Restaurant Man
Language: English
Pages: 288
ISBN: 0670023523
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
How does a nice Italian boy from Queens turn his passion for food and wine into an empire?
In his winning memoir, Restaurant Man, Joe Bastianich charts his culinary journey from working in his parents’ red-sauce joint to becoming one of the country’s most successful restaurateurs. Joe first learned the ropes from his father, Felice Bastianich, the ultrapragmatic, self-proclaimed “restaurant man.” After college and a year on Wall Street, Joe bought a one-way ticket to Italy and worked in restaurants and vineyards. Upon his return to New York, he partnered with his mother, Lidia, and soon joined forces with Mario Batali, establishing one superlative Italian restaurant after another.
Writing vividly in an authentic New York style that is equal parts rock ’n’ roll and hard-ass, bottom-line business reality, Joe explains: how Babbo changed the way people think of Italian restaurants; how Lupa and Esca were born of “hedonistic, boondoggle R&D trips” through Italy; and how Del Posto managed to overcome a menu that was so ambitious that at first it could not even be executed and became the first four-star Italian restaurant in America. He lays the smackdown on the wine industry, explaining that no bottle of wine costs more than five dollars to make.
Joe speaks frankly about friends and foes, but at the heart of the book is the mythical hero Restaurant Man, the old-school, bluecollar guy from Queens who once upon a time learned to sweat it out and make his money through hard work. Throughout he stays true to the real secret of his success—watching costs but being ferociously dedicated to exceeding the customer’s expectations on every level and delivering the best dining experience in the world.
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maybe scraps of family meal at Babbo scarfed down before the dining room opens up for dinner—although I don’t throw my kids out when customers come in the way my dad used to do. I believe that my kids can be anything they want to be—and I tell them that every day, which is contrary to what my father told me. But at least one of them is already showing signs that the Restaurant Man DNA is taking control of his destiny. Every time I catch him pulling loose change out of the couch or speaking
more to helping me find success—especially partnering with me on my first restaurant and then again later with Del Posto and Eataly—but Restaurant Man forged me in iron. He gave me the balance of running restaurants as a real workingman’s job. I don’t think there is anyone out there in today’s world spreading that message—all you see these days is the zest of restaurants, these media-driven, star-driven, made-for-TV experiences that somehow exist without all the backbreaking hard work that goes
a risk-reward scenario, but it’s all about getting good product and cutting a good deal and making your customers happy. I saw Becco as this apocalyptic, I-gotta-make-it, end-of-days scenario, because I felt that if I failed, I’d roll off the cliff and into oblivion and poverty. This was my last chance at doing something with my life. It sounds extreme, but it was that black and white for me. It was also where the hard-core, blue-collar Restaurant Man had to grow up and become supermedia- and
boarded up with a big For Rent sign. We were just having fun, not really planning on opening a restaurant, but somehow we got the inspiration to start what we thought would be the perfect restaurant, where we would have no economic ambitions and just kind of fulfill the pure aspiration of creating the ideal environment for eating and drinking and expressing our passion for Italy and all things Italian. You can bet that Restaurant Man has a few in him when he starts thinking like this. And that
who was driving the cost. The idea to get into the wine business at first was powered by one of Restaurant Man’s favorite maxims: Eliminate the middleman and widen the margin. When I was in Italy after my time on Wall Street, my mother’s friend Bruno set me up on my first big wine trip. He had a buddy named Valter Scarbolo who made wine in a town called Lauzacco. We drove there one night, went down into his restaurant in the basement around five o’clock, and resurfaced at about eight o’clock the
