Eat A Peach
David Chang
Clarkson Potter/Publishers 2020
Review by Caileigh Broatch
David Chang wears a lot of hats, the first of which is a chef’s hat. He is, after all, the founder of the Momofuku Restaurant Group (with a new location to open in Vancouver in the summer of 2021), for which The New York Times credited him with “the rise of contemporary Asian-American cuisine”. He’s got cookbooks and podcasts, Michelin stars and Netflix specials. Now, his memoir, Eat a Peach, adds to his impressive repertoire.
The kitchen may be to thank for his keen eye for detail. Eat a Peach has knife-like precision, cutting to what the memoir genre needs: open criticism for what shaped him into the man he is known as today. He acknowledges his rejection of form and he breaks all conventional rules. In the prologue, he admits that the chronology could be “screwy” and that there is a strong possibility he contradicts himself; he throws in footnotes with enthusiastic garnish. At the end of the book (post-epilogue), Chang has comprised a list of “33 rules for becoming a chef,” which, to his earlier point, is closer to entrepreneurial strategy than it is to memoir. Chang has learned that you have to break some rules along the way, which he owns up to every time he pushes the line. In introducing the rules Change says, “…keep in mind that these rules are all highly subjective and that I’ve broken nearly every one of them at some point. That’s part of the process.”
Chang knows that the standard procedures for a book of non-fiction doesn’t fit his experience; his life, and certainly his writing, doesn’t adhere to typical formats. His candor and self-deprecating humour offer relief throughout the book. Most importantly, his resistance to consider himself a memoirist is the root of all joy for the reader.
The book is split into two parts––“Up the Hill” and “Down and Back Again”––and is comprised of twenty-four chapters/essays. He introduces Eat a Peach with a prologue that stakes the claim that he does not believe it is a memoir, but rather thinks the book to be “textbook on what not to do when starting a business.” Despite this, he dives into personal details regarding family history and the key moments that helped shape the mogul he became, while challenging the authenticity and definition of Asian cuisine and the otherness and pressures of fitting in with the industry. Already, his contradictions and conviction shape this thoughtful and authentic collection into memoir.
Chang handles setbacks with grace and humour. He is brutally honest, even in instances where he doesn’t come out on top––like when his culinary school partner chose to drop out of the French Culinary Institute than work with him. When it comes to mental health and his bipolar disorder diagnosis; his familial relationships, clashing with his father; the injustice that is often overlooked in the culinary industry; and his drive to success, he passionately lays it all on the table. He doesn’t shy away from depicting his anger, especially when it is ugly. There are areas in the book where Chang edits his original statement, undercutting them in red type with the truth:
With the success of the restaurants, women became more interested in dating me celebrity chef David Chang. I was a terrible companion to all of them. I was suddenly desirable immature, selfish, narcissistic, undeserving.
Eat a Peach makes clear that Chang doesn’t give a flying rat’s-ass to what the readers might take away from the collection. Footnotes throughout are filled with funny extensions, in-depth explanations, dismissive comments, and self-deprecating humour. “I’m aware of how stupid that sounds,” he writes, “but I’m saying it anyways.”
On the road to becoming one of the leading restaurateurs in America, Chang experienced a lot of rejection. After an unsuccessful attempt at an entry-level corporate job, Chang takes the first steps to becoming a chef: fumbling the knife and nicking himself along the way. He recognizes the kitchen offered salvation and satisfaction he had been missing from his life:
I was always behind, but I relished the opportunity that the kitchen offered to take another swing with each new day. In a kitchen environment (as opposed to the golf course), I found a reserve of sheer, stubborn willpower to make up for what I lacked in talent. Here in front of my cutting board, I could see slow but definite results. It gave me purpose.
Momofuku in its early days, as Chang describes, was held together by duct-tape, sleep-deprived staff, and sheer stubbornness. Somehow, despite the broken machinery and unperfected recipes, he sees nothing but a small, beautiful restaurant created by labour and precision. Perhaps other restaurateurs aren’t as honest about the process, but Chang isn’t afraid of the truth: it was a mess. He and his business partner, chef Joaquin “Quino” Baca, hit rock-bottom just weeks after opening in 2004. They realized that the food they were serving was nearly inedible. Chang knew nothing about cooking noodles apart from what he had seen while touring Japanese street markets, and he hired a translator to decipher cookbooks. In spite of the setbacks, he had a vision of what the food industry in America could become.
Considering the growing legacy of the Momofuku restaurant group today, with sixteen restaurants now under its umbrella, Chang and Quino did figure things out. They returned to the food they enjoyed preparing and eating, and they learnt how to navigate the pressures of the New York food culture. Finally, it was time to open Chang’s second restaurant. Readers get a peek into the early kitchen of the Momofuku empire when Chang opened his second restaurant—Momofuku Ssam Bar. He includes emails from the early days where his intention was to build comradery, but they serve as a peculiar way to lead the staff. Here’s one from 2007 that offers an exciting dose of kitchen shorthand, typos and all:
I made an oil last week and it’s too fucking spicy. We need to find the right ratio for this chili oil/paste. But plate with the oil, celery and squid, in a small oval bowl. Garnish with celery leaves and some dried red chlies [chilies]. It’s fucking spicy but we thought it worked real well […] My concerns are that customers are going to eat something that they cannot handle, and it will kill their palate for the entire meal . . . but I sort of could care less. Servers will have to warn people that it is violently spicy, thoughts?
The memoir details Momofuku’s inception, David Chang’s journey from childhood to fame, but most importantly, it offers an adrenaline rush as he risks everything for his passion. He gambles everything and it all briefly goes to shit. Then, it works––it works in spectacular ways. The delight of Eat a Peach resides whole-heartedly in Chang’s devotion to food, but the substance of the book is Chang grappling with his upbringing, strict parents and difficult relationship with his father, his life-time struggles with depression and anger, bipolar diagnosis and personal triggers, and his Korean-ness––in his identity as well as in his profession.
Caileigh Broatch is a writer and reader based on Vancouver Island. Her work has taken her to investigate Canadian literature, gold panning, ghosts, and killer whales, among more academic topics.