Profiles in Now-ness: Celebrity Chef Arturo Chien-Mbutu Smith

pin_arturo.jpgWhen I first meet Arturo Chien-Mbutu Smith, he is inspecting the pint glasses in the bar of Mlegantinho, the restaurant that catapulted him to fame as New York’s hottest celebrity chef. He is weighing each vessel on a highly sensitive digital scale that can measure up to one-ten-thousandth of a pound. He does this twice for each glass: once while completely empty, once containing a single yellow feather, freshly plucked from a somewhat noisy and reluctant duck waiting in a cage nearby.

The reason? He suspects his supplier may have tried to pass off some sub-par glassware on him, and this method is the only way to find out. The glasses all look the same to the untrained eye, so I ask why he bothers with this elaborate ritual involving waterfowl.

“I never do things the easy way,” he says, with a sly grin.

If Arturo’s glass-inspection process doesn’t make this obvious, then his career path certainly does. Rather than attend a prestigious cooking school, he was determined to become a famous chef by studying medieval literature at Bard. Did he learn any valuable techniques for preparation or presentation in, say, Le Chanson du Roland?

“No, absolutely not,” Arturo says, in between feather plucks, “and that’s the whole point.”

Most aspiring chefs try to work their way up from menial kitchen positions, but not Arturo. Fresh out of school, he decided to start his own restaurant. Gathering investors from family friends, college buddies, and the Craigslist Random Encounters page, he accumulated enough capital to make his dream a reality. But it didn’t take long for that dream to turn into a nightmare.

The restaurant, Chill!, opened to mixed reviews. Most of the criticism was leveled at its location on the Ross Ice Shelf. The expense involved in transporting food to the South Pole kept customers away, as did the fact that visiting Chill! required a snowmobile and at least $600 of snowgear. The bad press, combined with a lack of foot traffic and rampant cases of gangrene among the kitchen help, doomed Arturo’s vision.

But the closing of Chill only compounded his problems. There was the small matter of his creditors, who testified that Arturo never told them he planned on building an Antarctic restaurant. Frank Derwood, the Chase Bank official who approved the loan request, insisted Arturo’s paperwork was for a barbershop in Weehawken.

Arturo also faced many lawsuits from ex-sous chefs who blamed him for their amputated, gangrenous limbs. Still, he refused to blame polar temperatures or frostbite for his failure.

“If anyone was in the wrong place, it was me,” he says, with a sage nod of the head. “I was still running from myself, and I didn’t even know it.”

After several years of meditation and reflection in an undisclosed location without extradition treaties, Arturo knew what he had to do: open a new restaurant in New York dedicated to serving the unique cuisine of his Copranesian forefathers.

“You see, the Copranesians, we are passionate about our food,” he says. “That’s what sets us apart from all other ethnic groups. I can still see my dear mother, toiling away at the mswioq, grinding it with her precious fhiuta, just to make us three ounces of klazhnaka for dinner. I would bring that passion to New York or be injured trying.”

Like all artists, Arturo had many obstacles to overcome. Copranesian food had never taken off in New York, or gotten a foothold of any kind, or ever been heard of, actually. There were also charges that Copranesia was not an actual country or culture.

“My people have had to struggle against this prejudice throughout history,” Arturo says. “Just because something does not exist on a map, does that mean it does exist in the soul? Are certain people imaginary just because there is absolutely no evidence that they exist?”

Mlegantinho opened to almost universal rave reviews. It has become so popular that it no longer takes reservations. Instead, invitations are inserted into random copies of The New York Review of Books and The Atlantic Monthly.

He is not without his detractors, however. Some critics debate the validity of Copranesian cuisine, a stance that infuriates Arturo. “When they say such things, it is like they have raped the corpses of all of my ancestors. And if they say such things to my face, I will not hesitate to stab them with a cleaver right in their corpse-raping balls!”

Such threats haven’t stopped critics like The New York Times‘ Frank Bruni from raising objections to Arturo’s cooking. “My first time at Mlegantinho, I ordered something called sxivtlaka,” Bruni wrote in his review, “and it tasted exactly like pork lo mein to me. It even came in an aluminum take-out tray. The waiter recommended a vintage ‘Copranesian’ wine, but I swear it was just Hi-C fruit punch with some vinegar thrown in.”

