a future event to perhaps give them a second chance at attending.

I was at Chilango this night, home turf. Minneapolis. This would be a crowd studded with friends. Judge Sarah and her companion popped in first, and I was grateful for that because she always puts me at ease in stressy moments. I drank my customary single beer, this time a Victoria, and we chatted. My pulse slowed. Better.

Tonight would be rolling service. I love rolling service, which is my term for a dinner where people make a reservation for whenever they want. Fargo had been banquet seating, and that’s harder on me. A single seating larger than about 50 people is too large for me to get to every couple, every table, before the checks drop. In Fargo I stayed late at the bar to chat with those I’d missed. We were 62 that night.

This night I never got overwhelmed. That is not to say that I was not running around constantly for three hours. If you’ve ever been married, it’s exactly like being the bride or groom at your wedding: Chatting, eye contact, trying to remember exactly where you know a guest — in my case, often hunters who had attended my culinary hunts — being hyper-aware about what I can do to put them more at ease, to make an honest connection.

Then, you must disengage, even from dear friends. Next table, new conversation. My job is called “touching tables” in restaurant speak, but it really is to connect, or reconnect, with you.

Let me tell you a little story about me and Anthony Bourdain.

I met Anthony a few times, but we were not close. We knew who each other was, and were fellow travelers. One year, I think it was 2016, I was on tour for Buck Buck Moose. Turns out Anthony was on a speaking tour at the same time. I was doing a gig at a restaurant called Red Haven, in Okemos, Michigan. Fantastic restaurant, wonderful owners. I noticed, as we were setting up, Bourdain’s signature skull-and-crossbones with the chef’s toque scrawled on the bar, and asked if he’d been there.

Turns out he had been, a few weeks before. But the feeling I got from my fellow cooks wasn’t one of joy. Apparently Anthony had been so exhausted that he never went back into the kitchen to meet the staff, and didn’t talk to any guests — all of whom where there in his honor. One cook said it was like meeting God, and finding out that God doesn’t love you. He was still crushed.

As I continued on my tour, I had a similar experience twice more — being at the same restaurant Bourdain had been at, several weeks later, same situation. It stung me. I will never forget it as long as I live. My takeaway: You cannot have a bad day. You cannot let people down. Ever. If you can possibly help it.

I am no Anthony Bourdain. Not even close. But some of you reading this have driven four or five hours to come to one of my dinners. Some of you have helped me by testing recipes, or by spreading the word about my books or my events. A few of you have even read sections of my books before publication, or have given me invaluable insights that have made my work better.

I don’t do these events solely to make money, although that’s what allows me to do them because book tours are very expensive. No. I do them to be that groom at the wedding. To lock eyes with you, hear you, talk with you, not at you.

Me chatting people up at Fulton Brewing at our book launch kickoff.

I am not perfect. At Chilango that night, there were so many friends in the room — the Mushroom Mafia, Nick from Duluth, Big Nate of “Two Farted Ale” fame, my friend Niskie, Mark Nordquist of Modern Carnivore brought a whole crew — that I felt I failed to give them the time they all deserved.

Worse, somehow I missed a table. This is a gut punch. Every night, I ask waitstaff to buttonhole me if I have missed anyone who wants to talk with me, but it’s really my responsibility to get to everyone. Somehow when the house was full I missed one couple. I am certain they saw me flitting about, talking to tables. How I missed them I don’t know. It hurt them. It hurt me.

Bourdain didn’t intend to be mean to those cooks or those fans. He was just tired. But it happened. And to a few people, it left a permanent impression. It’s hard knowing I can’t always connect with everyone as fully as I’d like — but I try. If the couple I missed is reading this, I apologize, and am grateful you came.

I don’t want to end this on a down note. Book tours are like relationships. You show up, be present, do your best. Sometimes you stumble or overreact; we are only human beings, after all. You grow with the changing world — this book tour bears little resemblance to my 2011 tour — the same way you grow with a partner who is also growing and changing. You savor the joys, some of which you will remember a lifetime, and let the lows pass through you.

It’s taken me a long time to learn that even though I strive for it, presence doesn’t require perfection — just that willingness to keep at it. As one of my friends likes to say, “practice makes better.” Not perfect.

Above all, approach this journey with love, openness and an eagerness to listen. I don’t know how this tour will end, but I am going to enjoy the ride. And it’s all of you who make it possible. Without you, this tour doesn’t happen.

Here is my schedule as it stands right now. I expect to add a bunch of dates soon, so stay tuned. See ya out there!