Sweetbitter
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
INSTANT NATIONAL BESTSELLER
Now a series on Starz
"Brilliantly written. . . . Outstanding."-The New York Times Book Review
Newly arrived in New York City, twenty-two-year-old Tess lands a job working front of house at a celebrated downtown...
Now a series on Starz
"Brilliantly written. . . . Outstanding."-The New York Times Book Review
Newly arrived in New York City, twenty-two-year-old Tess lands a job working front of house at a celebrated downtown...
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INSTANT NATIONAL BESTSELLERNow a series on Starz
"Brilliantly written. . . . Outstanding."-The New York Times Book Review
Newly arrived in New York City, twenty-two-year-old Tess lands a job working front of house at a celebrated downtown restaurant. What follows is her education: in champagne and cocaine, love and lust, dive bars and fine dining rooms, as she learns to navigate the chaotic, enchanting, punishing life she has chosen. The story of a young woman's coming-of-age, set against the glitzy, grimy backdrop of New York's most elite restaurants, in Sweetbitter Stephanie Danler deftly conjures the nonstop and high-adrenaline world of the food industry and evokes the infinite possibilities, the unbearable beauty, and the fragility and brutality of being young and adrift.
Lese-Probe zu „Sweetbitter “
IYou will develop a palate.
A palate is a spot on your tongue where you remember. Where you assign words to the textures of taste. Eating becomes a discipline, language-obsessed. You will never simply eat food again.
I don t know what it is exactly, being a server. It s a job, certainly, but not exclusively. There s a transparency to it, an occupation stripped of the usual ambitions. One doesn t move up or down. One waits. You are a waiter.
It is fast money loose, slippery bills that inflate and disappear over the course of an evening. It can be a means, to those with concrete ends and unwavering vision. I grasped most of that easily enough when I was hired at the restaurant at twenty-two.
Some of it was a draw: the money, the sense of safety that came from having a place to wait. What I didn t see was that the time had severe brackets around it. Within those brackets nothing else existed. Outside of them, all you could remember was the blur of a momentary madness. Ninety percent of us wouldn t even put it on a résumé. We might mention it as a tossed-off reference to our moral rigor, a badge of a certain kind of misery, like enduring earthquakes, or spending time in the army. It was so finite.
I came here in a car like everybody else. In a car filled with shit I thought meant something and shortly thereafter tossed on the street: DVDs, soon to be irrelevant, a box of digital and film cameras for a still-latent photography talent, a copy of On the Road that I couldn t finish, and a Swedish-modern lamp from Walmart. It was a long, dark drive from a place so small you couldn t find it on a generous map.
Does anyone come to New York clean? I m afraid not. But crossing the Hudson I thought of crossing Lethe, milky river of forgetting. I forgot that I had a mother who drove away before I could open my eyes, and a father who moved invisibly through the rooms of our house. I forgot the parade of people in my life as thin as mesh screens, who
... mehr
couldn t catch whatever it was I wanted to say to them, and I forgot how I drove down dirt roads between desiccated fields, under an oppressive guard of stars, and felt nothing.
Yes, I d come to escape, but from what? The twin pillars of football and church? The low, faded homes on childless cul-de-sacs? Mornings of the Gazette and boxed doughnuts? The sedated, sentimental middle of it? It didn t matter. I would never know exactly, for my life, like most, moved only imperceptibly and definitively forward.
Let s say I was born in late June of 2006 when I came over the George Washington Bridge at seven a.m. with the sun circulating and dawning, the sky full of sharp corners of light, before the exhaust rose, before the heat gridlocked in, windows unrolled, radio turned up to some impossibly hopeful pop song, open, open, open.
SOUR: all the puckering citrus juices, the thin-skinned Meyer lemons, knobbed Kaffirs. Astringent yogurts and vinegars. Lemons resting in pint containers at all the cooks sides. Chef yelled, This needs acid!, and they eviscerated lemons, leaving the caressing sting of food that s alive.
I didn t know about the tollbooths.
I didn t know, I said to the tollbooth lady. Can t I squeeze through this one time?
The woman in the booth was as unmoved as an obelisk. The driver in the car behind me started honking, and then the driver behind him, until I wanted to duck under the steering wheel. She directed me to the side where I reversed, turned, and found myself facing the direction from which I had just come.
I pulled off into a maze of industrial streets, each one more misleading than the next. It was irrational but I was terrified of not being able to find an ATM and
Yes, I d come to escape, but from what? The twin pillars of football and church? The low, faded homes on childless cul-de-sacs? Mornings of the Gazette and boxed doughnuts? The sedated, sentimental middle of it? It didn t matter. I would never know exactly, for my life, like most, moved only imperceptibly and definitively forward.
Let s say I was born in late June of 2006 when I came over the George Washington Bridge at seven a.m. with the sun circulating and dawning, the sky full of sharp corners of light, before the exhaust rose, before the heat gridlocked in, windows unrolled, radio turned up to some impossibly hopeful pop song, open, open, open.
SOUR: all the puckering citrus juices, the thin-skinned Meyer lemons, knobbed Kaffirs. Astringent yogurts and vinegars. Lemons resting in pint containers at all the cooks sides. Chef yelled, This needs acid!, and they eviscerated lemons, leaving the caressing sting of food that s alive.
I didn t know about the tollbooths.
I didn t know, I said to the tollbooth lady. Can t I squeeze through this one time?
The woman in the booth was as unmoved as an obelisk. The driver in the car behind me started honking, and then the driver behind him, until I wanted to duck under the steering wheel. She directed me to the side where I reversed, turned, and found myself facing the direction from which I had just come.
I pulled off into a maze of industrial streets, each one more misleading than the next. It was irrational but I was terrified of not being able to find an ATM and
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Stephanie Danler
Stephanie Danler
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Stephanie Danler
- 2017, 368 Seiten, Maße: 13,1 x 20,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: VINTAGE
- ISBN-10: 1101911867
- ISBN-13: 9781101911860
- Erscheinungsdatum: 22.03.2017
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Brilliantly written. . . . Outstanding." The New York Times Book ReviewOutstanding. Gabrielle Hamilton, The New York Times Book Review
Vivid and exquisite. NPR
[A] heady first taste of self-discovery, bitter and salty and sweet. Entertainment Weekly
Meticulously rendered. Los Angeles Times
Ravishing. . . . It tantalizes, seduces, satisfies. O, The Oprah Magazine
Smart, delicious. . . . A sexy, sweaty book of sensory overload. The Washington Post
[Sweetbitter] is going to make a lot of people hungry. . The New York Times
A heady mix of youth, love, gastronomic delights and determined self-invention. . . . [Danler] is a writer of prodigious talent. San Francisco Chronicle
A raw, shucked, pungent, wild love story. Marie Claire
Sexy, astute. . . . Anyone who s ever tied on an apron will think, Finally, someone wrote a book about us. And nailed it. People
This dynamite book is filled with the heart-wrenching indignities of self-discovery, and gives a gritty, inside look to the fast-paced, drug-filled, whirlwind scene of restaurant life. Bon Appétit
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