Arturo’s defenders counter that Frank Bruni is fat and smelly. Arturo himself has nothing to say to Bruni, but does share some wisdom from the old country. “There is a saying in Copranesian: Af ghaqtla perb secilas, frop jastla la xer-vaina.”

I ask if Arturo can translate that into English.

“No, not a single word.”

1999 Project: Games 32-34

Click here for an intro/manifesto on The 1999 Project.

dinger.JPGMay 10, 1999: Rockies 10, Mets 3

On a frigid night in Colorado, Al Leiter was left in just a tad too long yet again. He scattered four runs over his first six innings, a small victory in the offense-happy confines of Coors Field. Then, after a leadoff triple to Dante Bichette in the seventh, Leiter began to unravel, eventually giving a three-run homer to rookie Henry Blanco. Mike Piazza came into the game hitting .449 at Coors Field, but was limited to one single by former battery mate Pedro Estacio.

In the colorful words of the Daily News, “the Mets’ starting rotation continued to possess the hue and smell of sewer water.”

May 11, 1999: Rockies 8, Mets 5

Before this game, Mets starter Bobby J. Jones said simply, “I don’t like pitching here.” That became abundantly clear very quickly. He gave up two homers to Rockies slugger Todd Helton, and eight runs total in 5 1/3 innings. His counterpart, Colorado starter/future Met Bobby M. Jones, held the Mets to two runs in his five innings of work. In a bit of meaningless trivia, this marked the first time in 100 years that two pitchers with identical first and last names had faced each other.

At the end of the day, the Mets starters were 11-14 on the season with an unsightly ERA of 5.30. Pitching coach Bob Apodaca recalled his days coaching in triple-A Norfolk, when his staff allowed 108 runs in only 10 games. “It’s a contagious disease that no one can be immune to. We’re just waiting for one starter to stop it.”

May 12, 1999: Mets 10, Rockies 5

After an early exit in his previous start, Rick Reed took the ball on two days rest, preventing the combustible Orel Hershiser from taking the mound at Coors Field. He went five innings and gave up four runs–not bad for short rest, particularly in the thin Denver air. Thanks to an offensive outburst, this was enough to snap the Mets’ three-game losing streak. Scoring early runs hadn’t been a problem for them; tacking on had been. But the Mets led 6-0 after two innings in this one and never looked back.

The Mets held their breath when Reed was nailed in the posterior by a line drive off the bat of Angel Echevarria. But Reed stayed in the game, and wouldn’t blame the blow for a homer he gave up to Dante Bichette in the fifth inning. “My ass didn’t throw that pitch; my arm did.”

Bring Me the Overly-Coiffed Head of Steve Phillips

Not long ago, I was forced to back-handedly apologize to Newsday‘s Wallace Matthews, my most hated sportswriter. For years, I insisted he was one of the worst writers ever. Then I ran into Howie Carr, and even I had to concede there are worse humans than Wally.

I find myself humbled again. Last week, I penned a post on the execrable play-by-play work of ESPN’s Chris Berman and Rick Sutcliffe. I even said they were worse than the unholy trinity of Jon Miller, Joe Morgan, and Steve Phillips.

Trust me, after last night, I will never write such words again.

Miller, Morgan, and Phillips decided to forego the piddling baseball game between the Mets and the Giants. Instead, they regaled the audience with a master class on Gut and Grit and Edge. To wit: The Mets don’t have it. They proceeded to discuss which member of the ‘core’ should be traded.

If you don’t listen to sports talk radio, you might not know what this refers to. Over the winter, Mike Francesa made quite a bit of hay positing the following theory: The Mets have a core of David Wright, Jose Reyes, and Carlos Beltran. Since they haven’t won in the last three years with this core, then one or more of them must be dealt away.

Francesa has no stated opinion on which of the three should go. Or rather, he has no coherent strategy. In the offseason, he advocated trading David Wright. After Wright started to hit and Reyes made some baserunning blunders, he spent an entire week begging the Mets to trade Reyes. Way to stick to your guns, Fatso.

