After eight years as a struggling artist and waitress, Nancy Ring decided to find a "survival job" that would bring satisfaction as well as survival. Armed with only chutzpah and a love of baking instilled by generations of her family, she answered a newspaper ad seeking an assistant pastry chef. So began a roller-coaster ride of apprenticeships in New York's high-pressured, ego-infested, and sometimes rat-infested, kitchens.
In this culinary memoir, Nancy Ring combines funny and poignant stories of love and work with warm remembrances of a family that celebrates food with gusto and cherishes memories with passion.
Through it all, Nancy is sustained by her memories of her Jewish family, and the recipes that were handed down to her through generations. Blintzes, mandelbrot, fruit compote, all made in the steamy kitchens of her relatives, come wafting back to her in times of grief and celebration. It's what fortifies her determination to make it on her own terms--as an artist, as a chef, and as a woman. -->
If I didn't have a real weakness for books about cooking and food I would have given this a lower rating. The author tried to weave together way too many threads. We have her own personal experiences working in restaurants (while really wanting to be an artist), her romantic difficulties, the stories from her Jewish family history, the stories behind her favorite recipes, and the extensive history of walnuts--all interesting but not making a very cohesive mix. The flow is awkward and often distracting.
This book also hands-down wins the dubious award for an astounding density of metaphors, similes, and analogies, many that were such a stretch that they made little sense.
Still, her own personal story was truly fascinating, that and the recipes were enough to keep me going, so despite the obvious flaws I enjoyed the book.
This is a memoir of Nancy Ring's struggle to make a living and to do art. Interspersed among her accounts of being a waitress and pastry chef while trying to create art are stories of cooking with her family grandparents, greatgrands and her mother) and the stories of their lives. At the end of each chapter is a recipe that she was working on while remembering. Also incorporated in each chapter are little facts about walnuts and walnut trees.
I enjoyed the history of her family, the look into her life as a pastry chef, the recipes and knowledge about walnuts, and resonated with the struggle to balance life.
A loving family memoir by a baker. Nancy Ring feels the presence of her ancestors when she bakes, especially at home. Her love and loyalty for her family shine in this lovely book. Pros: engaging writing style and beautiful family stories, passed down with recipes. Cons: bits of walnut lore seem extraneous. Also her fiance comes off as a jerk. Each chapter ends with a charming original illustration and a recipe for something discussed in the chapter. Oddly enough, I have no desire to bake any of the recipes. This is very uncharacteristic of me. Mostly I loved her family stories, although I also enjoyed reading about life in the kitchens of various restaurants. Worth a read.
This book is the career biography of a pastry chef in New York City. Ms. Ring discusses the uncertainty surrounding the fiercely competitive restaurant business in New York, and thus the attendant job insecurity of a pastry chef. She discusses the details of the job– long hours, difficult bosses, hard work, and a hilarious episode in which The Fig Tree restaurant personnel were tipped off that a very influential restaurant reviewer, one Bette Brown, was to visit one night.
A woman fitting the reviewer’s description entered the eatery with her entourage. She proceeded to complain about a draft at her table, then when moved, about being too close to the waiter’s station. The bread basket caught fire from a candle on the table… You can see where this is going– a long series of further mishaps, complaint-fodder for the fussy diner, “… who sarcastically asked Liz [the waitress] if she had graduated from high school.” Ms. Ring, who was also a waitress there at the time, witnessed Liz’s feisty temper flare as she finally told off the customer.
The supposed Ms. Brown confronted Carl, the restaurant owner, who, at the bar, was “… busy crying into his fourth double bourbon.” With the ‘don’t-you-know-who-I-am’ speech, she told off Carl, telling him her name. It was not Bette Brown. Carl was extremely relieved. A good dining experience was had by the actual Bette Brown, who had been there earlier that evening.
This book contains not only entertaining anecdotes, but recipes, too.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
I'm not a big fan of books that combine recipes with story mostly because they try to do too much. That is the case in this book. There are too many threads- past with the history of her family and present personal experiences working in restaurants, the recipes, and the stretched analogy of the walnut.
This book got me started on my "food as a backdrop for meaningful relationships" kick. For some reason, I identified with the author, not because I like to bake, but because she was so connected to her family history and valued those relationships.
I read this book years after it was released (although I purchased it as the time the book was released). It is probably a little dated but surely captures the "food" scene in Manhattan at the time - as well as her family history. Excellent writer; well written.
This book kind of grew on me. I like the way the author wove the story of her search for what she really wanted out of life with the stories of her ancestors. Her way with words is very artistic and descriptive. I can tell she must be a good artist and pastry chef.
This started out slow, but got better. There are lots of life stories from both sides of her family and some really yummy sounding deserts. It was enjoyable while riding trains around the UK.
I enjoyed the memoir and the cooking sections, but I found the references to walnuts and the author's family history distracting. There was just too much going on at once.