He also has no idea how you’d replace the production that would be lost if any one of these players were traded. That hasn’t stopped him from hammering this point over and over again, when not shoving buttered Suzy Q’s into his snack-hole. Other NY media types followed suit, because everyone bows down to The Sports Pope. And now the national sports media has picked up the narrative–particularly lazy, unimaginative types like Miller, Morgan, and Phillips.

Keep in mind, the Mets had won 11 of their last 13 going into Sunday. Keep in mind that the Mets are in first place right now (though if this team has proven anything, it’s that first place in May means nothing). Keep in mind that they had come from behind to win the first two games of the series, including one game in which they trailed 5-1 to reigning Cy Young Award winner Tim Lincecum.

But if you just watched this broadcast, you woulda thought the Mets were 12 games out with no relief in sight. Kafka couldn’t have written a more hopeless script than the one delivered by the ESPN crew.

Do I think the Mets are perfect? Of course not. There’s a lot of things about this team that bother me and make me fear for its long-term success. And I’m perfectly willing to hear bad things about my favorite team. But I think the announcers might want mention at least one positive sign from the last two weeks, at least in passing, before shitting all over the team for three hours.

There was no room for this in ESPN’s telecast. Obviously, before the game, the hateful trio had decided they were gonna talk about Grit. And talk about it they did. For three goddamn innings.

Joe Morgan’s idiocy is well documented. His tortured ex-player logic is the epitome of low-hanging fruit. Although I actually laughed out loud when he said, despite the Mets winning 11 of 13, they hadn’t been playing well. They just took “advantage of other team’s mistakes.” I guess so, but only because you could technically define any good outcome for one team as a mistake made by the other. One team’s three-run homer is another team’s hanging slider.

Jon Miller is a homer and a clown. He didn’t contribute much to the Grit Argument. But he didn’t try and stop it either. How can you stand by and watch such atrocities take place in front of your own eyes?

Then there’s Steve Phillips. Look at this man. Just look at him.

steve_phillips.jpgEven if you have no idea who this is, isn’t that a face just begging to be slapped?

Who did Phillips want to trade? Carlos Beltran. You know, one of the best centerfielders in baseball. The guy putting up MVP numbers. That guy.

Of course, as Metsradamus points out, Phillips tried to trade both David Wright and Jose Reyes while he was the Mets’ GM. So by default, he’d have to pick Beltran, since the other two options wouldn’t be here now if it were up to him.

Beltran is hated for not being A Leader, but I’ve never seen a better centerfielder in my life. The man gets to balls that should not be caught and makes the plays look easy (as opposed to someone like Jim Edmonds, who got to balls that shouldn’t be caught and made them look hard so he could get on Web Gems).

And if you wanna talk Grit, how about breaking your face open trying to catch a ball, then coming back only a few weeks later? How about running up a fucking hill that shouldn’t be in the outfield in the first place to make a total Willie Mays catch and save a game? Is that enough Grit for you? No. Beltran is just a little too Brown to be gritty.

Just in case everyone forgot, Steve Phillips ruined the Mets. He took a team built on slick fielding and a solid bullpen and turned it into a fat, slow sieve with the likes of Mo Vaughn and Jeromy Burnitz and Roberto Alomar. And he got Bobby Valentine–the best manager the Mets ever had–fired because he couldn’t do anything with the blobulent mess he gave him.

To me, hearing Steve Phillips complain about the Mets is like hearing Dick Cheney complain about the Obama administration. You had your chance, you fucked up royal, and yet you still won’t go away and leave us alone. You keep flaring up like the festering little boil you are to insist that you could do it better than the current guy–even though there’s an enormous body of evidence proving your thorough incompetence (although in Cheney’s case, it was something more sinister than incompetence).

It doesn’t take Freud to figure out that Phillips is projecting his failures onto other still-employed baseball executives. When he blasts the Mets for assembling the team the way they have, what he’s really saying is Fuck, I traded Melvin Mora for Mike Bordick? I really am a douchebag, aren’t I?

Boomer and Sutcliffe, all is forgiven. I will take one of your information-free broadcasts any day of the week over Miller, Morgan, and The Hair Helmet.